Fanny (48 page)

“The Babe’s Head,” said the Midwife, “is lockt within the Bony Pelvis, yet ’tis too high, I fear, for Dr. Smellie’s dread Extractor to be of any Use whate’er. Alas, how Men love their Machines better than Life itself! Our Hands are good enough Machines for most of Life’s Contingencies! Pray, spread your Legs my Dear, I would fain feel the Child’s Head from within.”

I tried, in my Anguish, to do her Bidding, but I was so far gone in Shiv’ring and Chatt’ring that ’twas hard, indeed, to obey. Susannah and the Midwife rais’d my Knees and spread my Legs apart. Whereupon the Midwife prob’d me with one delicate Hand, pressing the other upon my Belly.

“I feel the Babe’s Head,” says she. “’Tis turn’d to one side, thus with ev’ry Pain it throbs against your Back. If I can turn the Head by deft Massage, then truly I can spare both Mother and Child.”

She left me for a Time, whilst my Teeth continu’d to chatter almost in Tune with the Thunder of Fists upon the Chamber Door.

“Begone ye Butchers! Ye Murderers!” Susannah shouted more than once, yet the Pounding continu’d.

“I go—and leave the Ingrate to her Fate!” shouted Smellie, quite enraged by our Rejection of him. Lord Bellars must have pleaded that he stay, since still we heard the Thund’ring Fists for quite some Time to come.

“Her Death’s not on my Head!” Smellie scream’d, loud enough for God Himself to hear; and then, at length, the Pummeling ceas’d, and Susannah whisper’d, “Perhaps the Murderers have gone….” But I wonder’d if Bellars himself were not there, awaiting the Verdict of the Fates, for from Time to Time, I heard a timid Scratching on the Door, as if a Kitten sought Admittance, but dar’d not scratch too hard for fear some large Dog lurkt within.

The Midwife presently return’d, bearing Jars of Salve, Herbs, and all the Potions of her Trade.

“I bid you drink this for your Pain,” said she, off’ring me a Cup of some unknown Liquid. ’Twas bitter, but I drank since my Fear of being Poison’d was less, by then, than my Fear of continu’d Pain. I knew not how many Hours I had been in Travail, yet could I see the Dawn rising in the London Sky, and I was so weary and so weak that I welcom’d any Opiate I might have.

The Fluid workt remarkably quick; and Truth to tell, I did not lose my Cramps, but I ceas’d fretting o’er ’em. ’Twas curious: I knew myself to be in Pain, and my Spirit floated o’er my labouring Body, with little Concern for its Anguish. ’Twas indeed as if I were two Women: one a Ghost or Wraith, and the other a moaning Lump of Flesh.

The Wraith knew perfect Confidence and Peace, whilst the Flesh anguish’d and begg’d for Mercy. Yet the Mercy had, i’faith, been granted; for this Division betwixt Ghost and Flesh was Mercy’s very Self. I knew that I was lost in deep Travail, but for the Life of me I did not care.

The Midwife greas’d my Belly with her Unguents, and greas’d my Privy Parts as well; whereupon she began a sort of Rhythmick Dance o’er my Belly with her gentle Hands, which was design’d, she said, to turn the Infant’s Head, that it might pass out of my Body still alive.

I felt her Hands upon my Flesh, both within and without; and yet that Flesh did not belong to me. First I was at Sea with Lancelot; and then at Lymeworth with my Step-Mother, walking thro’ the Topiary Gardens, as they had been before they began to be “improv’d” by Mr. Pope’s new modern Schemes.

Hours must have pass’d, for when I open’d up my Eyes again, the Sun was high against my Window Panes and they were glitt’ring as if alchemically transform’d to Gold. I heard the Midwife say, her Voice echoing as in a Great Cathedral: “I fear we cannot turn the Head this Way.”

Susannah began to weep; but I myself was still so far away, that ’twas nigh impossible for me to grasp that ’twas my own Life and my own Babe of which they spoke.

“Pray, try the Ergot, then,” Susannah begg’d.

“I fear ’twill cause her too much Pain,” the Midwife said; “she is worn out already.”

The Midwife shook me then to bring me back to Earth. “What would you, Fanny? Spare the Child by all Means, howe’er painful? I would know your Wishes.”

“The Sunflow’rs, the Sunflow’rs,” I rav’d. O I was too far gone by then to answer rationally.

“Pray, try,” Susannah said. “I know me Mistress well. She is Life’s Advocate ’gainst the Jaws o’ Death. She would always see Life triumph despite Pain!”

The Midwife sigh’d. “Alas I fear ’tis true. And yet it hurts me to the very Quick to see her suffer so.”

Next she administer’d another Cordial to me, but this one was more bitter than the first; and before too long it banish’d all my Dreams and brought me back inside my howling Pain.

Now were the Knots that twisted up my Belly tumultuous and strong indeed—so strong at last that I cried out loud for Mercy and swore I’d rather dye than bear ’em longer.

“For Pity’s Sake,” I scream’d, “take my Life, for ’tis not worth a Farthing to me. But spare the Child if e’er you can….”

Susannah and the Midwife whisper’d then, in most sober and solemn Counsel.

“I’ll try one last Expedient,” the Midwife said, “although the Risque is great. And the Risque of Discovery of it is greater still—for should any Person learn of this, and if our Fanny doth survive, we three shall surely be call’d Witches.”

“The Stake, the Pyre, is nothing to this Pain!” I rav’d; whereupon the Midwife gave me Laudanum in such a Dose that I was soon insensible of not only the Pain, but of the Planet I inhabited.

“Bless you,” said I as the Opiate took me and I sail’d off to Sea with Lancelot again.

Next, I remember the Gleam of Razors and the Clatter of iron Potts; but so separated was my Spirit from my Flesh that I car’d not what Brutalities were practis’d upon my Form.

I rockt upon the Waves with Lancelot, and at the self-same Time I felt cold Metal shave my Belly and a Razor’s Edge penetrate my Skin. Blood flow’d like the Ocean’s Currents; the Razor cut deeper, and deeper still. Yet so outside my Body was I that tho’ I felt the Pain, I did not care; and tho’ I saw the Blood, it no more belong’d to me than the Blood of a butcher’d Lamb belongs to the Hearty Trenchermen who dine upon its Flesh.

Susannah gasp’d to see this horrifick Sight; but I had reach’d a Stage of Resignation beyond the Rage to live. A little Time before, I’d wisht to cling to Life with all my Being, and yet the Opiate took me so far away from Passions of the Flesh that e’en the Lust for Life now hung suspended.

Blood flow’d; the Sheets themselves turn’d red. My Innards gap’d; a practis’d Hand reach’d in to pluck a Child from my very Bowels. So raving mad was I that, i’faith, I thought ’twas my beating Heart they pluckt and not my Child.

A bloody Creature snatch’d by its tiny Feet; held upside down, smackt until it howls! I heard its lusty Cry and wept and wept.

“’Tis a beauteous little Girl! Blessed be!” the Midwife said.

“Hath she five Fingers on each Hand? Hath she ten Toes?” was all I might collect myself to ask.

“She hath! She hath! And red Hair, too!” the Midwife said. Whereupon she wrapp’d the tiny Creature (still bloody with our mingl’d Blood) in a woollen Blanket and laid her by my weary Head.

I marvell’d then at the tiny turn’d-up Nose (crusted with the Blood of the Womb), at the tiny Hands groping for they knew not what Hands to hold, at the tiny Mouth sucking blindly for it knew not what Breasts, at the tiny Feet that knew not what Paths they would walk in what Continents yet to be discover’d, in what Countries yet to be born.

“Welcome, little Stranger,” I said betwixt my Tears. “Welcome, welcome,” and then the salty Sea of my Tears o’ertook me and I wept in great Tidal Waves of Brine. O I cried until my Tears themselves washt a Portion of the cak’d Blood from the Infant’s Cheaks and show’d me her translucent Skin, the Colour of Summer Dawn.

But what was that stitching, stitching going on below? The Midwife held a Taylor’s Needle o’er a Candle, perhaps to staunch my Blood or cauterise my Wounds, and with the finest, whitest Silk she stitch’d my Belly back together.

All this I saw and felt, yet the Laudanum made me numb to Pain. I feasted my bleary Eyes upon my Daughter’s Face and cried for her unearthly Beauty.

O what a Miracle is a Newborn Babe! Snatch’d from the Void, barely alive nine Months, yet it arrives with its Fingers and Toes fully form’d, its Lips tender as the Petals of the Rose, its Eyes unfathomably blue as the Sea (and almost as blind), its Tongue pinker than the inside of a Shell, and curling and squirming like a garden Worm in sodden Spring.

Almost three Decades have pass’d since I first beheld you, my own Belinda, but I will ne’er forget my Feelings as I feasted my bleary Eyes upon your fresh-hatch’d Face. The Pains of Travail may fade (ah, fade they do!) but the Wonder of that Miracle—that most ordinary Miracle—of the Newborn Babe is a Tale told and told again where’er the Race of Womankind survives!

Then I slept. Morpheus, who softens so many Blows in our ungentle Lives, receiv’d me into his loving Arms and I was lost in Sleep.

How long I slept, I know not, but when I woke ’twas darkest Night and only one Candle burnt in my Chamber. Susannah herself kept watch. I arose, groaning of the Pain in my Belly, and she came to me with a Potion to relieve it.

“Laudanum?” I askt.

“Yes,” said she.

“Then wait a little. I would see my Child before you take the World away again.”

“I’ll call the Midwife fer ye,” said Susannah. “The Child is well and lusty, have no Fear.”

She withdrew by the secret Back-Stairs Door; and in a little while, the Midwife came in her Stead.

She approach’d my Bed by that single Candle’s Light; a smallish Figure all in white, with a Back curiously hump’d, and a low white Wimple covering her Forehead. She carried a red and wrinkl’d Babe, swaddl’d in Linen; and when she reach’d my Bed, she presented the wond’rous Creature to my View. ’Twas the tiny Bud of a Human Being, as tightly folded as a Rose in early June. Two pink Eyelids curl’d upon two pink Cheaks; and the merest Suggestion of Eyelashes were just beginning to sprout. The Eyelids were, i’faith, so transparent that the Network of diminutive Veins glow’d ’neath ’em, blue and purple as Creatures of the deepest Seas. The Eyes were tightly shut against the World. (O soon enough would they behold its Cruelties!). And the Mouth was a sleeping Worm in a Springtime Rain. The Nose turn’d Heavenward at its tiny Tip; and the Fingers were fashion’d from some Book wherein the Cherubim are writ.

I marvell’d—that much is true—and yet, tho’ I had seen the Babe pluckt from my own Belly, I was not certain she belong’d to me. ’Twas not I fear’d a Changeling—no, not at all. I knew myself to be your proper Mother, and yet somehow I did not
feel
myself to be your Mother, but only a sort of Passage for your Birth.

Such Things are common in the first Hours after Childbirth. Being a Mother is learnt, not inborn. We Human Creatures learn so much and know so little! And still I lov’d you from the Moment I beheld you—lov’d you with purest Love, not mere Possession, lov’d you for your astounding Beauty, all the Beauties of the Human Race join’d in one Babe.

The Midwife knelt before the Bed, placed the Child inside my waiting Arms, and bow’d her Head in silent Pray’r. Then, looking at me with her bright blue Eyes, she pusht the Wimple from her Brow, and lo! blazon’d in her Flesh was a Cross, carv’d out of tortur’d Skin and still pucker’d crimson as a new Wound.

“Isobel!” I cried.

“Fanny, my Dearest, my Daughter!” says she.

CHAPTER III

In which such surprizing Events occur that we dare not e’en hint of ’em here, lest the Muse of Historio-Comical Epick Writing be very cross with us and flee our House forthwith.

I
LOOKT AT ISOBEL
—the Hump upon her Back, the Cross cut in her Forehead, the Eyes like bluest Jewels—and I was sure that I was still lost in Dreams under the potent Influence of Laudanum.

“It cannot be!” I rav’d, “for you were kill’d. I saw you murder’d upon Stonehenge Down!”

“I am no Ghost, my Love,” said Isobel, “tho’ I was almost one, ’tis true. Ravish’d I was; blooded I was—’tis plain to see the Cross cut in my Forehead; and yet, tho’ I was stabb’d, I did survive.”

“How can that be?” I askt, now almost forgetting the horrid Pain in my Belly and the Stitches that pull’d with ev’ry Breath I drew.

“The Goddess spar’d me for a Purpose, Fanny mine, that I might spare you and your Babe as well. There are Greater Plans in Heaven than we mere Mortals see!”

“But
how
did you survive?” I askt, incredulous.

“Those Blackguards were so frenzied in their Bloodlust that when they came to me, their Force was nearly spent. The Pig-faced Ruffian ravish’d me and carv’d this horrid Cross upon my Brow, but when he came to stab me thro’ the Heart, he was no longer puissant as he thought. He wounded but my Flesh and miss’d my Heart, and yet I moan’d and fell like one quite dead; thus he deduced he had dispatch’d my Soul. Then I lay very still—as I have learnt to do thro’ Hours of Meditation—and I impersonated Death-like Sleep. I quieted my Breath, near stopp’d my Heart, until the Ruffians all departed. My Wounds were such I could prevent Gangrene by Means of Herbs I knew—the same Herbs I shall use to heal your Belly. And yet I could not save our Friends, the Witches, for they were too far gone. The very Stones of Stonehenge drink their Blood. And e’en beloved Joan’s…. ’Twould be a Sacrifice to the Goddess if she desir’d such.”

“Who is this Goddess, Isobel? Doth she, in truth, exist?”

“Ah, Fanny, Fanny, how can you ask when you still live and I still live and this beauteous Babe doth live? Dr. Smellie’s Forceps—for that is what his Secret Instruments most surely are—did you no good. Had I not cut into your swollen Belly, ’twould sure have burst, and burst your Life as well. The Operation I perform’d is old as History itself, and venerable as Ancient Greece or Rome. I’faith, it goes back to the Dawn of Time, yet ’tis forbidden as if ’twere Witchcraft. Since the accursed
Accoucheurs
have ne’er perform’d it upon a Woman who liv’d—they say that ’tis impossible to spare both Babe and Dam! Yet we Wise Women have known this Art for Centuries and pass’d it on in secret to our Daughters. The Mother’s Life is spar’d when we defeat the Gangrene with our special Herbs. Thus I have given you Moulds and Mosses, which, mixt with Laudanum to kill the Pain, shall prevent the Festering of your Wound. O Scars shall you have, but what are Scars beside the Gift of Life? You shall wear your Scar as the proud Badge of your Life-giving Pow’rs. I’faith, you shall wear it ’neath your Boddice—unlike mine.” She pointed sadly to the Cross she bore, still red and angry as the Ruffians who incis’d it. I listen’d with what mixt Emotions I cannot e’en say.