Fanny (6 page)

If you learn only one Thing, my Belinda, learn that your Enemies will sooner betray themselves than you can help ’em to Betrayal. Accept the Blame for your own Errors and seek to learn from them, but do not try to shift the Blame onto others. ’Twill not only do you no Good (for Blaming can ne’er undo a Wrong), but ’twill cause you to become a Scold and a Coward. When caught in a grievous Error, hold your Tongue and look deep into your Heart. Let Fools scold, and blame; look instead within yourself. A Soul is partly given, partly wrought; remember always that you are the Maker of your own Soul.

Ne’ertheless, perhaps Mary’s Rancour was an Instrument of the Fates; for tho’ our Concert now was cancell’d, my own Adventures were only just beginning, as you presently shall see.

CHAPTER V

Of Flip-Flaps, Lollipops, Picklocks, Love-Darts, Pillicocks, and the Immortal Soul, together with some Warnings against Rakes, and some Observations upon the Erotick Proclivities of Poets.

B
ANISH’D TO MY CHAMBER
, I ponder’d my Plight. Owing to my Foolish Curiosity I had lost the Opportunity to discourse with Mr. Pope upon Subjects dearer to my Heart than the Sizes of Masculine Machines. It hath anyway been my Experience, dearest Belinda, that only Fools concern themselves thus with relative Anatomies. ’Tis true there are vast Diff’rences betwixt Men in regard to their am’rous Equipage (which is why Men always wish to be reassur’d to the Contrary), vast Diff’rences betwixt the Pow’rs granted by Venus, and vast Diff’rences betwixt the Native Temperaments granted by their Stars (about all of which I shall have more to say anon), but only Simpletons and Dullards dwell upon these Diff’rences in Size to the Exclusion of other Qualities.

Some Men have stiff staring Truncheons, red-topp’d, rooted into Thickets of Curls which resemble the jungl’d Shores of the Indies; some have pitiful crooked Members, pale and white as unbak’d Bread; some Men have strange brownish Mushrooms upon bent Stalks; and some have tiny pinkish Things, more like budding Roses than Pricks. Also, nothing in this weary World hath as many divers Names as that commonplace Organ; and you will find that the Name by which a Man calls his own hath much to do with how he regards himself.

Doth he call it a Batt’ring-Piece? Well then, he will probably lye with you that way. Doth he call it a Bauble? He is probably vain of his Wigs and Waistcoats as well. Doth he call it a Dirk? He is surely a Scotsman, and gloomy ’neath his drunken Bravado. Doth he call it a Flip-Flap? Well then, be advis’d: you will have to work very hard to make it stand (and once standing, ’twill wish for nothing but to lye down again). Doth he call it a Lance-of-Love? Doubtless, he writes dreadful Verses, too. Nor is a Man’s Estimation of his own Privy Member necessarily infallible. The Politician who boasts of his Member-for-Cockshire, the Butcher who praises his Skewer, the Poet who prates of his Picklock, the Actor who loves his Lollipop, the Footman who boasts of his Ramrod, the Parson who praises his Pillicock, the Orator who apotheosizes his Adam’s-Arsenal, the Archer who aims his Love-Dart, the Sea Captain who adores his own Rudder—none of these Men, howsoe’er lively their Mental Parts, is to be trusted upon his own Estimation of his Prowess in the Arts (and Wars) of Love!

But, as I was saying, no one but a Blockhead dwells upon Anatomy to the Exclusion of other Qualities. The Soul is far more important than the body in ev’ry respect and e’en a Man of Pleasure (if he is also a Man of Parts) understands this.

Only a Rake cares more for his Privy Member than his Soul, and a Rake, you will find ere long, is the dullest sort of Man. Because he is so devoted to his Masculine Organ, he can think of nothing but finding divers Whores to gratify his Lust for Novelty. He thinks he will find a Woman with a newer, prettier Way of wiggling her Hips, a Whore who knows three score and nine Arabick Love Positions, Tricks with Handkerchiefs, Oils and Salves of the Orient,
Bijoux Indiscrets
(as the French call ’em), or ivory Toys and Gewgaws from China which are carv’d to resemble Elephant Organs or other Absurdities of that sort. Stay away from such Men. There is no Pleasure to be found in their Company, no Wisdom in their Conversation, no Generosity towards their Mistresses, and before long they will surely give you Pox into the Bargain. A dissolute Footman, a Dancing Master with an Excess of Hubris, a Porter with Delusions of Grandeur, makes a better Rake than a Man of Parts and Breeding, because he hath no Education to cause him a Moment’s Hesitation in his loathsome, ignoble, and degrading Vices; if you let a Rake into your Bed, you will i’faith often find a Footman in the cast-off Clothes of his Lord.

But to continue with my Tale. I lay abed consid’ring how my Foolish Curiosity (and Mary’s Treachery) had undone my rare Opportunity to discourse with a True Poet upon the Habits and Habitations of the Muses, when suddenly the Door sprang open, and who should enter but Mr. Pope himself!

“O Sir,” I said, “you were just at this very Moment in my Thoughts.”

“And so were you in mine,” says the Poet, coming towards me, with a goatish Smile upon his Lips.

“I was just this Moment wond’ring,” I said, the Blood flying up into my Face, Neck, and Breasts, “if I might pose you a few Queries concerning the Art of Poesy.”

“Pose all you like, my Dear,” says he, loping o’er to the Bed, and seating himself upon the edge of it, whence his tiny Legs dangl’d like broken Twigs in the Wind, after a Storm.

“Well, then,” said I, so engross’d in my Thoughts of the Muses that I scarce troubl’d to enquire what he was doing in my Chamber, “is it vain for a Woman to wish to be a Poet, or e’en to be the first Female Laureate someday?”

Whereupon he broke into a Gale of unkind Laughter, which made me blush still harder for my presum’d Foolishness.

“Fanny, my Dear, the Answer is implied in the Query itself. Men are Poets; Women are meant to be their Muses upon Earth. You are the Inspiration of the Poems, not the Creator of Poems, and why should you wish it otherwise?”

I confess I was dumbfounded by the Manner in which he pos’d his Query and press’d his Point. I had my own tentative first Verses secreted directly ’neath the Pillow of the Bed, but I was far too abash’d at that Moment to draw ’em out and ask his Opinion. I’faith, with each Word he utter’d, I was coming, increasingly, to disdain those Verses, which only a few Moments before had seem’d touch’d with the Fire of the Muses.

“See these fine twin Globes?” said the Poet, suddenly reaching into my Boddice and disengaging my Breasts. I gasp’d with Shock but dar’d not interrupt the Poet’s Flow of beauteous Words:

“See their roseate Nipples, the Colour of Summer Dawn? Why, they are like the twin Planets of an undiscover’d Cosmos,” says he, “and these Lips…” (he made bold to glue his cold, clammy Lips to one Nipple) “are like unto the Explorer who comes to set his Standard upon their Shores…”

Alarm’d as I was, I could not think of how to interrupt him without insulting an honour’d Guest, and as he suckt upon one Nipple and then the other, firing my Blood and putting all my Thoughts into Disorder, my Resolve grew e’er more befuddl’d. For tho’ I found his Person loathsome, his Words were fine and elegant, and despite what he argu’d about the Fair Sex and the Art of Poesy, I was e’er more conquer’d by fine Language than by fine Looks.

“But Sir,” I protested, moving, albeit momentarily, out of his Grasp, “is not Inspiration a Thing which hath no Gender, is neither male nor female, as Angels are neither male nor female?”

“In Theory, that is correct,” said the Poet, reaching under my Shift and insinuating a cold, clammy Hand betwixt my dampening Thighs, “but in Practice, Inspiration more frequently visits those of the Male Sex, and for this following Reason, mark you well. As the Muse is female, so the Muse is more likely to receive male Lovers than female ones. Therefore, a Woman Poet is an Absurdity of Nature, a vile, despis’d Creature whose Fate must e’er be Loneliness, Melancholy, Despair, and eventually Self-Slaughter. Howe’er, if she chooses the sensible Path, and devotes her whole Life to serving a Poet of the Masculine Gender, the Gods shall bless her, and all the Universe resound with her Praise. ’Tis all part of Nature’s Great Plan. As Angels are above Men and God is above Angels, so Women are below Men and above Children and Dogs; but if Women seek to upset that Great Order by usurping Men in their proper Position of Superiority, both in the Arts and the Sciences, as well as Politicks, Society, and Marriage, they reap nothing but Chaos and Anarchy, and i’faith the whole World tumbles to its Ruin.”

So saying, he had managed to wiggle a Finger upward into that tender Virginal Opening which had been unattempted till that very Day (when ’twas visited first by a Finger belonging to Lord Bellars and then one belonging to the Poet himself!), and by wiggling and squirming it and at the same Time intermittently sucking, with renew’d Determination, upon both Nipples, he had made fair Headway against my Maidenhead, whilst speaking of God’s Great Plan and the Mighty Laws of Nature.

“But Sir,” I said, above the growing Pounding of my Blood in my Ears, like Waves upon the Shore, “cannot this Plan be alter’d? Cannot a Great Female Poet rise up who will give the Lye to these immutable Theories?”

“No,” said the Poet, “a thousand Times NO. For whate’er exists in Nature is but an Expression of God’s Will, and if He hath placed Women below Men, you can be sure ’tis for a Noble Purpose. In short, whate’er is, IS RIGHT.”

Whereupon he loosen’d his Breeches, fumbl’d neath his Waistcoat and curious Doublet for his tiny pink Member, threw my Petticoats above my Head, and stood ready to assault my Maidenhead, with the very Weapon made for the Purpose. But my Guardian Angel must have been attending me at that Moment, for just as he drew near my tender Virgin Cunnikin, his own Eagerness brought on the Ultimate Period of his Hot Fit of Lust, of which my firm young Thighs and clean Petticoats receiv’d the egregious Effusion.

“O, Ohhh,” he groan’d, part in relief, part in disappointment. And he buried his Head betwixt my Breasts, where his Eyes let fall a few hot Tears of Distress.

“O, my Fanny, you are all the Inspiration I shall e’er wish. Come away with me to Twickenham. You shall be Mistress of my House and my Heart, Queen of the Muses, first amongst Women. I shall dress you in Sattens and gold Lace, cover you with Jewels, adorn you as I adorn my Grotto….”

“O Sir,” said I, “I cannot leave the tender Parents who have taken me in and rais’d me to Womanhood. Lady Bellars would be heartbroken. Please, Sir, do not tempt me so.” But his Offer put me suddenly in mind of a Plan for leaving Lymeworth and making my Way to London. Consequently, I did not tell the Poet what I thought of his miserable Form and his loathsome Avowals of Passion. I wip’d the sticky Substance from my Thighs with a fine cambrick Handkerchief and begg’d my Admirer to take leave of me so that I might consider his Proposal till the Morrow.

CHAPTER VI

Some Reflections upon Harmony, Order, and Reason, together with many surprising Adventures which follow one upon the other, in rapid Succession.

B
Y THE TIME THE
Poet took leave of me, ’twas nearing Eleven o’ the Clock; for I could hear the large House Clock, which we had standing upon the Back-Stairs Head, ring its eleven Bells shortly after his Departure. Nor did he leave without putting almost a Handful of Gold into my trembling Palm and making a thousand Protestations of his Passion for me.

I must say I found all these Events (together with the Events preceding them) puzzling in the extream. I could not make the Poet’s Behaviour jibe with his profess’d Philosophies; for, if as he said, Women were below Men yet above Dogs and Children, why then did he press Guineas into my Hand and promise me Riches? How is it possible that he could be at once so lofty and so low—first discoursing upon his Grotto and the Cave of the Muses, upon Nature and Art, then pissing into a Pott at a Grape, then finally expiring in a Hot Fit of Lust into my Petticoats? ’Twas not at all how I had fancied the Author of those Divine Verses! Where was Harmony? Where was Order? Where was Reason? All I could see was Discord, Chance, and Self-Love, in the very Places where I would have most fervently wisht to see their Opposites.

Alas, Belinda, I was Seventeen; and in spite of my womanly Height and Bearing (and my firm tho’ foolish Conviction that Life had no more to teach me than I already knew), I was but a Child in my Wish for Consistency. I had yet to learn that the Lives of Great Men are more oft’ at variance with their profess’d Philosophies than consistent with ’em; that their Habits in private mock their Statements in publick; that their bestial Behaviour in the Boudoir makes a Mockery of their Angelick Arguments in their Ethick Epistles, their Lofty Logick in their Epicks; or their Tragick Pronouncements in their Treatises.

Moreo’er, how can I convey to you my Perplexity about the Spectacle of Masculine Lust I had just witness’d? At Seventeen, I was a Virgin, and my Knowledge of Venus’ Hot Fires was slight indeed. O, I had struggl’d with the Demon of Onania (ere I e’en knew the Meaning of the Term), but i’faith before I read Lady Bellars’ fateful Pamphlet, I thought myself the first Wench in the whole World’s wicked History e’er to give way to such Desires! After reading the Pamphlet, to be sure, I forbade myself that Vice (tho’ one of the Housemaids earnestly claim’d it preserv’d Virginity). But I was determin’d to shun all Lustful Practices until Heaven should provide me with a Mate. Thus, I gave myself to Horsemanship instead, exercising Lustre ev’ry Day until I was too weak for Venery.

I’faith, I had witness’d Swiving in my Time—Dogs, Horses, Chickens, Servants, and
Daniel
did it—that I knew. I had come upon him with the Dairymaid in the Dairy (where they were doubtless curdling Cream), but to think so Great a Bard as Mr. Pope should have such low and bestial Proclivities—’twas puzzling, puzzling in the extream.

Thus was I reflecting when once again came a Knock upon the Door of my Bedchamber, and without waiting to be invited, who should appear, but my Step-Brother, Daniel himself, drunk with Port and slobb’ring into his Shirt Front like an elderly Spaniel. (I could not but note with Amusement and Disdain that he had unbutton’d his Waistcoat most rakishly to show the copious Ruffles of his fine Holland linen Shirt, which he presum’d would have a most killing Effect upon the Fair Sex!)