Fanny (35 page)

Not all Great Artists are Great Orators and Great Fornicators as well, but Mr. Hogarth surely was. Perhaps ’twas due to the Shortness of his Stature, all his Animal Spirits were compact, as ’twere, into a smaller Space.

Some eight Years later, when the Artist and I had not seen each other for sev’ral Years, I chanced to pass a Print Shop which display’d “The Harlot’s Progress” or “The Humours of Drury Lane” by Mr. William Hogarth. There, I saw the Use to which he had put all his Sketches of me! E’en the Name of his Trollop (which many assum’d was inspir’d by Francis Hackabout, the notorious hang’d Highwayman, or Katherine Hackabout, his hapless whoring Sister), was, in fact, inspir’d by my Tales to him (whilst posing in the nude) of my Travels with the Merry Men and Lancelot’s naming me in accordance with my Fortunes!

The Prints near broke my Heart, for they show’d the Fate which might well have been mine—and which, i’faith, I’d narrowly escap’d. In the first, the Harlot comes to London from the Country, an Innocent, prey’d upon by Bawd and Rapemaster alike. She knows not what her Fate will be, but a wrung-neckt Goose in the Foreground of the Picture shows that the clever Artist knows. She progresses, through gradual Stages of Debauchery, from being kept by a rich Jew (whom she cuckolds), to being the tainted Whore of Highwaymen, to beating Hemp in Bridewell (still in her Whore’s Finery!), to dying of the Pox in a Garret, whilst her poor Urchin sits by the Grate, waiting for his meagre Supper. In the last Print of all, she lyes in her sad Coffin whilst the Whores and Clergymen around her are yet more interested in their own tawdry Pleasures than in the grave Lesson of her Death. (’Tis a sad Commentary indeed upon the Clergy that have so little Interest in the spiritual Welfare of their Flock.) But sadder than all these Lessons is the Fate of Moll Hackabout herself. For truly she endures the Wages of Lust whilst her Swains go free; and she dyes a Pauper’s Death of Clap, whilst the Rapemasters and Clergymen flourish to work their Wickedness upon the next Innocent. Canny Hogarth knew that ’tis the Woman who always suffers for the Sins of all Mankind.

Did the Artist think, when he sketch’d me, that this would be my Fate? No doubt he did. And there were dreadful Times I fear’d ’twould be so myself. Yet I do not fault him for using my Name nor indeed Aspects of my Face (a certain sad-eyed Look for the imprison’d Whore, the Curve of a plump Breast or slender Ankle), for clearly his Sympathies are with the innocent Girl, whom the World abuses, then casts upon the Refuse Heap of Death.

Mr. Cleland, upon the other Hand, I consider no Friend of mine, nor of the Fair Sex in gen’ral, for the Portrait he paints of
his
simp’ring Strumpet leaves the World to think that the Whore’s Life is nought but a Bed of Roses. Of Clap, Consumption, the Evils of Drink, Death in Childbed (and the other Ravages of the poor Harlot’s Life), he hath nought to say. Reading his Book, you’d think that the Whore’s Life was as great a Lark as that of a Lawyer or a Magistrate or e’en a Physician! (I mention, of course, those who batten off the Sorrows of the Poor!)

For mark you, Belinda, here were two Men whom I met at the self-same Time of Life; whilst one saw me as a Figure fit for Tragedy, the other saw me as the very Embodiment of Comedy and Light-heartedness. And which indeed was the Truth? Is there, i’faith, one Truth indivisible? Are our Characters not more oft’ form’d in the Eyes of our Beholders than in our Souls themselves? For tho’, ’tis true, we must learn to know ourselves—in order to survive this Wicked World, and also Divine Judgement in the World to come—oft’ the Image the Publick hath of us is more compounded of the Follies and Fears of those who lov’d (or hated) us than of our own true Mettle. Thus ’tis that ev’ry Woman’s most Profound Lesson must be to learn to disregard the World’s Opinion of her, and to rest her Case solely upon her own Opinion of herself; for whilst the World may at Times be just in judging the Characters of Men (tho’ e’en here, more oft’ it errs), ’tis ne’er so in judging the Characters of Women. Indeed, Women are thought to have “no Characters at all”—in the Words of Mr. Pope, and to flit from Fancy to Fancy as a Butterfly flits from Flow’r to Flow’r. Perhaps
this
accounts for the Hubris of the Male in fashioning the Female, in Novels and Poems, as the very Creature of his own Fancies; and perhaps the Masculine Poet avers that “Women have no Characters at all,” so as to better justify his unfeeling and unthinking Treatment of her in his Verses!

But I must pass now to Mr. Cleland, who came into my Life not long after Will Hogarth. Unlike the Painter, who stood upon the very Threshold of his Fame, John Cleland was a mere Stripling—with the Pustules of Youth still standing upon his Cheaks like so many small Monuments to his Lust! Nor was he more than two Years out of Westminster School.

He came into my Chamber all full of Swagger and Braggadocio, claiming that he requir’d a fresh Maidenhead a Day to keep his Spirits up (as a Vampyre requires Blood), and declaring himself to be a Man of the World, a weary Voyager in the Ports of Love, a jaded Rake, a bor’d Libertine—when indeed ’twas clear as Crystal that he was not above my own Age. I’faith, I later learnt he was e’en two Years younger!

I was, once more, in my Bride’s Attire (tho’ how much longer I could claim to be Virgin was doubtful—for I was already becoming quite famous in the Town, and to speak the Truth, I was also growing rather bor’d with the Game myself) when I made Mr. Cleland’s Aquaintance.

I’ll ne’er forget how he lookt upon that first Occasion when I met him. He’d got himself up like a Pretty Fellow of the Town—with Silver-hiked Sword, Laced Hat, Full-bottom’d Wig, and a Velvet Waistcoat, laced with Silver, despite the Summer’s Heat. Yet all these Clothes fit him quite ill, as if indeed they were borrow’d, or purloin’d, Finery. And his Hat, in particular, was sev’ral Sizes too big—e’en with the Wig ’neath it—and slipp’d o’er his Eyes most comically.

“My Beloved Bride!” he cried, entering the Chamber.

I could scarce conceal a Yawn at the Words. O I was weary of my Work, and weary of this foolish Pantomime! How, in the Name of the Goddess, would I e’er find the Zeal to play at this absurd Virginity still one more Time? I was bor’d in the extream.

“Come catch me, Groom!” I cried, going through the Formality of the Chase ’round the Bed with barely conceal’d
Ennui.
Young Mr. Cleland chas’d me dutifully, and yet, he seem’d in as little Hurry to catch me as I was to be caught. I’faith, he seem’d more truly afraid of me than I was pretending to be afraid of him!

This Masquerade of Chase and Pursuit we kept up as long as we could—I darting about the Bed, he chasing me (like a fat, lazy Cat chasing an agile Mouse), but ’twas plain he had no Stomach for it.

“Come catch me,” I cried again. Yet how could I play the unwilling Virgin when he was still more unwilling than myself?

At last he collaps’d upon the Floor (in all his Finery) and began to weep most piteously.

“I’faith, Madam Fanny,” says he, “I am a Virgin myself!” And with that, he pulls off the absurd Full-bottom’d Wig, revealing to my Sight the sweet Face of a Boy of Fifteen (albeit a sweet Face bespeckl’d with Pustules!), with frighten’d Eyes that regard me (me!) as a Woman of the World!

Then my Pity is rais’d where Lust could ne’er be rais’d, and sweetly and tenderly I begin to undress him, revealing his bare pink Chest, his tiny Hips, his spindly Legs, his poor naked vulnerable Toes.

But surely you will ask, what sort of Cock had he who invented more fanciful Names for that common Organ than Adam invented Names for Animals? ’Twas a middling Thing, neither larger nor smaller than the Majority of Cocks, and tolerably well-shap’d, but without the inflam’d Redness of which he so constantly writes in his foolish Memoirs. Indeed, ’twas a pasty white Thing, as pale as uncookt Pye Dough, and it took all my Coaxing and Reassurance to make it stand up in my Hand—and e’en then I fear’d it should faint again upon the Instant! But I roll’d it in my Hands and then betwixt my Lips until ’twas hard enough to suck upon, and when ’twas slick with Spittle and firm enough for Use, I lifted my Bride’s Finery and sat upon his Cock, teazing and turning in corkscrew Motions until he swoon’d with Pleasure and, i’faith, quite fainted away.

At first I swear I thought him dead, so cold and still was he. I fear’d I’d kill’d him quite with Voluptuous Pleasure and I scarce knew whether to laugh or weep. ’Twas droll how all his Swagger had come to this! He lay upon the Floor like a dead Fish, nay like a Loaf of Bread, for no Part of him e’en twitch’d at all.

By and by, he recover’d his Senses. O he was mad with Gratitude to me! He said he could ne’er repay my Kindness, my Thoughtfulness, my Christian Charity!

I laugh’d and reassur’d him that he’d have to pay Coxtart for
my
Virginity—tho’ he
himself
had prov’d the Virgin Bride. And that seem’d to put him in mind of a Fancy of his, which he was half afraid, he said, to voice.

“Pray tell me, Master Cleland,” says I, “for I am here to do your Bidding.”

“I dare not,” said he, giggling like a Schoolgirl.

“Marry come up,” says I, “I’ll not mock you for it, I swear.”

“Do you truly swear?” says he.

“I swear,” say I.

Whereupon he proposes to me that now we exchange Clothes—he’ll be the Bride and I the Swagg’ring Groom—and repeat our little Game.

This indeed tickles my own Fancy, so bor’d am I with playing Bride, and now I strip and offer him my Virginal Clothes, whilst he does the same, off’ring me his Fop’s Finery.

He unlaces my Corset for me, and in a Minute or two, I lace him into it, giving him a tiny Waist, but alas no Breasts at all. These we form with cambrick Handkerchiefs roll’d into Balls, and he primps and views himself in the Glass as if he is quite pleas’d with all his Eyes behold. I dress him next in Boddice and Petticoat, Veil, Shoes, and Stockings. I e’en offer him my Paints—my Bavarian Red Liquor for the Cheaks—and my Scents as well. All these he is happy enough to use; and he shows less Discomfort in ’em than a Lapdog put into a Bathing Tub. Indeed, female Dress brings out all his Confidence and Daring, and he minces and curtseys with more Aplomb than he swagger’d as a Beau before.

For my part, I am content to be in his Attire; for wearing a Man’s Disguise always fills me with a Sense of Freedom, e’en Wantonness. I chase him ’round the Bed again, delighting in the Novelty of this Change in Status.

I growl that I shall catch him; he squeaks that I shall not. I now cajole, now threaten, now pursue. He now protests, now pleads, now flees. At last I catch him and throw myself upon him with all my Weight.

“Pray, Sir, desist,” he squeaks, Falsetto.

“Pray, Madam, yield,” I thunder,
Basso.

Whereupon I thrust my Knee betwixt his Thighs and like a hopeless Maid he cries in the highest Voice: “Please, Sir, I have no Jewel but my Vartue, and if you strip me of it, I am lost.” Then he begins to weep withal, yea, weep so convincingly that my Heart is mov’d and I forget that ’tis only a Play.

After some Time at this Pantomime, we fall to Love-making in earnest, I playing the Man and he the Maid. I’faith, he is more arous’d by playing the passive Virginal Maid than he was by playing the Seducing Rake; for upon this Occasion his Cock requires no coaxing. But O ’tis droll to see it emerge ’neath a Petticoat and Hoops!

Thereafter, whene’er Master Cleland came to Coxtart’s Brothel, ’twas our usual Sport to mimick the Sexes neither one was born to. Playing the Wench seem’d to give him the Confidence he lackt in his proper Gender; and after our frenzied Bouts in Bed he could be persuaded to tell me of his Dreams and Plans.

He was besotted with the East, dreamt continually of Venice, Constantinople, Smyrna, Bombay, and long’d to travel to those distant Parts. For he had heard and read much of Oriental Luxury, of the Freedom Turkish Ladies enjoy’d ’neath their Veils, of the wicked Seraglios of the East, of the lustful Sultans and of their voluptuous Concubines.

“Sure you must be mad, John,” said I, “to imagine that Turkish Ladies have more Freedom than English ones.”

“’Tis true, Fanny,” says he, “for ’neath their Veils, ’tis said not e’en their own Husbands can recognize ’em, and they go about the Streets of Constantinople quite Incognita. Thus, you see the Jealousy of Husbands creates a Disguise which quite defeats its own Purpose. ’Tis a solemn Lesson in the Vanity of Human Passions!”

’Twas indeed hard for me to believe that the Plight of the Turkish Lady could be better than that of the English, but perhaps ’twas true. For English Ladies liv’d at the Mercy of their Husbands, their Fathers, and all the gossiping Tongues of the Town. They, too, could know Freedom in Disguise, which surely accounted for the great Popularity of Masquerades in London. Perhaps the Slaves of the East had more true Freedom than we Englishwomen who only
seem’d
so free; ’twas a Paradox indeed.

But what was Master Cleland’s secret Wish in travelling to the East? Did he dream perhaps of dressing up to play the Turkish Lady? That I’ll ne’er know, for he would not trust me so far with his Fancies. Within the Year, howe’er, he’d disappear’d from London altogether to journey across Europe; and I heard tell that he turn’d up in Smyrna by and by, having secur’d a Consular Appointment by some Means or other. Was he tasting all the forbidden voluptuous Secrets of the East? So I fancied, for he was the sort of Man who would have lov’d to play the Concubine whilst a savage Turk ravish’d him in his Nether Regions. Neither proper Man, nor proper Woman was he, but an odd Blend of the twain, a curious Person who seem’d torn betwixt East and West, betwixt Male and Female.

I later heard that he fled Smyrna for Bombay, where the East India Company employ’d him for a while. Then he was banish’d from India, too, after some Quarrel or Scandal, and wander’d across Europe like a Lost Soul, until he return’d to his Native Land, where he was promptly thrown into Gaol for Debt.

Thus he came to write his loathed
Memoirs
; for those on whom the Muse seldom smiles are driven to write only by Want of Money, not, like Dean Swift, by the Noble Desire of bringing Mankind to its Senses. His Book surely did inflame the Town, and it made Ralph Griffiths rich as well. ’Twas Common Knowledge that the Bookseller had bought the Copyright of Cleland for twenty Guineas and thereafter earn’d from it more than ten thousand Pounds. As oft’ occurs in these Cases, the Bookseller was able to set up like a proper Gentleman, with Chariots and Steeds and a Household full of Servants, whilst the Author, for his Pains, was nearly clapp’d in Gaol. He later got a Pension of Lord Granville, who pitied him, but still he remain’d a struggling Grub Street Hack, and ne’er free from Want his whole Life long. Indeed, the Bookseller fatten’d whilst the Author starv’d, and drove about in Coaches whilst the Author walkt. (’Tis e’er thus, I fear, when Commerce meets the Muse—but Cleland deserv’d no better, having stolen my Name in Hope of Gain!)