Fanny (16 page)

“Are you quite well, Sir?” she askt, bending o’er me with Solicitude (for, perhaps I lookt as queer as I felt). “Shall I cut your Capon for you?”

“Yes, Lass, please do so, for I have had a most wearying Journey and I can scarce find the Strength to do it myself.”

She leant o’er me to pierce the juicy Flesh of the Capon; and, unable to contain myself any longer, I clapp’d my Mouth to the tender Valley betwixt the white Mountains of her Breasts and there insinuated my darting Tongue.

“Sir!” she cried with Alarm.

“A thousand Pardons!” I cried, sinking to my Knees, and kissing the Hem of her Garment. “A thousand Pardons. But I have this Day lost my own dear Mother and Grief hath left me distracted.”

“Sir,” she says, “I’ll have you know I’m no Strumpet!” But i’faith, I could feel her softening a little at this Tale of Grief—which was, indeed, not so very far from being true.

I need hardly say, Belinda, that I was astonish’d by my own Behaviour, and yet, somehow I could not desist. Perhaps ’twas Grief that drove me to seduce a Maid when I was a mere Maid myself; perhaps ’twas something stranger still. Perhaps ’twas the wretched Influence of the God of the Witches (whom some call the Devil), or perhaps ’twas some long-lasting Result of the Flying Unguent, or yet perhaps some Madness brought on by the Horrors I had witness’d. Perhaps e’en ’twas my Muse’s Way of showing me to feel both Man’s and Woman’s Passions. Or perhaps ’twas the mischievous Working of that Great Goddess in whom I only half believ’d.

At any Rate, I threw myself at Polly’s Feet, and kiss’d her Hem, and then her Ankles, and then, since she made but little Resistance, her Knees, and then, since she seem’d to sigh and invite it, her Thighs, and then, since she sat down upon a Chair and spread those Thighs (all the while protesting
No! No! No!
in the selfsame Tone as
Yes! Yes! Yes!
)
,
the sweet tender Ruby-red Cleft of her Sex itself, which lay expos’d to my View, since the Wench wore nothing at all ’neath her Shift and Petticoats.

Ah, the poor Capon lay deserted and steaming upon the Table (and ’neath that lay hidden my poor, scarce-started Epick), whilst I bent my Lips to Polly’s tender Cleft and play’d Arpeggios with my own astonish’d Tongue. ’Twas salt as the Sea and tasted not unlike sweet Baby Oysters pluckt from the Bosom of the Deep.

“O Sir! O! O! O!” cries Polly, as I dart my Tongue in and out, inflam’d by her Words as well as her lovely ruby Slit. But, since by now her Petticoats are o’er my Head, I cannot fondle the twin Hillocks of her Breasts, but instead make free to stroke her milky Thighs, whilst her Petticoats make a sort of Tent in which I hide from all the Horrors of Mankind.

How warm and sweet it is inside a Petticoat! What Refuge from the Terrors of the World! What great Good Fortune to be born a Man and have such Refuge e’er within Grasp, within the warm World of a Woman’s Hoop!

The Sound of Boots along the wooden Floor brought me to my Senses once again.

“O!” cries Polly. “Someone comes!”

But before she can jump up from the Chair and before I can rise from my Knees, the Door opens and we are compromis’d!

’Tis Mr. Tunewell himself! A big strapping Fellow with the ruddy Cheaks of a German Peasant and the Manner and Gait of a blond Viking Warrior. Far from being displeas’d, Mr. Tunewell was fairly transported with Amusement and apparently inflam’d by the luscious Scene before his Eyes. Instead of stopping us, he says, “Pray continue,” and forthwith, he locks the Door. Whereupon he sits down in a comfortable Chair at Table, impudently plucks a Leg from the abandon’d Capon, puts his Boots upon the Tablecloth, and awaits the Continuation of the Show as if we were but Strolling Players brought for the King’s Pleasure!

“Continue, my Dears,” says he again, this Time thro’ a Mouthful of Capon. “I’ll join you presently.” And he sits back to enjoy his Supper, whilst we continue at our am’rous Play.

Polly, for her part, seems more inflam’d than abash’d by his Presence; for now she grows more wanton still, and now she makes for my Breech-Buttons as if she would undo them. This I cannot allow! And so I take her Hand away.

“What, bashful?” cries she.

“Alas,” say I, more truthfully than she knows. “Alas, my Sweet, I am but half a Man. My Tongue must do what the other ne’er can!”

“Zounds! A Poet, too!” says Mr. Tunewell, laughing heartily. “Well, I’ll relieve you, Lad, now that you’ve begun what you cannot finish!”

Thus we change Places, I at Table with the Capon, Ned Tunewell making ready to plunge betwixt Polly’s Legs with his fierce erect Ramrod already almost bursting thro’ his Breech-Buttons.

He takes the madden’d red Member in his Hand (which, by the by, is slick with Capon Fat), seems i’faith to admire it, and freshly parting Polly’s ruby Nether Lips, he drives it into her pretty Cleft quite up to the Hilt; whereupon Polly gives a deep Sigh, more with Pleasure than Pain, and e’en seems to assist him by pushing forward her Hips.

Now, for my part, I gnaw upon my Capon Leg more with Lust than with Hunger; for short of thrusting my own Hand into my Breech, or revealing myself for a Woman, what Release have I but thro’ my eager Mouth!

I watch ’em, chewing lustily, as they thrust and heave, first in a regular Rhythm and then as if the World should end in a Moment and this were their last Chance to couple for all Eternity.

“Oh! I dye!” cries Polly.

“I too, I too,” echoes Tunewell, whereupon he gives one final Thrust, which not only causes Polly to deliver a deep Sob of Ecstacy, but topples the Chair in which she reclines; and with that comes a great Crash, as the Lovers fall backward upon the Floor. For a Moment they are shockt and frightened, but then Terror gives way to Merriment and they both laugh heartily. I join their Laughter, and presently I make bold to offer ’em the Remains of the Capon to restore their doubtless exhausted Bodies.

You may wonder, Belinda, why I do not pass o’er all this in the Interests of Modesty; for surely this cannot be fit Matter for Maternal Instruction to a Daughter. On the Contrary, I say that tho’ this Matter may be immodest, yet it deals with Truth; and Truth is ne’er unfitting, whether convey’d from Parent to Child or from Child to Parent. For truly, ev’ry Child hath a Right to know her Parents, as a Means of endeavouring to know Human Nature; and Human Nature is curious, inconsistent, full of Vagaries. What better Lesson can a Mother teach her Child than that Human Nature is replete with Complexity and Contradiction? If Modesty stand in the Way of this Instruction, then surely Modesty is no Friend to Truth, and Truth is all we may with Justice seek upon the Road of Life.

Friends we may find, but also lose. Parents (and e’en Children) may perish before we have had full Measure of Sweetness and Instruction from ’em. Riches do not shelter us from Nightmares and Melancholick Humours. Fine Clothes do nothing to prevent the Decay of our Bodies. But Truth is e’er a Comfort to us—e’en if it be Melancholick Truth. I’faith, as it astonish’d me to find myself in am’rous Play so soon after the Heinous Murders of my dearest Friends, so ’twill doubtless astonish you, my dearest Reader and Daughter. But perhaps there shall come a Time in your own Life when you shall do some strange and unaccountable Thing for which you may feel unaccustom’d Self-Contempt and Guilt, and then I pray you will think of your own Poor Mother and recollect that she hath done the same; and perhaps that will be some Solace to you. For this Reason and this alone, do I contravene the Laws of Modesty, because truly ’tis a Comfort to know that a Parent has suffer’d the self-same Torments before and yet surviv’d and triumph’d despite ’em all.

“Come!” says Ned Tunewell. “Let’s all three to Bed!”

Whereupon he blows out all the Candles but one (upon the Night-Stand), strips down to his Shirt, takes his Polly with one Hand and the Remains of the Capon with the other, and verily bounces into Bed. I follow, tho’ without stripping off my Clothes.

“What? Modest?” cries Tunewell.

“Alas,” say I, “I’d rather watch than play.”

“What? Impotent?” cries Tunewell.

“Alas, I would ’twere not so,” say I, hanging my Head.

“’Tis no great Matter,” says Tunewell. “Not a Man born of Woman but he hath suffer’d the self-same Want of Hardness from Time to Time! Pray, assist me, Master Poet, with Mouth and Hand! The Prick grows tired, but the Tongue doth e’er stand!”

Polly giggl’d prettily at this Instance of Tunewell’s Wit; and Ned Tunewell, for his part, took her Laughter as another Sign to dive, Cock-first, betwixt her Thighs. I watch’d with more Fascination than I would care now to recall (were I not sworn to Truth).

“What? Lazy?” cries Tunewell. “Pray, Sir Poet, let us have some Assistance here! See these ruby Nipples? Pray tweak them with your Tongue! See these Lips like ripe Cherryes? Pray feast upon them!”

And in order to accommodate me, he rears up like a bucking Stallion (whilst holding Polly’s Hips with one Hand so that his huge red Master-of-the-Ceremonies doth not lose its Mooring in her pretty Pudendum—and, with the other, pushes my Head down upon her Breasts).

What innumerable Kisses were then given and taken, I cannot say. We three seem’d i’faith to become a great Mythological Beast with twelve Limbs, three Mouths, six Eyes, and three darting Tongues. Whilst Tunewell pump’d away with his Member-for-Cockshire (as the Saying goes), gathering Votes as lustily as he might, I learnt more Uses for my Tongue than a good Cook hath for Soup-Stock. For if Monsieur Rabelais calls the Privy Member the
Dispensateur des Plaisirs
(amongst a hundred other Terms), surely we may, with Safety, say the same of the Tongue. What a Wonder is that malleable Organ! It licks, it tastes, it wets, it smooths, it slicks; it causes Nipples and Pricks to stand at attention, and sucks the Savour out of Capons and Cocks. The Privy Member is a Specialist; but the Tongue, verily, is a Jack-of-all-Trades!

All this occurr’d, Belinda, in a not very sturdy Tent-Bed, with a metal Frame, Chints Curtains, and Finials of Polish’d Brass. As the Curtains had been hastily drawn shut before our am’rous Play within, a Spectator outside the Bed (had there been such, which I hope and pray there was not) would have seen swelling Curtains, odd Limbs darting betwixt parted Chints, and heard, as well, a Host of assorted Love Cries such as “O! I dye!” and “Ah! I can’t bear it! I am going!” and finally mere Grunts, Yelps, and Sighs, fitter for Beasts than Rational Beings.

But were we, in those Moments, Rational Beings? I doubt that we were. There exist Recesses in the Souls of Men and Women which Philosophy can neither probe nor explain, nor Religion rationalize, (tho’ perhaps it may forgive). For many Years I felt grievous Self-Contempt for what I did in that shaky Tent-Bed with those two amiable Strangers; but now, with the Perspective of Years behind me, I see ’twas doubtless simple Grief that drove me betwixt the luscious Legs of Miss Polly. Grief is both a stern Mistress and a capricious one. I dare say, more Fornication goes on hard on the Train of the Funerary Hearse than upon that of the Marriage Coach. For, whilst Joy uplifts our Hearts, it doth not always stir us to Venery; but Grief, by low’ring our Spirits, causes Humours to rise from the lower Part of the Human Corpus, which must needs be vented somewhere, and the Bed, dear Belinda, oft’ proves the most convenient Place.

During that Night, our Polly fled. Perhaps Fear of Reprisal at the Landlord’s Hands banish’d her from our Bed, or perhaps ’twas some other Reason unguess’d at then. At any rate, I awoke in the early morning Hours, beside that hairy blond Giant, with the Face of a Viking and a Member to match, and I thankt Heaven that I still wore my Breeches, for certainly, had he known my true Sex, he would have ravish’d me as well.

Ah, the Remorse I knew then was palpable as a Wound! There was I, just above seventeen Years of Age, banish’d from my Home, having recently seen my dear Friends murder’d most cruelly, and now awak’ning in Bed with a Stranger! I wisht for nothing more than to be Home with my dear Foster-Mother, Lady Bellars! But Home, alas, was far away, and lost to me fore’er by my Indiscretion with Lord Bellars. I curst myself heartily for my loose Morals. Had I not been so quick to succumb to Lord Bellars, my Blood should not have been so easily stirr’d by Polly! O sure I was ruin’d now! Ruin’d, defil’d, unfit for anything but Whoredom. What a Debauch of Self-Hatred now ensu’d, hard on the Heels of that other Debauch! To the Tempo of Tunewell’s rhythmical Snoring, I curst myself repeatedly, mutt’ring the most loathsome Names to myself under my Breath.

As Luck would have it, my mutt’ring awaken’d Tunewell.

“What’s that, me Boy?” says he (in jovial enough Fashion for one so rudely awaken’d from a deep Sleep).

“O, I am wretched with Remorse, Mr. Tunewell,” say I, “wretched, wretched indeed with Self-Contempt!”

“How now, Boy?” says he. “What? Regretting a Bit o’ Female Sport? I assure you, Friend, our Polly’s a free-hearted Girl. No Virgin, she, I’ll warrant.”

I groan’d with Grief, so deeply had my Meaning been misunderstood. Nor had I (without revealing my Sex) the Means to remedy the Misunderstanding.

“Women,” Tunewell goes on, “are but Children of a larger Growth. They have no Moral Imagination, I assure you. For a Girl like Polly—who will, I’ve no doubt, spend the Rest of her Days married to some Country Lout—a Night with two fine, educated City Wits such as ourselves, will be Sport to look back upon her whole dreary Life long. Where’s the Virtue in Continence, me Boy? We pass this Way but once, to be sure. ’Tis a Gift to know how to be happy. Few Mortals know it, I’ll warrant you. The Grave gets us soon enough.”

“But,” said I recov’ring my Wits, “have we the Right to assert our Dominion o’er the Fair Sex?”

“Dominion? Why, Lad, they rule
us
! Can we help it if our Blood is stirr’d by the Way they push their Breasts under our very Noses? Ah, my dear Boy, our Polly was sure
asking
to be toy’d with. Have not a second Thought about it.” And with that, he rolls o’er and goes back to sleep.

By then the rosy Dawn was creeping up, and quite unable to sleep, I bethought myself to gather up my few Possessions and quit the Inn forthwith. In a trice, I remember’d my Poem, writ last Night upon the Tablecloth, and hastily flipp’d ’neath the Capon before the foul Debauch.