Fanny (4 page)

How had I imagin’d Mr. Pope? Can I not have heard till then that he was a Hunchback? Or can it be that Memory deceives me? Ne’ertheless, I fancied him in the Mould of one of the Heroes of a French Romance, perhaps because the Imagination of a Girl of Seventeen is apt to clothe a Poet in Colours of his own Making. His Words were handsome, so should his Figure be! Nothing else was possible. It did not then occur to me that Poets perhaps write in order to create that very Delusion in Wenches of Seventeen and indeed to augment with their Quills the paltry Equipment Nature hath bestow’d upon ’em.

Imagine my Surprize and Discomfiture when I saw the Figure that emerged from the Carriage!

He was not above four and one-half foot tall and his Back hump’d so prodigiously betwixt his Shoulder Blades that his fawn Coat must have been a Taylor’s Marvel to accommodate it! He seem’d to be wearing not one but sev’ral Pairs of silk Stockings at once, and yet his Legs were so piteously thin that the Stockings creas’d and hung on ’em as if they were Twigs rather than Flesh. Under his Coat and Waistcoat, he wore a kind of fur Doublet (such as our Ancestors wore), perhaps to bulk out his crooked and wasted Form, or perhaps to guard against the Chills such Flesh must be Heir to. From my Window’s Height, I could not see his lower’d Face, but beside Lord Bellars, he lookt like a sort of Question Mark of Humanity standing next to a Poplar Tree. Lord Bellars was tall and straight, with broad Shoulders and manly, muscular Legs. Under his black Beaver cockt Hat, edged with deep gold Lace, he wore a fine Riding Wig, and when he threw his Head back to laugh at some Witticism the Poet had utter’d, I glimps’d a handsome Roman Nose, a clear olive Complexion, glowing with Life and Fire, and Eyes that sparkl’d like Dew Drops upon Rose Petals. His Laugh was as resonant and manly as the Barking of Bull-Dogs. I’faith, the Moment I saw him again, I was prepar’d to forgive, or explain away as vicious Libels, all the scandalous Stories Lady Bellars had told me of him.

O, my Belinda, beware the Lure of a handsome Face, the all too ready Assumption that the lovely Façade must needs have lovely Chambers within; for as ’tis with Great Houses, so, too, with Great Men. They may have grand Porticos and Loggias without, but within may be Madness and Squalor. ’Tis said that by the Cock of the Hat, the Man is known, and Lord Bellars wore his with the Raffishness of a Rogue; yet more gentle Maids of Seventeen have been betray’d by their own trusting Hearts than by the artful Wiles of their Seducers. For, as ’tis usual at that Age to suppose that Nature is ev’rywhere consistent and harmonious, we presume, in our Innocence, that a beauteous Brow contains a beauteous Brain, a handsome Mouth, handsome Words, and a robust manly Form, robust manly Deeds. Alas, my Daughter, ’tis not so.

But I was younger at that Moment than you are now, and I was full of all the Wild Impetuosity of Youth; so I clatter’d at breakneck Speed down the Great Steps and should have run immediately into the Courtyard to greet our Visitors, had not a monstrous Villain upon the second Landing stuck out a Leg to stop me, and sent me toppling headlong down the Stair. Before the World behind my Eyelids went starry as the Night Sky and then black as the Grave, I glimps’d Mary’s Face like a boil’d Pudding with a Smile plaster’d upon it, mocking me from the second Landing; and I knew in my Heart, tho’ all Proof was lacking, that ’twas she who had tripp’d me. (Ah, Belinda, beware, e’en more than the Wiles of Men, the Envy of Women—for more gentle Maids have been betray’d by envious Sisters than e’en by their own trusting Hearts!)

The Ill-Feeling betwixt Mary and myself had an ancient History. Shortly after she was born—disappointingly enough a Girl-Child—Mary was put out with the Wet-Nurse till she was well-nigh three Years of Age, whilst in the Meantime Daniel was brought to birth and I was found upon the fateful Doorstep.

I’faith, both Daniel and I were suckl’d by Wet-Nurses for a Time after our Births, but wet-nurs’d within the Great House itself (where Lady Bellars could oft’ visit us), whilst Mary stay’d away from Home until she could speak. Meanwhile, Lady Bellars, repenting of having lost her Chances at Maternal Affection with her First-born, and i’faith feeling cheated by Lord Bellars’ Mockery of her Maternal Longings, lavish’d these tender Emotions upon me to such a Degree that Mary envied me extreamly, and doubtless wisht me dead.

To make Matters worse, I was a precocious Child, clever where Mary was dull, able to recite lengthy Passages from
Paradise Lost
and the Sonnets of Mr. Shakespeare, whilst Mary could not e’en remember a simple Country-Ballad; and for this, too, she hated me. I was trotted out in all my babyish Finery to perform before Lord and Lady Bellars’ Guests, whilst my poor Step-Sister, whene’er she attempted a Performance, forgot her Lines, lookt Cow-like and dull-witted, causing Lord Bellars to declare:

“La! What a Face! What ails the Child? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the Child was a Changeling and Fannikins my proper Daughter!”

To be sure, none of this was calculated to create Good Will betwixt Mary and myself.

How long I lay unconscious I cannot tell. I dreamt I travell’d to the Moon and back, and that the Face of the Moon was the mocking Face of my Step-Sister, Mary. For a little while, I voyaged to those Spheres describ’d by Mr. Milton and Signor Ariosto, and then I awoke to find the whole Household standing o’er me with great Concern and Solicitude, but especially Lord Bellars and Mr. Pope, whose great, kind Eyes, I now could see, were the all-knowing Eyes of a Poet.

“Come, gentle Nymph,” says he to me, extending a Hand which was delicate as a Maid’s yet cold and pale as Death itself. I found myself at once repuls’d and attracted by his Delicacy, his Death-like Pallor, his large sensitive Eyes and long quiv’ring Nose, the Physiognomy of Poet within the Carcass of a twisted Dwarf.

“My Dear,” says Lord Bellars, aside to Lady Bellars, “you did not tell me our little Foundling was growing into such a Beauty.”

“And why should I?” says Lady Bellars; “would you come Home for her when you would not come Home for your own Daughter?”

Lord Bellars made a Motion to indicate that this Remark was beneath Contempt, and, thanking the Poet for his Kindness, he also extended a Hand to me, then swept me at once into his Arms, and in full view of the entire Household, carried me up the Stair to my Bedchamber.

Can you imagine the Fire burning in my Cheaks as this Marvel of Manhood scoops me up into his Arms and carries me thus impetuously off?

“Thou
art
growing into a Beauty,” Lord Bellars says, looking down at me from, it seems, a great Height. And then he gallops up the Stair two at a Time, makes haste for my Bedchamber, where he throws me down on the Bed roughly yet playfully, and says, leering like the Devil himself, “I know of but one sure Way to revive a fainting Wench.” In a trice, my Petticoats and Shift are thrown o’er my Head, muffling my Protestations of Shock and Alarm, and a strong, warm Hand plays Arpeggios o’er the soft, silky Moss that but a few Years before had begun to spring from the Mount-Pleasant betwixt my youthful Thighs, as velvet Grass springs from a silted River-Bank.

His Fingers play’d and strove to twine in the Tendrils of that womanly Vegetation, but suddenly he begins to insinuate a Finger into the very Quick of my Womanhood, inflaming me beyond the twin Pow’rs of Modesty and Surprize to resist, and causing me to cry out, “O! O! O!” Whereupon he flips the Petticoats back to their Proper Place, surveys my Blushes with Amusement, caresses my Breasts, those great snowy Hillocks tipp’d with rosy Nipples (whose Largeness, i’faith, hath, till this Moment, done nought but embarrass me), laughs, kisses me upon the Lips, and declares, “At least my Beauty is still a Virgin—tho’ from the Impatience I feel in her willing Young Blood, she will not be one for long!” Whereupon he makes haste to withdraw, leaving me shockt, speechless, all but mute with Outrage mingl’d with shameful Pleasure. Fire cours’d thro’ my Veins, filling me with Longing, Disgust, and Self-loathing.

O, I had heard plenty from the Servants concerning the Evils of giving way to bestial Lust (tho’ from the Servants’ own Behaviour with each other, one should have thought they were scarce the ones to talk!). Yet I knew that the disorder’d Sensations I now felt presaged my Fall from precious Purity into Ruin and Disgrace, and I wept at my Shame. A Man might vent his Passions unafraid, but a Woman did so at her Peril—particularly before Marriage. E’en my timid Step-Mother had press’d upon all her youthful Charges a Pamphlet entitled
Onania or the heinous Sin of Self-Pollution, and all its frightful Consequences in both Sexes Consider’d
, which told of the Horrors and Distempers which would surely follow soon upon Indulgence in Carnal Pleasure. If Onania might cause Epilepsy, Fevers, Boils, and e’en Death—how much
worse
Horrors the Loss of a Maidenhead might bring! Yet was I verily confus’d o’er all these Matters, for I had heard Lord Bellars’ Amours jested of below Stairs as nought but
Bagatelles
, and e’en those of certain married Women of the County more laugh’d o’er than shunn’d. Was Gallantry then a Venial or a Mortal Sin? It depended, i’faith, upon the Committer of the Crime. If he were a Man of Fashion, the Crime was small, but if a Maid of Seventeen, ’twas enormous!

Lord Bellars had not lower’d my Petticoats an Instant too soon, for in a very few Moments, Lady Bellars and Mary arriv’d upon the Scene, and Lord Bellars pretended that nothing untoward had happen’d.

“The Wench is just reviving,” says he, with supreme
Ennui.

“So I see,” said Lady Bellars haughtily. And then, under her Breath, to Lord Bellars, “I wonder why you grace us with your Presence at all, when all you do here is Mischief.”

Whereupon Mary peevishly says, defending her Father, as e’er, “I’m sure ’twas Fanny’s Fault—the audacious Strumpet!”

“Hush,” says Lady Bellars. And then, gently, to me, “Please wear something more modest to Supper, Fannikins. These Poets are a very hot-blooded Lot. Twill not do to stir ’em to a Frenzy.” And with that she sweeps out, following her Husband. Mary alone remains, sits upon the edge of my Bed, and whispers venomously into my Ear: “You aren’t e’en my proper Sister, you saucy Baggage.” Whereupon she spits into my Face and turns and runs.

Can you imagine my Feelings as I lay there on the Bed thus humiliated, arous’d, and finally spat upon? Betwixt my Ruminations upon the Consequences of my Lustful Passions, and my Resentment of my Step-Sister Mary, some new Resolution was brewing within my troubl’d Brain.

How should I revenge myself upon Mary for this Humiliation? And how should I resist those Fires of Passion Lord Bellars had, so knowingly, stirr’d? My Step-Father had been Home only a few Minutes and already the entire Household was in a Tumult.

’Twas e’er thus, in the Past, I recall’d. A Semblance of Order and Harmony prevail’d whilst he amus’d himself in London and Lady Bellars, Mary, Daniel, and myself got on tolerably well; but when my Step-Father betook himself to Lymeworth, all the Ruling Passions of his Wards came horribly to the Fore. Daniel, who (tho’ ungracefully stout and grievously bespatter’d with Pimples) always essay’d to ape his Father’s Manners as a Beau, became frenzied to imitate his Sire’s fabl’d Gallantries. Consequently, when Lord Bellars was at Home, Daniel plagued me continuously with his Lustful Attentions. Mary, for her part, became e’en more uncheckt in her Envy of me; and Lady Bellars, who could be tender, e’en witty, when left to her own Pleasures of Animals and Children, responded to her Husband’s Presence by becoming once again the prim Puritanical Heiress he had, all lovelessly, wed. Thus ’tis true that tho’ People can transcend their Characters in Times of Tranquility, they can ne’er do so in Times of Tumult. E’en I (I freely confess) became too vain and flirtations upon Lord Bellars’ Arrival, provoking my Step-Sister to a veritable Debauch of Envy.

Poor Mary—whose Passion for Roast Beef and Mutton got the better of all her Dreams of Slenderness and Grace—had been taking Purges for two Weeks past, in the Hopes of looking beautiful for her Father. But alas, it avail’d nought; for she would purge and purge, and starve and starve, and then, just as she appear’d somewhat more in the Mould of the Belle she ne’er would be, she’d polish off a whole roast Leg o’ Mutton, washt down with Claret and the sweetest Port!

As Gluttony was her Ruling Passion, so Riding was mine; Roast Beef could I easily forgo, Horseflesh ne’er. I seldom had cause to fret o’er my Form since exercising my dear Horse, Lustre, kept me as slender as Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding kept Mary stout. To be sure, I fretted o’er other Vexations: my uncertain Future, my Lack of Dowery or Prospects, my Dream—dare I confess it?—of going to London to seek my Fortune as a Bard!

For I had conceiv’d the most foolish Passion a Country Lass may entertain: that of going to London as a Lit’ry Wit. O I dreamt of writing Epicks and mingling with the Beau Monde in Town; I dreamt of London Coffee-Houses, Playhouses, Masquerades, and Balls. But chief amongst my Dreams was that of becoming a Famous Scribbler! If ’twas a risible Ambition for a Lad, then how much more ridiculous for a Lass! A Lass in London would be at the Mercy of all Manner of Rogues, Bawds, Sharks, and Sharpers. Lymeworth was Paradise compar’d to London’s Hell. In London were gentle Maids corrupted ev’rywhere, and in London (so I’d heard) did all the most voracious Wolves dress as the meekest Sheep.

At least here at Lymeworth I was Home—for all the Vagaries of my Situation. Perhaps Lord Bellars would find a Marriage Portion for me yet; or perhaps, failing that, I might become a Governess in another Country Seat and snag an Heir in Marriage for myself. As some Men of Fashion are said to have a Hair for Heiresses, perhaps I should discover in myself a Hair for Heirs!

So I mus’d for a Time all optimistick, but then Black Melancholy took me once again. Had I been born a Man, I thought, my orphan’d State should not have been so great a Bar to Preferment, but as a Woman, I suffer’d double Disadvantage. Orphan’d, female, and a secret Scribbler—what worse might the Fates bestow? E’en a Hunchback like Mr. Pope had greater Opportunity than a Lass with a straight Back, Quick Wit, but no Dowery! What Choyce had I then but to hold my Revenge ’gainst Mary in check and swallow my o’erweening Pride? Envy was not so unbearable, I suppos’d. Had not Herodotus himself decreed that “’Tis better to be envied than pitied”? I must learn Stealth and Cunning, Guile and Intrigue—howe’er alien to my Temper these Traits were. Having not one Guinea to my Name, no Experience of the Wide World, and no Skills with which to earn my Bread, I must watch and wait for my Opportunity as a wily General waits for the proper Moment to move his Armies.