Fanny (25 page)

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

In which our Heroine first makes an intimate Acquaintance with the Great City of London, and what befell her upon her historic Arrival there
.

P
LUNGED THUS WITHOUT WARNING
into the very Heart of London, I wander’d lost and lonely past Somerset House, into the Strand, and thence to Covent Garden—tho’ I scarce knew their Names then.

The Town assaulted me with its Cries and Smells. The Streets were ill-pav’d and filthy with Offal of ev’ry sort. In the Kennels which ran down the mucky Centres of the Streets, one saw Fish Heads, Orange Rinds, Human Wastes—e’en dead Cats! The Air above was as smoky here as it had been fresh and clear upon the River; and one hardly dar’d look up o’erhead at the Profusion of creaking Sign Boards, hung upon ornamental iron Brackets, which sway’d in the Wind like hang’d Men, and obstructed whate’er Light and Air there might be, especially upon the narrowest Streets. But the Sign Boards were beautiful when one did catch a Glimpse of ’em. The Vintner’s was painted with rich purple Grapes; the Peruke Maker’s Sign show’d his most elegant Wares all in a Row (as if set out upon Blocks); the Draper’s Sign show’d his richest Silks, and the Shops themselves were of such surpassing Splendour that they seem’d more like lofty Palaces than low Places of Commerce. Fine Ladies stepp’d out of Sedan Chairs to be greeted by bowing and cringing Shop Clerks who gave themselves the Airs of Princes. Why e’en the Footmen in London outshone the Country Gentlemen at Home!

Chairs, Horsemen, and Hackney Coaches jostl’d for place in the Streets, and the poor Pedestrian darted where’er he could. “Make way there!” the Chairmen cried, carrying their noble Passengers above the clamouring Throng. “Stand up there, ye blind Dog!” the Fruit Peddlars would scream, as they pusht their heap’d Barrows of Fruit, halo’d with Flies. “Will ye have yer Guts squeez’d out?” others growl’d, pushing their Carts or Barrows with such Roughness that one verily believ’d they had no fonder Wish than to mow one down.

I took the Wall in fear for my very Life, but now and again a Bully came along, brandishing a Silver-hiked Sword, shouting, “Turn out there, you Country Bumpkin!”—and made me yield it. O did I still look so countrified and coarse? I suppos’d I must. I had my Masculine Attire from my earlier Travels, together with some purloin’d Finery given me by Lancelot, but my Hat had fallen in the Thames whilst I escap’d, and my Riding Wig was in so sorry a State that it could hardly be redeem’d by the finest Barber in the Land. My Boots were muddy and scrap’d, my Breeches dirty, my Linen soil’d.

I had some Coins in my Pocket—some of the original Guineas given me by Mr. Pope (and restor’d to me by Lancelot before our Journey)—and likewise a few gold Watches and a jewel’d Snuff-Box from the Store of Stolen Booty. “Take ’em,” Lancelot had said. “Who knows but they may come in useful if we are e’er parted on the Way….” What prophetick Words these now seem’d! Was it e’er my Fate to lose my Friends and be left alone? Under what wretched Star had I been born only to be orphan’d and orphan’d again?

The Street Cries amaz’d me; I had ne’er heard such a Profusion of Cries. My Ears were assaulted at ev’ry Turning, and ’twas not always easy to make out what they said, for this London Speech was odd indeed and not simple to comprehend like good plain Wiltshire Speech.

“Crab, Crab, any Crab!” shouted a Fishmonger, brandishing his many-legged Wares, as if to threaten the Young Maidens with their wriggling Limbs. Wenches fled in Terror at the very Sight. “A brass Pott, or an iron Pott to mend?” croakt a Tinker, pushing his Cart clatt’ring with old Iron Cookery Potts. “Buy my Dish of great Eeles!” sang a robust Country Woman, her Cheaks red with Veins that had once burst from the Cold but remain’d Scarlet as e’er despite the Sweat that stood in Beads upon her Face this Summer’s Day. She carried a large flat Basket of wriggling Eeles upon her Head like a Peasant Medusa. “Sixpence a Pound fair Cherryes!” cried a pretty buxom Maid, flirting and showing her ruby Fruits to two Swains who, ’twas plain, would rather toy with her than with her luscious Wares. “Old Satten, old Taffety or Velvet!” shouted the poor old Ragman, pushing his Barrow of dirty Muslin and torn Linen, and wearing no less than a half-dozen greasy old Hats upon his bow’d Head. “Fair Lemons and Oranges!” sang an Orange Girl, who kept a Bottle of Gin in her Apron Pocket and drank when she thought no one was watching. “A Merry New Song!” cried the Ballad Peddlar, a Sheaf of Papers in his grubby Hand. “Remember the Poor Prisoners!” came the mournful Cry of a Wretch shaking an earthen Pott full of Pennies. At this Lament, I was reminded of Lancelot’s Fate—for surely he was dead or in Gaol by now—and Tears ran down my dirty Cheaks and slid into the Corners of my Mouth.

What a cruel Place this London was! First I saw a poor Chimney Sweep boxt upon the Ears by his Master for nothing more than a Jest; then, I saw a Blind Beggar kickt in the Guts by a Person of Quality who would rather doubt his Affliction than show him the slightest Christian Charity!

“Why, the Rogue sees better than I do!” cried that puff’d-up Punk in silver Lace and red Satten, whereupon he kickt the Beggar with his pointed Shoe, then straightaway disappear’d into a Chocolate House to greet his Cronies.

The huge Stream of Humanity, which flow’d thro’ the Streets without ceasing, was predominantly compos’d of the Poor and Wretched. For ev’ry Fine Gentlewoman in her Chair and ev’ry Liveried Footmen dress’d like an Oriental Potentate, there were a dozen destitute Wretches guzzling Gin, maim’d Children begging for Pennies, and Ladies of the Town, preening upon Street Corners and showing their blowzy Breasts for all to see. I’faith, I shall ne’er forget the pockmarkt painted Faces that seem’d to mock me as I walkt the ancient long and narrow Road leading to Covent Garden—(where, indeed, my Country Gentleman’s Attire seem’d to make me Fair Prey for all the Bawds and Trollops on the Street).

“Will ye have a Bit o’ Mutton?” whisper’d one Tart, leering at me with Eyes rolling in a painted Face. Alas, she was more terrible than she was appealing. She had daub’d her Complexion—if such it could be call’d—with white Lead, upon which her Cheaks were painted carmine, her Lips crimson, and she had sought to cover her Pockmarks with so many Patches of various Shapes and Sizes that she seem’d more like a Plum Pudding than a Woman.

I shrank back in Terror from this Apparition.

“What? Is the Lad afear’d?” she mockt, whereupon she elbow’d her Sister Strumpet—another ghastly Apparition half-hid in Paint and Patch—and bade
her
essay to tempt me since she herself could not.

“Won’t ye have a Nestlecock?” cries the second Tart, “a Climber fer yer Pole, a Pretty Dear, a Naughty Dickey Bird, a Needlewoman fer yer e’er-lovin’ Needle?”

I bow’d my Head to the fetid and uneven Cobblestones and walkt away as quickly as my Legs would carry me.

“Afear’d! Afear’d!” they mockt me from behind. “We ought to drag ye Home an’ ravish ye!” the first Blowzalinda said. “What Sport that would be!” her sister Blowzabella chim’d, whereupon a Volley of cackling Laughter echo’d thro’ the Alley. I did not stop to think at all then, but ran as fast as I could to the next Corner, thinking all the while how mournful if I really
were
a Country Lad and were mockt thus by these Awful Apparitions. I’faith, ’twould turn me off the Love of Ladies fore’ermore.

I ran until I reach’d the Corner of a nearby Street where two pretty Ballad Singers, dress’d like a country Bride and Bridegroom stood, singing their Hearts out. ’Twas such a pretty Air—and one I had ne’er heard before—that I stopp’d to listen, healing my Ears with the Sweet Musick, and thinking that London was not so bad after all if it could have such Sweet Singers in it, plying their Trade, and such attentive Listeners who stood as if transfixt by the Divine Pow’r of Musick.

The Singers were a Boy and a Girl hardly above my own Age. She a tender, flaxen-hair’d Maiden with the bluest, most angelick Eyes, and he swarthy as the Night, but with a healthy olive Complexion and withal a Brow of such Innocence as to make Nuns or confirm’d Spinsters throw away their Vows of Chastity and fall hopelessly in Love. They sang of Spring and budding Branches, of Birds, Wildflow’rs, and Young Love; and i’faith, they so resembl’d their Song that it seem’d more than a mere Ballad—but the very History of their Love.

The Crowds jostl’d and press’d against me and the Stream of Humanity ne’er stopp’d flowing at the outer Borders of our Magick Circle; but here within it, the Crowd was still’d and reverent, transform’d and gentl’d by the Song they heard.

How long we may have stood thus I cannot say, but for myself, I would have stood for as long as the two Sweet Singers sang, had not a dark Thunder Cloud cross’d the golden Face of the Sun and a sudden Summer Show’r begun.

The Listeners fled in all Directions as the Heavens open’d up and the Gutter-Spouts began to pour with Rain, sending their Streams not quite clear of the Pavement. Draggl’d Ladies, holding up their Petticoats, ran for Shelter in the nearby Shops. Beaux fretting lest their Wigs be soakt and their Brocades spotted, did likewise. All Gallantry was forgotten in the Rush for Cover, and I e’en saw one Swain filch the oil’d Umbrella of a Sempstress, slapping her Bottom thro’ her Petticoats and crying impudently, “Thankee kindly, Ma’am!” as he ran away. For my own poor Self, my dirty Clothes were nearly soakt by the Heaviness of the Show’r, and I duckt into a Baker’s Shop for Cover.

What a glorious Shop ’twas! The Cases neatly gilt, the Buns winking their sugar’d Tops at me, the luscious Cakes and Breads making my Mouth water and reminding me how neglected was my poor empty Stomach. ’Twas only when I reach’d into my Pocket for a Guinea (to buy a Bag of sugar’d Buns) that I discover’d it empty! The Guineas were gone and the Watches and the Snuff-Box, too! Had my Pocket been pickt whilst the Singers held me in their Thrall? No doubt, for I was so Innocent then of London Ways that I did not know that Ballad Singers and Cut-Purses were oft’ in league with one another.

A Squab-fat Lady of at least fifty, who had also taken Shelter here, saw my Distress, devour’d me with her Eyes, apprais’d my Plight and, handing me a Bun she had bought for herself, said, “Pretty Boy, will you eat my Bun?”

I hesitated, looking the Lady o’er. She wore a garnet velvet Cloak—despite the Warmth of the Weather—and a Commode that surmounted her hennaed Hair, which fell in Curls o’er her furrow’d Forehead. She smil’d seductively, as if to allay my Fears of taking the proffer’d Bun; but two harsh Lines—or, more properly speaking, Furrows—betwixt her Eyebrows gave her a Hawk-eyed Look that put me upon my Guard. Her Eyes were cold; they calculated my Worth and found it wanting.

“Pretty Boy,” she said again, “pray, take this as a Christian Gift. It seems some scurvy Rogue hath pickt your Pocket. Pray, eat. ’Twill give me greatest Joy.”

My stomach argu’d with my Judgement, and, alas, the Former won.

“Thank you kindly, Ma’am,” said I. “But I should like to pay you back when I have recover’d my Fortune.”

She laugh’d heartily. “Then pay me back by escorting me to my Home when the Show’r is past. ’Twill pay the Debt most graciously.”

The Show’r soon being over, she invited me again, bidding me take her fat Arm; and feeling I could not refuse (for after all, I had eaten her Bun), I did as I was told.

She led me presently to a House in Park Place, St. James’, which was so elegant and handsomely furnish’d that I deem’d her a great Lady of Fortune. I remember a wide Staircase (wide enough to accommodate two abreast—a Rarity indeed in Town Houses during the early Part of the Century), beautifully carv’d Wainscotting of Oak, and the newest Wall Paper in the Manner of flower’d Damask.

She told me her Name was Mrs. Coxtart and that she was a widow’d Lady of Means with sev’ral Daughters, and that furthermore she should be pleas’d if I would join them all for Tea, which was the great Diversion of their Day.

I thought nothing amiss here, until I saw the Daughters—or three of ’em at any Rate—for they lookt so unlike each other that ’twas hard to believe they were Sisters.

Druscilla was dark with the whitest of Skin; Evelina seem’d a Creole girl or an Octoroon; and Kate, plain Kate, was as fair and blond as any Swede.