Fanny (36 page)

For my own part, the Book caus’d me only great Embarrassment, for ev’ryone thought ’twas my True Life Story, and correct in all its Particulars. I’faith, Belinda, the printed Word carries more Credence than Truth itself. And a Book—e’en if it be malignant and scurrilous—carries more Weight in the Scales of Life than the truest Oath upon the heaviest Bible. After Cleland’s Volume appear’d I had no Peace at all, since ’twas presum’d that I
myself
was the Model for Fanny Hill. All that I protested to the Contrary, only serv’d the more to convince my Enemies that I was lying.

This, indeed, is one of the most compelling Reasons for my writing my own True and Compleat History of my Life and Adventures; so that you, my beloved Belinda (and the scurrilous World as well), shall know the Truth of my Life and not labour under the dark and dingy Veil of Falsehood. For the sugar’d Tale of cloying Fanny Hill is as far from my own Life and Philosophies as the sugar’d Tale of virtuous Pamela is far from the Truth of Serving Maid and Master. Neither Comedy nor Tragedy alone rul’d my Life, but ’twas a Mixture of the twain. Sometimes my Fortunes rose, sometimes they fell; and indeed I came to believe the Adage of La Rochefoucauld, that “Greater Virtues are requir’d to endure Good Fortune than to endure Bad.” Whilst all my Care was to survive, bear my Babe in Peace, and aid my dearest Lancelot, I was too busy to suffer pro-long’d Fits of Melancholy or Spleen; but later when my Fortunes improv’d, I was able to learn the Truth of another of that clever French Duke’s sayings, to wit: “Violence done to us by others oft’ pains us less than Violence done to us by Ourselves.” But more of that anon.

CHAPTER VIII

In which we look in upon Mr. Lancelot Robinson in Newgate Prison and learn what hath transpir’d with him whilst our Fanny was very much Otherwise Engaged.

A
FTER MY FIRST SEV’RAL
Weeks in the Brothel, I had, by dint of great Industry as well as Thrift (for I ne’er took Breakfast or Lunch from Coxtart, for Economy’s Sake), earn’d and sav’d enough to secure Lancelot Freedom of the Rules.

’Twas also plain by now that some new Life was coursing thro’ my Veins; for, tho’ my Belly was as flat as e’er before, my Skin show’d a new Bloom, my Eyes sparkl’d like the brightest Stars, and ev’ry Swain who saw me remarkt that my Beauty grew more dazzling Day by Day. Indeed, I could see it myself, in my own Glass.

How very curious, I thought, that this unwanted Babe, this Child conceiv’d in Betrayal and Treachery should, ne’ertheless, create such Beauty. Perhaps ev’ry Woman who hath e’er drawn Breath, hath made the self-same Observation; but to me ’twas novel and most unexpected. I loath’d the Father, yet I lov’d the Babe.

But did I truly loathe the Father? There raged still in my Breast a War betwixt Love and Hate for Lord Bellars. I had lov’d him like a Father and he had betray’d me like a Rogue. Surely, Belinda, we are ne’er as offended by bodily Violence alone as we are by Violence to our tender Sensibilities and Betrayal of our Trust. From Time to Time I could rekindle in my Heart the Tenderness I had once felt for Lord Bellars; but more oft’ the Love curdl’d into Hate, and I felt Rage against him and indeed against all Men.

Some Days I would walk the Streets of London to buy some necessary Item of my Trade—new Patches or Paints, Scents, and such—and I would feel the sheerest Fury ’gainst ev’ry Man I saw. The Beau that strutted with his Snuff-Box and Sword, the Footman that ap’d the Beau’s Fine Manners and wore his cast-off Clothes, the proud Physician all in black, the Officer of the Guard in his Finery, the Linen Draper that mimickt the Officer’s Fine Manners in his turn, e’en the lowly Nightmen and Polemen whose assorted Stinks call’d forth Memories of the Privies they clean’d—all of ’em could strut imperiously above the best-hearted, most learned Lady in the Land. And why? Because she, not they, must bear the Great Belly that assures all Humankind of its Survival!

If Men had to bear the Babes, I thought, the entire Race would perish! For what Man would risque his Life for a mere Babe? E’en he, who would so readily risque it disputing some foolish Point of Honour in a Duel with another Man, would balk at the very Thought of enduring Pain or Death for a helpless Lump of shiv’ring pink Flesh that can neither walk nor talk to pay him Homage! For the Curse of the Male Sex is its constant Need of Homage—Homage to its Intellect and Wit, Homage to its Gallantry and petty Prowess betwixt the Bed-Clothes; whilst the Female Sex,
said
to be so vain, is vain only of mere superficial Beauty. And e’en that Vanity—oft’, I confess, so noisesome and tedious—is nought but an Instinct for Survival; for a Woman knows that in a World where Women have no Pow’r—Beauty, like Witchcraft, is her only Substitute.

I waver’d betwixt Rage at Men, Rage at their Betrayal and my Body’s, and sheer, irrational Delight at the new Life pulsing thro’ my Blood. Oft’ I would catch myself smiling for no Reason, smiling at the Babe in my Belly that could not see my Smile. Then, quite as suddenly, my Smile would turn to furious Tears, and I would weep and rage at that which could not be undone. O I felt trapp’d and imprison’d by this Babe as well as blest by it. I lov’d it and I hated it, both equally and both by Turns.

’Twas Time to go again to Lancelot in Newgate; for tho’ I had been sending Money lo these many Weeks, the Press of my Work had prevented my visiting that foul Prison. Indeed, the Idea quite affrighted me; my last Visit to Newgate had left me haunted by terrifying Dreams and Visions for many Days afterward.

Upon this Occasion, howe’er, I arriv’d to find Lancelot in a changed Humour. As melancholy and cast down as he had been before, just so much was he high and buoyant now. Indeed, he was almost the Lancelot of Old—the green-eyed Wonder I had first met upon the Road! No longer did he languish in a Dungeon in Rags, but he was restor’d to his Proper Place above Ground, and dress’d finely as you please in the Clothes I’d sent him (with the Money I had earn’d upon my Back!). Moreo’er, he was surrounded by a Mob of Prisoners, who lookt to him for Wit, for Philosophy, and, above all, for Hope of bett’ring their wretched Condition. (I’faith, a Man may be starving and diseas’d, but if he hath Hope, he will not swiftly perish. For Hope is as a floating Spar to a drowning Man; it buoys him up yet a little longer, and puts him above the Waves when he might well be under ’em!)

Lancelot stood upon a Table in the High Hall, with all his wretched Disciples beneath him, and he preach’d quite grandly to the Prigs, whilst his good Friend, John Littlehat, stood by with troubl’d Mien, wond’ring what new Mischief Lancelot would bring down upon himself now.

I went first to Littlehat, for Lancelot was raving upon his Pulpit and was separated from me by a Wall of stinking, mutt’ring, shouting Humanity.

“Ah, Madam Fanny,” says Littlehat. “Bless yer Soul, fer ye have sav’d our Friend from deep Despair; an’ yet I fear that when he raves like this, he is in greater Danger still! He hath won the Prisoners to his Party by the finest Talk an’ also by his Arts of Healing. I’faith, many are convinced he is a Saint, if not Jesus Christ Himself, fer he hath done such Miracles in raising the Sick an’ restoring ’em to Health that they are now convinced of all he says, an’ I fear fer him more now than e’er before.”

“What is this bloody Code call’d the Law?” shouts Lancelot from the Table’s Height. “Why, ’tis nought but an Excuse to kill the Poor, whilst the Rich may steal an’ go free!” To which fine Sentiments the Rabble chear’d. Hearten’d by their Adulation, Lancelot grew more fever’d still:

“Why should a poor Man hang fer stealin’ a Sheep or a Horse? Why should a poor Man hang fer stealin’ five Shillin’s worth o’ Toys from a Toy-Shop, or cuttin’ off a Watch from a Pretty Fellow that hath ten gold Watches if he hath one? Hath not that self-same Pretty Fellow stolen yer Daughter’s Honour or the Fruits o’ the Land where yer Father labour’d? Why should the Sweat o’ yer Father’s Brow be worth nothin’ an’ the Pretty Fellow’s Watch be worth yer Neck in the Noose? Why should it be call’d Lawlessness an’ Highway Robbery when a poor Man steals what he needs to eat an’ yet be call’d Fine Manners when a rich Man steals the Sweat o’ the poor Man’s Brow? Doth not God Himself say ‘Consider the Lilies o’ the Field’ an’ how little they toil an’ sweat? Yet He provides fer ’em! Why not likewise fer the Poor? Are the Rich alone God’s Lilies an’ the Poor nought but Clods o’ Mud?”

Whereupon the Rabble shouted “Amen!” and “Blessed be our Lancelot!” and other Sentiments of like Nature.

“I fear he means to lead a Rebellion of the Prisoners,” says Littlehat to me privily, “an’ surely he will hang fer that.”

“An’ now, ye Debtors,” Lancelot goes on, “where is it writ within the Holy Book that one Man may lock another up an’ throw away the bloody Key because o’ bloody Debt? I say there
is
no such Thing as Debt! Each Man must have whate’er he needs to live an’ no Man may be his Creditor nor Usurer, nor can he seize him fer the Crime o’ Debt! Fer we are all God’s Debtors—are we not?—an’ if God can forgive Sinners, sure he can forgive Debtors, too!”

More Chears and Blessings rose from the Rabble now, and Lancelot rais’d his Arms to acknowledge his frenzied Publick, then leapt down from the Table with all the Grace of a Cat, and made his Way thro’ the Mob to me and Littlehat. Without a Word, he press’d me in his Arms, enfolded me, and strokt my Hair. Then, quite suddenly, as if remembering himself, he drew back, startl’d by his own Affection for me, and essay’d again to conceal it ’neath his wonted Swagger.

“Fanny, me Girl, let me look at ye! Why, what Finery! Hath Fortune smil’d on ye in wicked London Town?”

“You might call it Fortune,” say I, “but I would not. Come—may we speak somewhere privily?” Whereupon Littlehat led us to a solitary Chamber, furnish’d tolerably well with Bed and Table, which my Largesse to Lancelot had secur’d.

“Whence comes this Finery?” asks Lancelot again, regarding my lavender silk Morning Dress, with pale green satten Ribbands, and my lavender silken Shoes with Pattens that lookt too fine to endure e’en one Hour in the muddy London Streets.

“The same Place your Finery comes from,” say I, brazenly as you please. “I have sweated for it upon my Back!”

“A Common Strumpet, Fanny mine?”

“Nay, Lancelot, a most uncommon one! For the Tricks I’ve learnt in lo these last few Weeks would take the Crimp out of your flaming Locks and cause your very Toes to curl towards Heaven! There is nought common about my Strumpeting!”

“Fanny!” says Lancelot, aghast. “How can a Lass o’ yer Quality stoop to such a low Occupation?”

“A low Occupation! A low Occupation! What? Do my Ears deceive me? Is this Lancelot the Rebel, the Poet of Priggism, the Preacher of true Christianity! Did not Jesus Himself forgive the Harlot? Marry come up, Lancelot, I ne’er thought I’d see the Day when you yourself talkt like a hypocritical Whig!”

“But Harlotry, Fanny, to sell yer Soul fer fine Ribbands—”

“Not my Soul—but merely my Body, and not for myself, but for you and the Merry Men. O this is a fine State of Affairs! I rescue you by the Sweat of my unwilling Thighs and this is all the Thanks I get! Damn your Eyes, Lancelot, I leave you to your Fate!” And with that I pickt up my Petticoat and prepar’d to leave the Chamber.

“Pray, sweet Fanny, do not be so rash.”

“Pray, sweet Lancelot, I might say the same to you!”

“But why Harlotry, Fanny?”

“If I must explain that to you of all People, Lancelot, then truly I am curst. Shall my Lord Pillicock give me a Pension for my Wit and Learning alone? Hardly! I could be as great a Philosopher as Plato himself, yet would I starve unless I were to earn my Keep the only Way a Woman can! Yea, you would starve, too, and my Babe as well.”

“Yer
what
?” says Lancelot.

“Lancelot, I am with Child.”

Lancelot lookt wildly at me, as if he’d kill me for the very Words.

“Is it that Black Swine, Horatio?” he rav’d.

“No—” say I, “a thousand Noes. Would that my Bastard Babe belong’d to the Merry Men! But ’tis my own Step-Father!”

“An’ where’s the scurvy Blackguard now?”

“That I can’t say.”

“An’ what d’ye mean to do?”

“I mean to work as hard as e’er I can, to put by Money for the Babe. What else can I do?”

“Ye can join me Rebellion, Fanny, with the Merry Men. I’ve sent fer those that remain alive—e’en Horatio, if we can track him, an’ I mean to raise the fiercest Army o’ Prisoners that London e’er hath seen—fer we mean to change the World!”

“Lancelot, you are daft. Surely you’ll hang!”

“Sure I’ll hang whether I raise an Army or no—fer I was to hang before, an’ now I stand accus’d o’
new
Crimes by the wretched Captain o’ the wretched
Hannibal
! Death’s not me Fear, Fanny. I fear Gaol an’ Melancholy more than Death. Death’s a Reprieve, me Girl. Death will bring Martin back. Besides I’ve nought to lose.”

I shook my Head sadly.

“Fanny, ye grow hard in yer new Life. Come with us! We’ll be the happiest Outlaw Band since Robin Hood’s an’ raise yer Babe up in the Forest as the Child o’ all the Merry Men. We’ll teach him Priggism an’ True Philosophy. We’ll raise him in the Wild without the Lyes o’ Society to warp his little Soul!”

“And what if he’s a Girl?”

“Nonsense, ’tis a Boy. I can see it in yer Eyes!”

“Lancelot, you are mad! You’re the next Thing to a Bedlamite.”

“An’ proud o’ that!” cries he. “Fer is not Wit to Madness oft’ allied? Think on’t, Fanny. Think o’ the Babes expos’d in Dung-Heaps thro’out London Town. Is not me own Proposal better? D’ye wish yer Child to dye upon a Heap o’ Straw when ye yerself are clapp’d or consumptive from yer vile Trade?”

This indeed brought Tears to my Eyes, for I knew ’twas no idle Chatter. All o’er London and in the outlying Fields, one could see hapless Babes thrown out in Dustbins, expos’d upon the Heaths, and mewling like so many abandon’d Kittens in the cold Rain, until a merciful God clos’d their Eyes, putting ’em out of their brief Lives of Misery.

“’Twill ne’er happen to my Child,” said I. But e’en so saying, I doubted the Truth of my own Words. Infants there were aplenty in London, but no Money to clothe or feed ’em; and oft’ the very Mother who had borne in Pain, at risque to her own Life, put her own sweet Babe out to starve upon the Street for no Reason but Harsh Necessity. Thus, she shed double Tears, both for herself and all her wasted Griefs, and for the Babe and its sad Life, though brief.