Fanny (33 page)

But with each Month that the Babe within grows bigger, the Certainty grows stronger that her own Destiny is intermingl’d with her Child’s. Henceforth, she shall define herself, at least in part, as the Mother of that Babe. If it dyes, she is the Mother of a dead Babe; if it lives, its Smiles and Tears will be her Smiles and Tears. If ’tis taken from her, still, she is changed fore’er on Earth and in Heaven, too. She has been doubl’d, then halv’d; and she will ne’er be whole again.

CHAPTER VI

Containing a short Sketch of the celebrated Dean Swift of Dublin, Author, Misanthrope, and Horse-Fancier extraordinaire; together with some philosophical and moral Lessons which our Heroine drew from her curious Friendship with him.

T
HE EXPECTATION OF A
Babe, for a Woman who is without Dowery, Husband, or i’faith without loving Relations, creates, above all, an immense Capacity for hard Work.

Ladies with Child who languish in the Country whilst their Husbands pursue Whoring and Gaming in Town, may indeed be curst with ev’ry Ailment of the Female Flesh; but Ladies who must work to put Bread into their own Mouths are, i’faith, too busy to suffer from Faintings or the Spleen, from Lethargy or Megrim, Sciatica or Vomiting. Idleness itself creates the Spleen, but good hard Work cures all these Maladies better than the costliest Physician.

My Work was hard—hard upon my Body and harder still upon my Mind, for ’tis no easy Thing to be put to Bed with Gentlemen for whom one has nought but Dread and Loathing. Picture to yourself a young Girl, still in love with Love itself, being forced to frolick betwixt the Bedsheets with cadav’rous old Men, bandy-legg’d Actors, pockmarkt Booksellers, and young Merchants’ Apprentices still with Pustules upon their boyish Cheaks.

All these loathsome Swains I will, howe’er, pass o’er; I have already given an ample Picture of my Initiation both with Coxtart herself, and with Theophilus Cibber. I shall now devote myself to describing the other Swains I met within the Brothel—particularly the Illustrious Ones; for just as Honest Women in this weary World derive all Honour from the Men (whether Husbands or Lovers) who keep them, so Whores are valu’d by the Illustriousness of their Swains. For a Woman is ne’er thought to make her Way in the World upon her own Merits, but she will fore’er be judged according to the Men who love her.

I’faith, Women know well ’tis true that oft’ they flourish
despite
their Men rather than because of ’em, yet the World will e’er judge us in reverse; and Wags will always say we gain’d whatsoe’er Preferment we have found from our Lovers.

Did I gain Preferment from my Illustrious Lovers? Rather I would say, with all Modesty intended, they gain’d it from me, for I had begun to learn, having had Womanhood so rudely thrust upon me in my seventeenth Year, that Men come to a Brothel as much for Understanding and Compassion as for the Fulfillment of their Lustful Desires, and that a Whore who pays Attention only to their Bodies (and not to their Minds) will ne’er flourish long in her Trade.

Sure there are Whores who trade only in the Flesh, but they are the ones soon tired of, soon clapp’d, soon dead. The Whores who endure despite their perilous Profession are those who minister as well to the Souls of Men as to their Bodies. Truly, we are Clergy, of a sort.

Speaking in this Vein, I think, above all, of Dean Swift, later so famous as the Author of
Travels into Sev’ral Remote Nations of the World
by “Lemuel Gulliver,” and so infamous in England, yet rever’d in his Hibernian Homeland as the Author of
The Drapier’s Letters.

He was in England secretly for a brief Time during my first Summer in the Brothel. Secrecy was indeed of the utmost Import, since had the Crown but known that the detested Drapier who had done so much to arouse the Ire of the Irish Patriots, was upon English Soil, his Neck would ne’er be safe, and he might suffer the same Fate as my beloved Lancelot. Dean Swift was a curious Fellow—the cleverest Man I e’er had met but for Lancelot himself—and, I believe, much misunderstood. Just as I had rever’d Mr. Pope for his Poetical Works before I met him, and then grew disappointed with the Man himself, so ’twas the Reverse with Dean Swift: my Admiration grew, first from my Knowing him, then from the Splendour of his Works. Of course I had not read his notorious
Travels
, when first I made his Acquaintance (nor had the World), and yet I was charm’d by the Man himself, and understood a good deal more of his Enigmatick Character when I came to read those
Travels
two Years later.

He was a rather short Man, above fifty Years of Age, and his Eyes were surely his most striking Feature. Bright blue they were, almost piercing and somewhat protuberant, as if he’d had a Goitre once, or else was goggle-eyed at the Injustice of the World (which, indeed, he could be quite as furious o’er as Lancelot). When he was mild, his Eyes were azure as the Seas of the Spanish Main; but when Anger flasht in those Orbs, they could quite terrify.

He was a great Card Player (he taught me Ombre, Picquet, and Whisk), a great Giver of little Gifts (tho’ he could ill afford ’em), and quite prodigal in his Charities. For a Man who had a Reputation as a Misanthrope and Malcontent, he was oft’ merry and the best of Company, but I believe he suffer’d greatly from Dizziness and some Disturbance in his Ears, which, ne’ertheless, he bore with the Stoicism of an Ancient Roman.

We had sev’ral Passions in common, in particular the Love of Horses, and the Belief that a Good Horse was better than the best of Men. Likewise, we were both haunted by our common Want of a Father; for Presto (as he call’d himself amongst the Ladies) was born Months after his Father’s unfortunate Demise, and always accounted himself an Orphan of sorts (which perhaps explain’d that heighten’d Sensitivity in his Character, a Species of Skinlessness, as ’twere, which made all the Barbs of the World prick him more than they prickt the ordinary Man).

His Passions were many, and contradictory in the extream. He hated Fanaticism of any kind, Projectors who would improve the World by Schemes, and Criticks who cluster’d about the greatest of Authors.

“A Critick,” he once said to me, “is one who cannot write very well himself and therefore spends his Days and Nights in laying down the Law to those who can.” Similarly, he hated Divines, tho’ he was one himself, for as he said, “Is not Religion a Cloak, and Conscience a Pair of Breeches, which tho’ a Cover for Lewdness as well as Nastiness, can be pull’d down for the Service of both?”

He lov’d La Rochefoucauld above all other Authors, for showing so well that Man is not the Rational Creature he claims to be, but is riddl’d with contradictory Passions, Lusts, and Vanities. And yet he avow’d that he himself wrote Satyres in order “to vex the World rather than divert it” and “to bring Mankind to his Senses before ’twas too late and all Hope of Reason was lost fore’er.”

“If you despair of Reason, my dear Presto, why do you write to bring the World to Reason?” I askt him more than once.

“Because I am a Fool, Fanny,” said he. But like all Men who readily admit their Foolishness, he was amongst the cleverest.

And yet there was something uncontrollable and contradictory in his Character, for he always claim’d he had wisht to rise in Court and yet had stood in his own Sun by insulting all those who could help him.

“Had I but curb’d my Tongue and Pen, I might have rose like other Men,” said he, the Couplet coming as readily to his Lips as a Cough to the Lips of a Consumptive. But sure, he could no more curb his Pen than a Nightingale can curb his Song. ’Twas his Genius to lash the World, and he paid dearly for that Genius.

He was helpless to refrain from lashing the Criticks in whose Pow’r it was to help him rise, or the Courtiers, or the Ladies in Waiting, who had the Ears of the Great. All these he call’d Whores and Parasites, and then was stung bitterly when they wreakt Vengeance upon him in return. Passion he had aplenty, but no Tact whatsoe’er. Brilliance, but no Gift for Diplomacy. Lying he hated and could so little manage it that he worried constantly lest his Stella in Dublin should know of our Liaison and be vext with him. He had not married her, he said (despite Rumours to the Contrary), for Marriage ruin’d the best of Women and made them Scolds. Besides, the World already had too many unlov’d Brats within it; better to practise Continence than coax another hapless Infant into this sorry World. “For, consid’ring the Miseries of Human Life,” said he, “why should a Child be under any Obligation whatsoe’er to his Parents for bringing him into the World? Life is neither a Benefit in itself, nor was so intended by the Babe’s Natural Parents, whose Thoughts in their Love-Encounters, were otherwise employ’d.”

I was glad, indeed, ’twas not yet apparent I was with Child; for had he known, he would have despis’d me as a “Yahoo”—his curious Word for all those Mortals who give in to the Appetites of the Flesh. He lov’d Women to be young and girlish, slim and virginal, like unattempted Brides. Little Girls of Twelve, with Breasts still unfledged, represented his favourite Female Forms; thus when Coxtart first brought him to my Chamber, she bade me tell him I was e’en younger than Seventeen and instructed me to wear my Bridal Costume, yet not be vext nor insulted if he ne’er touch’d my Flesh.

He would talk instead and feast his bright blue Eyes upon me, discoursing of Philosophy and Literature, Politicks and Religion; and once, when he was satisfied I was fond of him and would not think him strange, he propos’d that we go together into the Countryside and spend a curious Afternoon romping amongst Foals and Mares and Stallions at the Park of one of his Friends.

We hir’d a Barge upriver, upon that splendid Summer’s Afternoon, rode as far as Maidenhead, there were met by a One-Horse Chaise belonging to the Dean’s Friend, and carried to a beauteous Country Estate call’d Dumswood, whose Owner was said to have some of the finest Race Horses in England.

Perhaps by design, Dean Swift’s Friend had been call’d away. Only his Grooms and Trainers and other Servants were in attendance; thus we could be almost entirely undisturb’d as we picknickt upon the Green, watching the Mares and Foals frolicking upon the velvet Grass.

“Observe the Horse,” said the Dean, “observe his nimble Gait compar’d to the shambling Gait of Man. For a Man is a Creature that hath but lately determin’d to walk upon his hind Legs, whereas a Horse flies upon all four with such surpassing Grace that the Ancients themselves identified the Horse with Poesy!” (Ah, when the Dean said this, I knew beyond any Doubt that we were Friends of the Soul, for had I not oft’ thought the very same Thing concerning Horse and Poesy, Horse and Man?)

“For mark you, Fanny,” he went on, “from the most ancient Times, Man and Horse have known a Mystick Bond. The Mare hath been indentified with the Earth Goddess, Persephone, and the Stallion with the Sun God, Apollo. Warriors, from Ancient Times were buried with their Steeds; and e’en in the Greece of Homer, Horse Races form’d part of the Funerary Games. The fierce Mongols and the ferocious Tartars drank of
Kumiss
, or fermented Mare’s Milk, to raise Visions in their Brains; and the Celts perform’d a sacred Wedding betwixt Mare and King to ensure Fertility of Crops and Men. In the remote and Pagan Counties of Ireland, I have heard, e’en Today, of Men mating with Snow White Mares to raise the Crops and stave off Famine—but the Irish are a Barbarous Race and capable of any Nastiness!”

Just then a dappl’d Grey Mare walkt curiously up to our Picknick Spot, turn’d Tail, and harken’d to one of Nature’s profoundest Necessities.

The Dean was entranced. “Observe, Fanny,” said he. “E’en the Droppings of a Horse are Golden Stones compar’d to a Man’s brown and putrid Excrement! Mark how beautiful they are—these Golden Droppings! And is this not because the Horse eats nought but the purest Grass and Hay, whilst we, who claim to be the Rational Race, eat largely dead and decaying Flesh? By a Creature’s very Droppings shall ye know him!”

“But Presto, Dear,” say I, “a Horse has no Rational Speech, whilst we can converse in Language and thus improve our Reason….” And yet I said this merely for the Sake of Argument, for had I not convers’d quite reasonably with my own Horse, Lustre? Alas, that I could not introduce the Dean to him!

“Bah,” says the Dean, “we but use Language to obfuscate the Truth, as if we were all Lawyers! Yet the Whinnying of a Mare to a Foal is a purer Language, if we could but understand it!”

I listen’d deeply to the Whinnying of the Mares, striving to hear the Rational Language which the Dean assur’d me was to be found there—but all I could hear, alas, was Whinnying! Perhaps one must live with a Horse to understand him—for tho’ surely had I understood Lustre, these strange Horses I could not. The Dean, it seem’d, had finer Ears; for within the Brute Noises of the Beast, he heard Philosophies and Poetries no other Mortal Ears could hear. “Houyhnhnms,” he call’d the Horses, pronouncing the Name as if ’twere the Neighing of a Horse; and “Yahoos,” as I’ve said, was his Word for Humankind, which, he avow’d, was neither as human nor as kind as it pretended.

For an Hour or more, he discours’d to me of Horses. He explain’d the History of the Horse in England, how the heavy Horses of our Ancestors had been cross-bred with the Arabians to produce the Noble Thoroughbred, the finest Horse the World hath e’er known. He spoke of the slender Beauty of the Thoroughbred, the Wildness of the Pure Arabian, the Pow’r of the heavy Breeds, the Charm of the Connemara, Shetland, and the Welsh Ponies, the soulful Eyes of Mares, and the flaring Nostrils of Stallions—almost as if he were a Lover besotted with his Beloved’s Charms. He spoke at length of his Contempt for Mankind in making this Creature, so much more noble than himself, into a Beast of Burden, and he told me of the Bedouin Tribes who rais’d their Horses in their own Tents, sleeping and eating with ’em, keeping ’em as tender Companions their whole Lives long.

For Gueriniere’s Rules of Horsemanship, he had nought but Contempt. The artificial Gaits, the Paces these Noble Creatures were forced to learn, disgusted him. The
Galopade, Voltè, Pirouette, Terre à Terre, Mezair, Pesade, Courbette, Croupade, Balotade, Capriole
, and such, he view’d but as Expressions of Human Vanity forced upon the gentle Horse. Indeed, the entire Art of Equitation he detested.