Fanny (34 page)

“For Man hath taken this splendid peaceable Creature and forced him to the Arts of War. No Horse in his Native State would go to War,” said he. “The Horse is by Nature a Peacemaker; Man alone makes War upon his Fellows. Ah, Fanny, when I see the Sadness of Horses in Harness, my Eyes fill with Tears and I curse the Race that claims me as its own! Oppressors are we all—vain, proud, stupid, but pretending to Reason! The Horse is Reason itself. If any Creature deserves to rule the World, ’tis he!”

I’faith, the Dean was so caught up in his Fancies and Reveries about Horses, that I could scarce tell him of my Horse, Lustre, of the fine Arabians Lord Bellars had imported, of the many Foalings I myself had witness’d as a Child, of that splendid Moment, the Culmination of eleven Months of great Anticipation, when the Foal emerges, Forelegs first, then Muzzle, then Cheaks, then Ears, then Withers, then Flank, and then the Foal entire, with the Moon-blue Membranes gleaming, and the Waters of the Womb still glist’ning upon his infant Fuzz! My own fondest Childhood Memories were also of Horses. Perhaps that was why I made no Objection to the Dean’s next Fancy.

Now he would try a fanciful Experiment, he said. He would cause me to strip naked upon the Grass, and then he would strive to coax a Stallion to copulate with me. So carried away with this Scheme was he, that he ne’er consulted me as to my Willingness, but rav’d only that this would be the final Proof of his Theories, that upon his Honour I would be uninjur’d, and that he himself would owe me his whole Life, if only I would do his Bidding.

’Twas indeed the most curious Request I had e’er entertain’d in my brief Life as a Whore, but ’twas my Duty, after all, to satisfy the sundry Lusts of my Swains no Matter how peculiar, and a Sense of Curiosity motivated me as well. Indeed the Stallion he chose lookt so like Lustre—but for a lack of white Markings—that, i’faith, I would almost conceive him as my Lover!

I put off all my Garments on the sunny Greensward and lay upon the Grass drinking in the Summer Sun, whilst the Dean, his Eyes gleaming with Mischief, went off to fetch the Stallion. He caus’d the Grooms to lock up all the Mares and Foals within the Barn, so as not to tempt the Stallion to furious rampaging Lust, then he led the Chestnut Stallion to me, his burnish’d Coat gleaming in the Sun.

This Stallion was endow’d with a Cock to make any Pretty Fellow green with Envy; and as the Dean spoke softly in his Ear, in the whinnying Language of the Horses, and rubb’d his Belly and his Balls, the Stallion’s Cock grew until ’twas of a Size to affright the most lascivious old Whore.

The Dean watch’d with Wonder and Admiration, as if he, too, were half in Love with the Stallion. Then, when he was assur’d the Stallion’s Cock could grow no more, he bade me climb upon his own Back (so that together we almost reach’d the Horse’s Height), put my Arms ’round his Neck, and spread my Nether Cheaks as wide as e’er I could, presumably to tempt the Stallion.

Soon the Dean began to romp and whinny, with me stark naked clinging to his Back. He coaxt the Stallion in the curious Language of the Horses, and play’d the Horse himself, trotting across the Grass with me upon his Back! But tho’ the Stallion eyed us curiously, and once e’en came forward to look at our strange two-backt Beast more closely, ’twas clear as Crystal that he’d no Intention to copulate either with me or with the Dean!

This “Experiment” we continu’d for well nigh half an Hour, until the Stallion, in Boredom and Ennui, wander’d off, his Cock now much reduced to normal Size, and began to graze in an adjoining Field. With a Cry of Triumph and the cunning Smile of a Lawyer who hath won his Case, the Dean cried out: “Sweet Fanny, now dismount!” To which I happily obey’d, and as he help’d me dress, he drew such Moral Lessons as he could from this.

“For mark you, Fanny, a Man in Heat will mate with any Hole that presents itself to his View! He’ll mate with Hens, Sheep, or e’en ripe Melons, a pregnant Woman, or one that flies the Monthly Flag! But a Horse, a Noble Horse, mates only with a Mare to bear a Foal, mates not out of her proper Season, and thus is far more rational than Man!”

As we made our Way back to Town once more, by the mighty Highway of the Thames, the Dean discours’d continuously of the Diff’rences betwixt Men and Horses; and, i’faith, I had to agree that his curious Logick had some Justice in it. If I seem’d on the Verge of Tears as he spoke, ’twas because I was thinking always of Lustre, and tormenting myself concerning his Fate. Was he a common Pack-Horse, being workt to Death, fed little, languishing for Want of Rational Discourse? Was he a Freak in a Raree Show, caus’d to leap through flaming Hoops, or jump flaming Barrels, or dance upon his hind Legs like a Circus Dog?

“I have no Love for Man’s Hubris,” said the Dean, not noticing my welling Tears. “His Tragick Flaw is that he thinks himself a Rational Being, when ’tis clear from all his Acts that he is more benighted than the lowest Insect that crawls along the Ground. I have e’er hated all Nations, Professions, Communities, dear Fanny, and all my Love is for Individuals. Ah—wait until you read my
Travels.
They are admirable Things and will wonderfully mend the World.”

This was the chief Contradiction in the Dean—that he claim’d Mankind had no Pow’rs of Reason, and yet he fore’er tried to mend the World and bring it to its Senses. He was a slighted Lover of Mankind, one who lov’d not wisely, but too well. And having seen his Love rejected, trampl’d in the Mud, he grew Bitter. From him I learnt that ev’ry Misanthrope is nought but one who once hath lov’d the World too well; ev’ry Misanthrope’s a wounded Innocent, I fear.

When I came to read the Dean’s
Travels
two Years later, I was indeed amaz’d! ’Twas then I most wisht to discourse with him—but, alas, I ne’er saw him again.

The Book astounded me with its Brilliance of Invention. That plain Man Gulliver amongst all those fanciful Creatures! What a merry Book indeed! To Swift I accorded the greatest Compliment one Author pays another: I wisht his Book were mine! And yet I knew e’en then that Books—especially the greatest Books—are like the Wrinkles in our Faces; each Man makes his own. And we can no more imitate ’em than we can seek to wear another Author’s Face. The Books we love the best are quirky and curious indeed as the Minds that gave ’em birth!

I need not tell you, Belinda, how the Book at once captur’d all the Town and was the Rage of ev’ry Tea-Table, replacing Ombre and Gossip as the Ruling Passions of the Ladies. I wisht to write the Dean my Felicitations, but, having heard that his Stella was ill and close to Death, I dar’d not, for fear my Letter would be discover’d and hasten her Untimely End.

But you may well ask whether, having known the Dean in such an intimate Fashion, I have my Piece to add to the furious Discussion of his Works which raged amongst both his Lovers and Detractors. Did he mean his Gulliver to be a sane Man, or a Poor Bedlamite, driven out of his Wits by too many Shipwrecks? Alas, I fear that Knowledge of Dean Swift’s last tragick Illness hath prejudiced the World concerning his Books.

I heartily affirm that his Gulliver possesses the soundest of Minds, that he alone of all Mankind sees the World quite clearly; and truly, when he retreats to a Stable to live with Horses and will no longer have Intercourse with Men, ’tis because he hath discover’d the two great fatal Flaws in Humankind: the Stink of Mendacity and the rotting Odour of Vanity. He would rather feast his Senses upon the good clean Smell of Horses’ Flesh than suffer the putrid Odour of Mankind’s Lyes. And, for this, who indeed can blame him? Living in Coxtart’s Brothel, I oft’ felt so myself.

CHAPTER VII

Of Fanny’s Acquaintance with those two curious Figures, Mr. William Hogarth and Master John Cleland; their opposing Views of her Character, their Predilections both in Life and Art; together with our Heroine’s Motives in composing this True and Compleat History of her exotick and adventurous Life.

M
R. HOGARTH ALSO FREQUENTED
Coxtart’s Brothel, both to satisfy his fleshly Lusts and to sketch the Girls.

During that fearsome Summer of 1724, when all my Care was to procure Money to get Lancelot Freedom of the Rules, and to put some by for my Lying-in, I met countless Swains besides the illustrious Dean Swift, the young Painter Mr. Hogarth, and that dastardly Stripling, Master Cleland, who was later to exploit my History so callously in his
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.
But of these three, I have the most vivid Memories; for, howe’er reduced my Circumstances to humble Whoredom, my Mind was still keen for Learning, and from these Swains, above all, could I improve my Intellect as well as my Fortunes.

Mr. Hogarth came at first to purchase my Mock-Maidenhead (having heard from his whoremong’ring Colleagues that there was a new and delicious Wench in Town). He was, howe’er, too clever a Fellow to be gull’d by my ravish’d maiden Pantomime; for, unlike so many of the others, he was no foolish Aristocrat, no Strutting Player, no Poet besotted with his own Verses, but a plain young Fellow from Smithfield who had grown to Manhood in the Precincts near Bartholomew Fair, and had feasted his Childhood Eyes upon all Manner of Mountebanks, Merry Andrews, Strolling Players, Acrobats, Rope Dancers, Quacks, Jugglers, Puppets, Huxters, Giants, Dwarfs, Drolls, Jilts, Harlots, and Sharpers. From the tend’rest Years, he had known the hard Life of the London Streets, for the Area of Bartholomew Close and Smithfield was still the London of Olden Days, untouch’d by the Great Fire. ’Twas a Cattle Market where the Oxen and Sheep were driven up each Monday and the narrow ancient Streets were fill’d with Dung, Blood, Guts, drown’d Puppies, dead Cats, and straggling Turnip Tops.

Hogarth himself, tho’ he lookt the most unprepossessing Pug (being short, blunt-featur’d, and stout as a little Bulldog), was a canny Fellow, the Son of a distracted Schoolmaster turn’d Coffee-house Keeper, who’d been gaol’d in the Fleet for Debt; and he was determin’d to escape his Father’s hard Fate. His Father, said he, had spent the better part of his Life toiling at Dictionaries for callous Booksellers, who neither paid him a Fair Share of Earnings when the Book sold, nor fail’d to blame him when it dy’d stillborn. He had resolv’d, therefore, e’en at the Age of Twenty-Seven (when I met him), not to be a Victim like his hapless Father; for he aspir’d to Great Things, knowing himself blest with the Gift for getting the most telling Likeness with two Strokes of a Quill or Brush, and possess’d, as well, of the Lit’ry Gifts his Father had so little known how to exploit.

He quickly call’d my Bluff as a false Virgin.

“Fanny, my Girl,” said he, “’tis clear you’ve been a Virgin fifty Times, if you have been so once.”

“I beg your Pardon, Sirrah,” said I, all full of Mock-Dignity. “How dare you jest with a poor Country Girl that offers up the only Jewel she hath?”

“Jewel, my Arse,” says Will Hogarth. “The Jewel is Pigeon Blood and the Country Girl hath learnt some City Ways! But I’ll not tell Coxtart that I’ve call’d your Bluff if you’ll sit for me both in your Clothes and out!”

’Twas thus I became Hogarth’s Model as well as his sometime Whore, and as he sketch’d me, filling endless Books with my Face, my Breasts, my Rump, my Legs, my Hands, we told each other of our Youths, our Hopes, our Dreams. His Quill would scratch upon the Page as he rav’d on and on about the Bad Taste of the Town.

“No self-respecting English Lord,” he said, “will buy a Painting unless it comes from bloody Italy! For the English disdain their own Native Genius. In Musick they must have Mr. Handel—and other curious Germans or Italians who sing in Gibberish no True-born Englishman can understand—and in Painting, they call for the Italian Rogues, spend Fortunes upon Forgeries of Nymphs and Dragons, or else pay Homage to a Mountebank like William Kent, who declares all Englishmen devoid of Craft and Art, paints Pretty Pictures in the Italian Mode, styles himself a noble Ancient Roman, and hath the Earl of Burlington to lick his Arse and settle his Bills for Port! By God, Fanny, I hate the Palladians worse e’en than the Italian Charlatans, for they spit upon our Native English Genius, whilst they tout the rankest Mediocrity in the Name of Noble Rome!”

“What would you do?” I askt, scratching my naked Rump and quickly resuming my Pose.

“Fanny, my Love, I would show the wide World as ’tis! I would show the Streets of London with their dead Cats and squalling Babes. I would show Trollops and Mountebanks and Strolling Players at Southwark Fair! I would show Rope Dancers falling from their Ropes, and Actresses disrobing in a Barn! I would show Taverns and Brothels; Paupers drunk on Gin and Burghers drunk on Beer! I would show Whores as well as Grecian Goddesses, Rogues as well as Heroes, Bakers and Brewers as well as Noble Lords! For which amongst us hath e’er glimps’d St. George, or a Dragon, for that matter? But the very World we see around us—the sprawling Streets, the squalling Mob—why should we disdain it? ’Tis the very Stuff of English Life!”

As he spoke, he sketch’d, as always, his Tongue moving quite as rapidly as his Quill. Then, in a trice, he leapt up and ran to me where I lay naked on the Bed. He wav’d the Paper in his Hand.

“See, Fanny,” said he, showing me the Sketch. I had to laugh out loud to see; for he had caught me in that very Moment when I scratch’d my Rump, and upon my Face was a quizzical Look as if I doubted all he said. ’Twas so true a Likeness that I roar’d at my own Foolishness; all the Time I had been posing like a Goddess, fancying the Ideal Form that would emerge ’neath the Artist’s Quill, he had seen nought but a Country Wench that scratches her Rump and looks most quizzically upon the World!

“Is that how I appear to you?” said I.

“At Times,” said he, “you are a Country Maid, at Times a Queen, but with your flaming Hair and flaming Nether Hair as well, I think of you more as a raging Fire than a mere Woman, a Conflagration that might consume all of London and me as well!” With that, he threw himself upon me, dropp’d his Quill and Paper and his Breech; and made love to me as vigorously as any Swain had done.

But enough of that. Why interrupt my Tale with still another inflaming Love Scene, as if I were Mr. Cleland himself? Alas, it bores me to detail all the various and sundry Cocks that slipp’d betwixt my youthful Legs that Summer. Suffice it to say that Mr. Hogarth’s Tastes were simple; not for him the Excitement of Stallions and Mares, nor the Thrill of Disguises and Masquerades. He lik’d his Ladies wanton, compliant, and built for Use; and his Cock was quite as energetick as his Quill or Tongue.