Some Reflections upon Harmony, Order, and Reason, together with many surprising Adventures which follow one upon the other, in rapid Succession.
BY 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!)
“’Tis a Shame you miss’d the Party, Fannikins, my Lamb,” says he, advancing towards the Bed, and looking Goats and Monkies at me. “We scarce miss’d Mary’s Concert at all—so merry were we with Drink and Conversation.”
“Pray, who bade you enter?” I demanded, leaping up from the Bed, so as to better defend my Person from his intended Assaults.
“Oho,” says Daniel drunkenly, picking at his Pustules with one Hand, “do you not wish for my Company?”
“Certainly not,” say I. “When I wish for the Company of a drunken Lout, I shall find a prettier one than you at The Bear &. Dragon.” (The Bear &. Dragon, as you may guess, was our local Village Tavern, and a dirtier, more scurvy Hole, fill’d with more drunken country Hobnails, could not be found in all of England.)
“Oho! Do you insult me then?” says Daniel, turning red behind all his Pimples and Pockmarks.
“Call it what you will,” I said, haughtily, “so long as you quit this Place at once.”
“Oho,” says Daniel, “I will not suffer gladly such Insults to my Person and my Parts,” and he makes bold to approach me and breathe his pestilential Breath full into my Face (as if ’twould fell me quite—like a Dragon’s Breath of Fire!). Whereupon, without further Ceremony or Preamble, he flings his Arms about my Neck, plants his loathsome Kisses upon my Bosom, and attempts to lay me down upon the Bed again and to unlock my Thighs. In a trice, I gather all my Force against his tott’ring Drunkenness, heave myself up with the Puissance which the Goddess of Anger alone makes possible, and kick, with one pointed satten Slipper, straight into his Breech.
“O Jesus, I am kill’d!” he shouts. “O, my poor Pillicock, my poor Peewee!” And he reels backwards, holding his Hands to his Breech, and then falls o’er the Washstand, landing in a great Crash and Clatter, with the Wash Pitcher scatter’d in Pieces ’round him.
“Now, then,” say I, standing o’er him and pressing my Advantage like Athena the Warrior Goddess herself, “out!”
“O cruel Fanny,” slobbers Daniel, “cruel, cruel Fanny. Dost thou not know I love thee?”
“Go make Love to Mrs. Betty the Chambermaid, who is already Great with Child by thee. Or Mrs. Polly the Milkmaid, who soon will be! I have no Use for a brawling drunken Lout who is my own Step-Brother, to boot.”
“But not Blood-Brother, Fanny. Come, what’s the Harm in it?”
“The Harm is the next Kick I shall give thee, which shall finish thine am’rous Tricks fore’ermore!” said I, savouring my Rage.
“O please,” he whimper’d, “please, please,” and he commenced to crawl upon his Belly like a Snake towards the Door of my Chamber, whimp’ring and mewling and slobb’ring, until, having reach’d the Doorjamb, he rais’d himself by the brass Door Pull and, with a reproachful, simp’ring backward Glance, let himself out of the Chamber. E’en as he departed, one idle Hand pinch’d a Pustule upon his Cheak. (If such a Complexion was the Result of Lust, ’twas well indeed I scotch’d it in myself!)
He had scarce been gone ten Minutes when once again the Door open’d, and Lord Bellars enter’d my Virgin Chamber.
My Thoughts were in such a great Turmoil from the divers Events of the Ev’ning, and my Body so weary from my Exertions ’gainst Daniel, that I could do no more than sigh when Lord Bellars came to me, tow’ring o’er my Bed, and looking down at me with those fine sparkling brown Eyes.
“You are so beautiful, my Fanny,” he said. “All this Night I have thought of nothing but your Beauty.”
“Pray, do not flatter me, Milord. It makes me blush.”
And ’twas true, the Blood came as readily to my Face as Moths to a Candle Flame on a hot Summer Night. As their Wings quiver and flutter, so I trembl’d ’neath Lord Bellars’ Gaze. My Hands grew cold, my Cheaks hot; the Blood drain’d, it seem’d, from my Feet and Hands, and sped up into my patch’d and painted Visage.
“Nay. Do not forbid me Speech, for if I can possess you only with Words, I will speak, despite your Alarms. You are so inimitably fair and lovely. Your Limbs are fine-turn’d and your Eyes run o’er with Liquid Amber. Your Breasts are whiter than Alpine Snow and your Hair flames like a thousand Autumns past, and a thousand Autumns yet to come. You are like a Daughter to me and yet, do I dare dream an Intimacy betwixt us e’en greater than that of Filial Duty and an Orphan’s Gratitude?”
He clasp’d me in his strong Arms, and I almost fainted away like one drugg’d.
“O, no, Milord, pray, please refrain. Consider me, I beg you, for I am a Creature who hath no Protection but you, no Defence but your Honour. I conjure you not to make me abhor myself!—not to make me vile in my own Eyes!”
He then fell to his knees at the edge of the Bed and exclaim’d, “I make an Oath at your Feet, to possess you or dye!” Whereupon he removes the tiny pointed satten Slipper from my right Foot and presses his Lips to the Sole of my Foot.
“I beseech you, Milord…” I stammer’d. For, had he kiss’d my Breasts directly ’twould have provok’d less Rapture than when he thus abas’d himself to kiss my Foot. How unworthy was that coarse Foot against his fine Lips!
“Please, Milord,” I protested.
“My Angel,” he sigh’d, now flinging away the other Slipper and kissing the other Sole. “Please forgive, if e’er you can, my Coarseness upon that earlier Occasion, for until Supper I did not truly credit what a fine delicate Creature you had become, despite your lusty Beauty. O, for my Presumption, a thousand Pardons! But after hearing you discourse with Mr. Pope upon his Grotto, upon Nature and Art, I knew I had treated you most scurvily. And for that I would sooner drive this Sword…” (and here he drew it and it twinkl’d evilly in the dim Candlelight) “…into my Breast than have you loathe me for a vile Villain, a Common Rake, which surely is your Right, consid’ring what hath transpir’d before Supper.”
O what Confusion reign’d in my Breast! First the Poet, then Daniel, then Lord Bellars! Daniel I knew for a Fool and Knave; the Poet seem’d a pitiable Creature, desiring to be above Women because he could ne’er stand equal with Men—but Lord Bellars?—how was I to judge Lord Bellars? Here was a Passion declar’d in Words so tender that one could scarce doubt its Sincerity. (O Lust I knew to be a low Emotion, but Love was all the Poets’ highest Good!)
The Sword Tip hung pois’d o’er his manly Bosom. He tore off his Neckcloth, ripp’d open his embroider’d satten Waistcoat, and laid bare his linen Shirt Front, as if to pierce that snowy Field until the red Poppies of his Blood flower’d upon it.
“Well, then, come Death!” he exclaim’d, and with his left Hand tore open the Linen to reveal a fine, reddish Fur, twining here and there into sweet Ringlets, and two boyish Paps of rosy pink ’round which the same reddish Hair did spring.
“Hold!” I cried. “How should I e’er forgive myself if I were to be the Cause of your Death?”
“I would rather dye than dishonour you,” he said, “but my Love is such that I must do Violence to one of us—and since I cannot be the Murderer of that fair Maidenhead, which I have rais’d from tend’rest Infancy, I must dye myself. ’Tis a tragick but necessary Choyce! Adieu, sweet Maid! Think of me tenderly, if you think of me at all.” And, so saying, he drove the Sword Point into his Chest, whereupon I fell to my Knees on the Floor beseeching him to refrain, to hold, to stop.
He dropp’d the Sword, fell to the Floor, and smother’d me with Kisses. The flowing Blood from his Wound (a surface Wound, I later discover’d) stain’d my Breasts and Gown with its sweet Stickiness. I smell’d the salty Odour of his Blood as he enfolded me, kiss’d me first on the Mouth, then betwixt the Breasts, then betwixt the Legs, where his Tongue thrust upwards into my Virginal Opening, making the Way slick for the stronger Thrusts to follow.
If I bled a little off’ring my Maidenhead, it seem’d as nothing compar’d to the Blood he had sacrificed for me. I’faith, who could tell where his Blood ended and mine began? Enmesh’d, entwin’d in mutual Stickiness and Sweetness, we lay together dying of Love. The Ecstacy was mutual and compleat.
Later, when I was cynical, I would learn to dissect and analyze the Act of Love, to pronounce upon the Techniques of my Lovers, and to judge them in the Lists of Love, because, perhaps, Love itself was lacking. But upon that first Occasion, my Heart no less than my Maidenhead was taken, and I could no more judge than I could resist. If he had askt me to pierce my own Breast, as he had pierced his, I would certainly have obliged him willingly. Afterwards, he fell again to kissing my Feet, this Time in an Attitude of Pray’rfulness.
“I swear my Eternal Love,” he said; “I swear by Venus, by Jove, by Jesus Himself that I have ne’er lov’d before as I love now.” And I felt for an Instant that all the Fulfillment of my girlish Dreams had come true, that I was the Heroine of a French Romance, and that in one Night I had gone from Girlhood to Womanhood, had liv’d a thousand Lives, had felt my Soul incarnate in the Body of Cleopatra, of Desdemona, of Portia, of Eloisa, of Juliet. In me were all the Great Heroines of Romance join’d and combin’d. In me did Juliet mingle with Eloisa, did Portia lend her Strength to the melting Tenderness of Desdemona; in me was there e’en something of mad Ophelia—ready to dye for Love and float away down a mossy Stream ’neath a weeping Willow Tree, whilst drowning Flow’rs dangl’d in my Hair.
Alas! Alas! What Foolish Visions strut thro’ the Head of a Maid of Seventeen! Lord Bellars took his Leave and I slept the Sleep of the Innocent, the Sleep of the Lamb who doth not yet know that God hath also created Lions, who doth not further guess that God hath created him King of the Beasts, in that teeming Jungle which we call the World.