Fanny (18 page)

“’Tis a Fetch,” says Paul to the Highwayman. “These Wenches are full of Tricks.”

“D’ye fancy I don’t know me own Business?” says the Highwayman, whereupon he adds, “Sorry me Dear,” to Sally, and without further Ado pushes her out the Door. Mrs. Pothers cries after her: “O you ungrateful Wench! Traitor! I’ll ne’er take you back!” But presently the Highwayman also throws her out the Door and the two Women are soon embracing each other in a Ditch, made Friends again by their Common Fate.

Now he turns the Pistol on me, saying, “Are ye with me?”

“Sir,” I say, “I know nothing of Highway Robbery.”

“Nor did I once,” says he. “But ye seem a quick Learner to me.”

“Sir, I’m a Law-abiding Girl.”

“An’ what’s the Law but a nasty Tangle o’ Injustice fer the Poor an’ Justice fer the Rich? ’Tis nothin’ to abide. ’Tis a Bauble fer the Wealthy, the First-born, the puff’d-up Legal Thief who steals with Writs and Settlements instead o’ Pistols. Come, ye don’t mean to tell me ye love the Law?”

“I don’t know, Sir, but I want to be an Honest Woman.”

“An’ if ye were an Honest Woman, ye wouldn’t be here, dressin’ like a Man, wearin’ red Garters! Come, Girl, ye have no Choyce in the Matter. Yer comin’ with us.” And he gave a Signal to his Confederates to hurry the Horses. In a trice we began to roll at top Speed again and the Coach rattl’d along the Highway as if ’twould fly apart at its very Seams, and I silently pray’d for Mercy to the Great Goddess of the Witches, and presently we rode off the Highway into a Thicket where the Coach bump’d to a Stop and Lancelot held the Pistol to my Head, saying:

“Now, I’ll not be bubbl’d, bamboozl’d, nor troubl’d by a mere Wench—Beauty tho’ she be. So I’m tellin’ ye to swear. An’ ye don’t swear by the Ghost o’ Robin Hood, an’ I’ll blow yer Brains to the Moon—if ye have any….”

“I swear,” says I, without my usual Ponderment. Robin Hood, the Great Goddess, Jesus Christ—what’s it to me as long as I stay alive?

“Hold! I haven’t given ye the Oath yet neither.”

And then with all Solemnity, as if he were standing in a Church, he recites:

“I swear by the Ghost o’ Robin Hood

That I shall steal—but steal fer Good,

That I his Creed shall e’er uphold:

An’ love True Justice more than Gold.”

Whereupon he presses the cold Pistol right up against the thin Skin of my Forehead and commands me to repeat the Oath (which I assuredly do), whereupon he also commands the same to Paul (who doth the same), whilst we both sit shiv’ring in our very Skins.

The Oath once sworn, the Highwayman gives Paul his Clothes again, but curiously, he doth not return mine to me. Only the scarlet Cloak doth he return, tho’ under it I am still naked as the Day of my Nativity. Yet soon I am to discover the Method of his Madness, for he leads me out of the Thicket into the Highway again, takes my Cloak away despite my shiv’ring Protestations, directs me to lye in the Ditch by the side of the Road and to wave my Arms in dire Distress, whilst he makes haste to hide in the adjacent Bushes. Then he calls to Paul and his Confederates to join him. Before too long—tho’ surely it seems longer to me in my Nakedness—a Coach comes rattling down the Highway, whereupon the Postilion claps his Eyes upon me in my trembling Condition, stops the Coach to offer Kind and Christian Assistance, and is forthwith set upon by the Highwayman and his Merry Band, which now includes Black Paul, or Horatio, as Lancelot calls him. In almost less Time than it takes to recite the Oath of Robin Hood, Lancelot, Horatio, and the Band have reliev’d the weary Travellers, the Coachman, and the Postilion of all that they possess, including the Horses that lately drew the Coach, and they have also rescu’d me, wrapp’d me once more in my scarlet Cloak, and gallop’d off into the Woods with great Dispatch to divide the Booty. Not a Shot hath been fir’d—for Lancelot (as I now learn) takes the greatest Pride in sparing the Lives of his Victims.

“’Tis true,” he says, “that the Punishment fer Theft as well as Murder is Hangin’, yet I am a True Christian e’en if the Law is not. The Gentlemen o’ the Law are no better than the Gentlemen o’ the Road. I’faith, they are worse. Fer we have Honour an’ Loyalty an’ they have none. They are Whores fer hire to anyone that fees ’em, whereas we are fer hire to no Man, an’ whilst we may mimick the Manners o’ High Life in our Clothes an’ Baubles, yet we are proud to be Low Life in our Morality. Fer what is a Gentleman, after all, but a Thief? A Thief o’ Love, a Thief o’ his Wife’s Inheritance, a Thief o’ his Children’s Peace, his Servant-Girl’s Virtue, his Manservant’s Honour an’ Manhood? Whilst we, who freely admit that we are Thieves, are truly Filchers o’ nothin’ but Toys. They steal Love an’ Honour an’ Life; we steal nought but Baubles. We but retrench the Superfluities o’ Mankind.”

Whereupon he offers me first Pick of the Booty. ’Twas a vast Array of Snuff-Boxes, Patch-Boxes, Sword-Hilts, gold Watch-Cases, cambrick Handkerchiefs, Earrings, Rings (both Wedding and Mourning), brocaded Boddices, Gold-laced Aprons, Coats with Buttons of Gold, Tye-Periwigs, Full-bottom’d Wigs—all the
Accoutrements
of the World of Fashion that any London Coach might handsomely provide.

I lookt at this glitt’ring Array of Baubles and Gewgaws and said plainly: “No. I’ll none of it.”

“A Girl after me own Heart,” says Lancelot, not without Irony, “but, pray, take at least enough to clothe yer poor shiv’rin’ Self—fer I hate to see a Naked Woman.”

“O Lancelot, Sir,” says Paul, “there we must part Company, for I love the Sight better than the Sight of my own Native Island from the Deck of a Sailing Vessel. As Lucretius speaks of those Things touch’d with the Grace of the Muses—‘
Musaeo contingere cuncta lepore
’—I perceive that this young Woman’s Body is Musetouch’d also, like unto a Statue of a Goddess in Parian Marble; and I bow down before it, as I would bow down before a Representation of Venus herself.”

At this Lancelot scowls. “An’ I suppose ye don’t find me a pretty enough Fellow to bow down before?”

“But, Sir,” says Paul, “you are a Man.”

“Precisely, Horatio, precisely,” says Lancelot, with a Twinkle in his Eye. “An’ yer dear Friends, the Ancient Greeks, were Men, too,” says Lancelot, putting an Arm on Paul’s stout Shoulder.

“Sir, begging your Pardon, but ’tis the Ancient
Romans
I most admire.” And so saying, he disengaged himself from Lancelot’s Caress, adding, “
De gustibus non est disputandum
,” which, I trust, requires no Translation for those present?

CHAPTER XV

A short Hint of what we can do in the Rabelaisian Style; our Heroine gets her Name; Lancelot Robinson begins his astounding History.

B
Y NIGHTFALL ON THAT
first Day, we had robb’d no less than three Coaches (not counting the one from which Paul and I were abducted), and in each Instance, Lancelot’s Method was the same: to wit, I was the Decoy, shiv’ring in my Skin to kindle the Pity (or the Lust) of the Coachman and Postilion; but no sooner had that Pity or Lust been kindl’d than Lancelot, Horatio, and the Merry Band of Twelve fell upon the Coach with Pistols and Bludgeons, stripping the Travellers stark naked, stealing their Horses, and e’en smashing a Skull now and again, tho’ taking care to murder no one.

By Dusk I was in a sorry State indeed. I’faith, ’twas a Wonder I did not catch my Death that first Day, for it rain’d intermittently thro’out our larcenous Adventures. Truly, I would have suppos’d that such Willingness to risque my very Health and Limb would have endear’d me to Lancelot’s Heart (or, at the very least, induced him to trust me as a loyal Confederate), but ’twas not so; for when our Day’s Work was o’er, and ’twas Time for us to retreat to our Thieves’ Hideaway, Lancelot caus’d me to be blind-folded so that I should not see whither we rode—e’en tho’ ’twas Twilight and I knew the Countryside rather ill myself. ’Twas the final Insult, after all I had borne, and I fear, Belinda, I did not take it with the Grace befitting a Lady.

“Villain!” I scream’d at Lancelot as he bound my Eyes.

Lancelot laugh’d. “Ne’er trust a Woman, not e’en a dead one, as me good old Father us’d to say.”

“Blackguard!” I shouted again.

“Madam Jade,” said he with that mocking Tone I had grown to hate.

“I’m no Jade, nor Hussy either. I pray you, call me by my right Name: Mrs. Frances—Fanny, if you must.”

“Madam Fanny,” says he, obliging me, but with the same ironick Tone. “D’ye know what that means in the Vulgar Tongue?”

“Yes,” says I, still in a Huff.

“Well then, what?”

We rode in Silence, for truly I did not know, being Innocent then of all such Knavery.

“Well, Madam Fanny?” says Lancelot.

“I know not,” I confess’d.

“It means the Fanny-Fair,” says Lancelot, “the Divine Monosyllable, the Precious Pudendum, the Chearful
Cunnus
(in Latin, that is, as our Friend Horatio could tell us), an’ in French,
l’Autre Chose.
O ’tis the Aunt, the Arbor, the Attick, the Bath o’ Birth, the
Belle Chose
, the Best-Worst Part (accordin’ to Dr. Donne), the Bit o’ Fish or the Bit o’ Mutton (dependin’ on whether ye are a Meat-Eater or no), the Bottomless Pit, the Bow’r o’ Bliss, the Brown Madam. ’Tis likewise the Earl o’ Rochester’s Bull’s Eye, an’ Shakespeare’s Circle (the little
o
to his great wooden one). ’Tis Cock-Alley an’ also the Confessional; ’tis the Crack, the Cranny, the Cradle, the Cream-Jug, the Cuckoo’s Nest, the Cuntkin, an’ also Cupid’s Alley. ’Tis the Dearest Bodily Part (at least to Mr. Shakespeare o’ Stratford); an’ some have call’d it Diddly-Pont, Doodle-Case, Dormouse, Duck-Pond, Dumb-Oracle, e’en Dyke! ’Tis the sweet Et Cetera, the E’erlastin’ Wound, the Eye that Weeps Most when Best Pleas’d, the Faucet, the Fiddle, the Flapdoodle, the Fly-Trap, the Fortress, the Fountain o’ Love, the Funniment, the Furrow, the Gap, an’ o’ course, the Garden o’ Eden. ’Tis a Gravy-Giver, a Gold-Finch’s Nest, a Grotto, a Grove o’ Eglantine (at least so it seems to Mr. Carew), an’ also Safe Harbour an’ Happy Huntin’ Grounds. ’Tis the House under the Hill an’ the Ivory Gate an’ e’en Itchin’ Jenny! ’Tis the Jacob’s Ladder, the Jampott, the Jelly-Bag, an’ the Jewel o’ Jewels! ’Tis a Kitty an’ a Kitchen an’ a Kettle. ’Tis a Lather-Maker, a Lamp o’ Love, a Little Sister, a Lock o’ all Locks, a Lucky-Bag, a Maryjane, a Masterpiece, a Milkpail, a Moneybox, a Mole-Catcher, an’ e’en Molly’s Hole. ’Tis a Mossy Bank, a Thankless Mouth, a Mustard Pott, a Mutton Roast, a Needle Case, a Nether Eye (to Mr. Geoffrey Chaucer), an’ a Nether Lip as well! ’Tis a Nest, a Niche, an Old Hat, an Omnibus, an Oyster, a Palace o’ Pleasure, a Peculiar River, an’ also a Pen-Wiper (if ye scribble Verses, that is). ’Tis at once a Pleasure-Boat an’ a Plum Tree, a
Portal
to the Bower o’ Bliss (or so says Mr. Herrick) an’ a Pulpit, a Purse, a Pussy-Cat. ’Tis the very Queen o’ Holes, the Quim, an’ the Queynte. ’Tis also the Ring, the Rose, an’ the Rufus. ’Tis a Saddle to ride in, a Seed Plot to hide in, a Scabbard, an’ a very Seminary o’ Love. ’Tis a Slipper, a Slot, a Slit, a Snatch-Box, an’ a Socket. By Jove, ’tis the South Pole, the Sperm-Sucker, the Split Fig, the Spot o’ Cupid’s Archery, the Sugar-Bason, an’ the Temple o’ Venus! ’Tis also the Tit-Mouse an’ the Tool-Chest an’ also the Treasury o’ Love. ’Tis the Underworld an’ also the Undertaker. ’Tis the Vineyard an’ the Vestry. ’Tis the very Water-Gate o’ Life, the Wicket, an’ also the Workshop. ’Tis the Yoni o’ the East Indies an’ the Passion Fruit o’ the West Indies—but as fer me, I ne’er found a Use fer it, an’ I’d sooner have a Boy or a Sheep!”

I stood mute and astounded by his Monologue. What a String of Wond’rous Words. The Poet in me was charm’d e’en whilst the Woman was sore insulted.

“Be that as it may,” he continu’d, “but I must call ye somethin’ new as well as Madam Fanny, for ’tis me Practice to rename me Pupils in accordance with their Attributes. An’ so, Black Paul shall be Horatio, first because he hath prodigious Learnin’ in Latin, but second, because I pray he shall play Horatio to me gloomy Prince Hamlet an’ tell me Story when I am gone perhaps to Tyburn Tree. I have, as well, nam’d all the Members of me Band, as ye shall shortly see. But yerself, Madam, I christen Fanny Hackabout—because ye have, in truth, been cruelly hackt about by Fate, an’ fer yer Surname shall ye be: Jones.”

“Why Jones?” say I in Astonishment.

“Because ’tis a plain Name an’ ’twill teach ye Modesty.”

“And, pray, why should I require Modesty?”

“Because yer too vain of yer Beauty already!” Whereupon he spurs the Steed we share and gallops on thro’ the heavily pounding Rain (which I can feel upon my Cheaks, but not, alas, see).

We rode then for many Days, stopping only to water our Horses, perform Nature’s Necessities, and eat a bit of Bread, but since I was blindfolded most of the Time, I no more knew our Route than a Blinder’d Horse. Depriv’d of Sleep, Conversation, or any Information about our Destination, I was truly wretched. Weary, Rain-pelted, out of Humour at Lancelot’s Ill-Treatment of me, and seiz’d with Ague Fits, I fear’d I should truly perish due to Lancelot’s unkindly Usage of me, and in my Mind, I began to form a Bitter Resentment of him.

O he was a great Witsnapper indeed and a very learned Tonguepad, but I fear’d he had spoken the Truth when he said he had no Use at all for Women, and I fear’d he should use me as a Decoy only until my Health gave out and I should expire, and then he should kidnap another Unsuspecting Innocent and do the same to her.

If I have given a very loose and uncorrect Account of the Robberies we accomplish’d when first I met Lancelot Robinson and his Merry Men, ’tis because I was in no Condition to observe very closely, being mostly occupied with my own extream Cold and Discomfort, and concentrating all my Pow’rs merely upon remaining alive. You will wonder, my dear Belinda, why I neither sought to run away nor protested this Ill-Usage more severely, and I will reply that in part ’twas a case of my being helpless, but also that I was as much fascinated by this beauteous red-headed Fellow as I was outraged by him. I seem’d to know him from another Life, as ’twere, or know him as a Brother; and if the Truth be told, I was not a little challenged by his Refusal to fall down before me, raving of my Beauty, as all the other Men I had known were wont to do!