Venus is introduced, with some pretty Writing; and we learn more of the Am’rous Dalliances of Lord Bellars than we, or our Heroine, would wish to know.
I AWAKEN’D AT FIVE o’ the Clock to the Singing of Birds. My Heart was as light as their Song. I wanted to throw my Cloak about me and run barefoot into the dewy Grass of the Park, skipping along the Velvet Lawns, like a Spaniel Pup, bending down to kiss the Grass, looking up to thank God for the new Day, for my Lover, for my Life.
In short, I was light with Love, skittish and sleepless, full of puppyish Enthusiasm. I dress’d in haste, splasht my Face with the cold Water in the Wash-Bowl, and ran downstairs to greet the Day before the World was up.
The Housekeeper, Mrs. Locke, smil’d at me, yet not without a Query in her Eyes, but I was too taken with my own Am’rousness to answer that intended Query or e’en rightly to apprehend it.
I ran at once to my favourite Spot within the mossy, wall’d Garden. ’Twas a Statue of the Goddess Venus (brought from Italy by Lord Bellars when he was a Young Man making the Grand Tour) and beautiful despite the Fact that she lackt both Head and right Arm. She stood pois’d upon a Scallop Shell surmounting a Pedestal of sculptur’d Waves, and I fancied her freshly born from the Sea.
I fell to my Knees before her and offer’d up a silent Pray’r. I dreamt that she smil’d at me, tho’ i’faith, she had no Face. Ruin’d? Was I ruin’d in the World’s Eyes? What car’d I for the World’s Estimation, when I was now exalted in the Service of Venus? Heroines of Romance were e’er above the World’s Laws and if they were made to dye for Love, well then, that only prov’d the Fineness of their Mettle, and the Fineness of their Loves. I, no less than Lord Bellars, could exclaim, “Come Death!”
Ah, Belinda, how eager is Seventeen, so newly hatch’d from the Void, to quit the World for the Void again! As we grow older, we grow less eager to depart this World. As our Skin grows less firm and the Roses in our Cheaks fade, we cling e’er more tenaciously to Life. But how ready we are to toss it all away whilst those Roses still bloom and the Flesh stands firm as ripe Peaches! Is it not a Paradox that the closer we are to the Grave, the more we cling to Life, whilst the closer we are to our Nativities, the more reckless we are with the Gift of Life?
Love, the Poets say, is a Form of Lunacy, a Disorder in the Senses such as one sees amongst the poor mad Wretches at Bedlam; and sure I can attest to the Truth of that.
What happen’d next, it pains me extreamly to report, tho’ a Quarter of a Century hath pass’d since that Time.
I wander’d, distracted with Love, into the Library, where I meant to seek out a Love Poem by Matt Prior, which, I thought, was a perfect Mirror of my Mind at that Moment. I strove to recollect the Lines. ’Twas something very like,
O mighty Love! from thy unbounded Pow’r
How shall the Human Bosom rest secure?
—but no more could I recall. Therefore, I was hast’ning towards My Lord’s Library Shelves containing Poetry Miscellanies, to verify my Recollection, when, in all Idleness and Innocence, I pass’d his Escritoire, and spy’d upon it an unfinish’d Letter in his own Hand.
As the Mother Cat cannot neglect her Kittens, but must always be carrying ’em from one shady Spot to another, so the Lover cannot avoid examining anything belonging to her Beloved—e’en if she will surely come to Grief thereby.
I paus’d, and read the Letter. I remember e’en the Date as if it had been branded on my Brain with a hot Iron. At first Glance, it seem’d intended for me.
Lymeworth
June 21st, 1724
Adorable Creature, thou dearest, best of Women, my Angel, my Queen, my Ruler:
As I am your devoted Slave, and as you have commanded me to report to you all my most trifling Dalliances—as you, I trust, report yours to me—let me tell you what hath transpir’d here this Ev’ning betwixt myself and my enchanting Step-Daughter, Fanny, the Orphan Girl of whom I have spoken, who lives here at Lymeworth thro’ the Kindness and Magnanimity of my gen’rous Heart.
I know your Zeal, your ardent Fervour for Conquest, and I fear you will protest that to seduce a Young Girl, who hath seen nothing of the World, who is deliver’d into my Hands as a Lamb to a Lion, and whom a kind and flatt’ring Epithet would not fail to intoxicate, is no Triumph at all, and not e’en worth reporting as a Victory. Madam, you are wrong. This Waif is no Serving Maid, no mean Harlot, but a Devotee of the Muses, well-read in Poetry and Philosophy. Why, e’en as I watch’d thro’ the Keyhole of her Closet, she repell’d the Advances of no less a Personage than the Poet, Mr. Alexander Pope (whom I have brought here, as you know, to aid in the Planning of my new Gardens and to lend his valuable Poet’s Eye to the Efforts of my Landscape Architects), as well as the Advances of my scurvy Son, Daniel (which, admittedly, is no very Great Thing, because the Lad hath no more Charm than a country Hobnail). But mark you, she is a Worthy Prey, despite her lowly Birth, for by Learning and Application, she hath acquir’d more Graces than my own Children, and tho’ naturally hot-blooded, she is also full of Morality (which, as you will remember, is one of the Essential Traits we enumerated when we made up our little Rules for the Sport of amusing each other, each with the other’s Dalliances).
I’faith, she possesses all the Requisites: Beauty, Morality, Passion, and she possesses ’em in abundance.
Now, you will wish to know what Strategy I adopted, what Campaign, and what Manoeuvres; in short, by what Means I arriv’d at my Victory, and the total Subjugation of my Prey. I decided upon a Combination of two Strategies: first, the near-Ravishment (which heated her Blood and disorder’d her Senses), then our oft’-discuss’d Strategy of Terror and Astonishment, in which I threaten’d Self-Slaughter and let her be my Sweet Saviour, my Minist’ring Angel. It workt better than I might have hop’d! On other Occasions, many Days, e’en Weeks, have been requir’d for Compleat Victory. Here the entire Conquest took only Minutes!
I enter’d her Room, (wearing my Sword!), prais’d her Beauty in Terms borrow’d from the Playhouse, made bold to kiss her Feet (mark you, not her Breasts!), threaten’d to dye for Love unless she save me, actually drew my own Blood, and was rescu’d from the Brink of the Void by the Angel’s own Maidenhead. What Capital Sport! Madam, had you yourself been watching thro’ a Peep-Hole (as upon that previous Occasion, which I am sure you well remember), you would have commended me most highly. Yes, Friend, she is mine, entirely mine; after Tonight she hath nothing left to grant me.
I am still too full of my Triumph to be able to fairly appreciate it. But I promise you, it shall go down in our little Book of Amours as one of our most enchanting Ev’nings of Sport. Cupid himself prepares a Crown for me!
I hope you are well, Madam, and that your Silence doth not portend a Continuation of that Ague you reported in your last Letter. I’faith…
I could read no more. My Eyes brimm’d with salty Tears and my Heart ach’d with Humiliation so great that Death alone could ease it. I ran again into the wall’d Garden, where I wisht to dash my Brains out at the Feet of Venus, and would, no doubt, have done so, had not Cowardice, a base Fear of doing myself bodily Injury, interven’d. The cruellest Phrases from that wicked Letter rang thro’ my Brain, like Church Bells resounding in a Belfry.
“Capital Sport”!—I heard Lord Bellars’ own mocking Voice say those detested Words. “Subjugation of my Prey”! “A Combination of two Strategies”! “Terms borrow’d from the Playhouse”! Was it not enough that I was ruin’d, that my first, fine Belief in the Pow’r of Love had been betray’d? But must I also be held up to Ridicule in the Eyes of Lord Bellars’ London Mistress—no doubt a Woman of Fashion to whom my Ruin was a mere Toy to pass away an Afternoon, or a lewd Playlet, a sort of Afterpiece, to heat the Blood of Jaded Lovers?
O Belinda, ne’er was a Wench so wretched as myself! I thought to take my own Life (’twas worth nothing to me then) but could not, both for fear of bodily Torment and Torment of my Soul in the World to come! But how should I survive this Humiliation? I could not face Lord Bellars or my Step-Mother again. I could not sit at Table across from the Poet, Lady Bellars, Mary, Daniel, the villainous Lord Bellars himself, and all our other intended Guests, without showing my Distress. What could I do but flee?
Fortunately, I had the Guineas the Poet had press’d upon me, and I had, besides, some good Clothes and Jewels that might be pawn’d, a silver Snuff-Box, a gold Watch, and sev’ral gold Rings.
I ran back to my Chamber to gather all my Worldly Possessions (including my tentative first Verses) and to plan my Flight from Lymeworth.
I was consid’ring how I might escape to London, without falling Prey to Highwaymen and Robbers, when I recall’d the Custom of certain Famous Actresses in London of dressing up in Men’s Clothes to play “Breeches Parts,” and I form’d the Idea of stealing Daniel’s Riding Clothes and Riding Wig and making my Way to London en Homme. Fortunately, I was then, as now, an excellent Horsewoman, but whether I should be able to fetch my own Chestnut Arabian Stallion, Lustre, without incurring Suspicion from the Groom and Stable-Boys, I did not know, and whether I should be able to reach London unharm’d was also doubtful. But what other Choyce did I have? I dried my Tears and set about preparing for my Journey.