Containing better Reasons than any which have yet appear’d for the happy Delivery of Women by those of their own Sex, together with the Introduction of the newest Character in our Historio-Comical Epick, who, tho’ small, proves more Trouble to her Author in her Entrance upon the Scene than any Personage of more prodigious Size.
’TWAS THE MONTH OF March and the Sun was in Aries when my Confinement came to its grateful End. It had rain’d in London for well-nigh three Weeks and the Skies were as heavy as my Great Belly. O my Face seem’d young and fresh thro’out my Confinement, as if, indeed, I had discover’d the Fountain of Youth, but at the End of my Pregnancy I was as Melon-bellied as a Woman with Twins (and, i’faith, I fear’d I might give birth to two instead of one!).
Still, I’d heard no Word from Lancelot or the Merry Men in six long Months and knew not whether they were alive or dead. I wonder’d e’en whether I had not dreamt ’em all—so remote did my Travels with ’em seem. I wonder’d as well if there had e’er been a Time when I was without my Great Belly—for it seem’d as much a Part of me as my red Hair or my brown Eyes.
My Belly was so large, i’faith, that ’twas almost impossible for me to fulfill my weekly Obligations to Lord Bellars—for I could scarce clasp him ’round the Waist, much less allow him to lye with me in any but the most bestial of Postures, and e’en that one grew unwieldy in Time. Ne’ertheless, he was by then so thoroughly in Love with me, that I swear he came to me as much for Love of my Soul as of my Body, since he scarce complain’d of this Disability. O the Ways of Destiny are strange, indeed; for I had, by dint of my Stratagems of Masks and Disguises, my Limitations of our Trysts to but once a Week, almost reform’d his selfish Nature. Lord Bellars also seem’d to look forward to the Birth of this Child as he had ne’er lookt forward to the Birth of his legally begotten Son or Daughter. This Child he saw as a Love Child, begotten more in Passion than in Duty and therefore he lov’d it e’en in the Womb and was, indeed, more wary of hurting it than I was myself.
How tenderly he touch’d me as we drew nearer the Close of my Confinement! A Man might walk upon a Carpet of Hens’ Eggs with greater Force! He strok’d my Body—particularly my Belly—as if ’twere some infinitely delicate Thing, containing all the Seeds of his Past and Future.
For my own part, I found that my Lust for Lord Bellars—indeed for any Man whatsoe’er—decreas’d as my Lying-in approach’d. The Child within made me wholly self-sufficient, as if I were both Earth and Sky, both Sea and Land, and less and less did I require any sort of physical Union with the former Begetter of all my most lustful Passions. No, on the Contrary, I wisht nothing more than to lye abed Mornings, alone, and dream of the Babe to be, or to sit at my Writing Bureau penning Metaphors which I would then commit to the Flames, or, by Ev’ning to sit before the Grate with Susannah, watching the Flames leap in their constantly changing Patterns, reminding me of the mysterious Dance of Destiny, the Vanity of Human Wishes, and the Difficulty of knowing the Meaning of Life or the Great Purpose for which the Goddess placed us all here upon the Earth.
Bearing a Child made me, i’faith, more philosophical than e’er before (and I was always of a philosophical Bent); for what can be more mysterious and strange than to be one Person for all one’s Life and then suddenly become two! To be doubl’d, then halv’d; to be one, then two, then one again! ‘’Tis the Destiny of but one-half of the Human Species, and the Possibility of explaining it to the other half is remote indeed. Alas, we can scarce explain it to ourselves! And yet I believe, tho’ all the World may hold us in Contempt for it, that we Women are truly blest in this Capacity of Child-bearing. Perilous it may be (just how perilous you will see anon) and yet it tempers the Spirit e’en as it does the Body. ’Tis very like walking thro’ a Wall of Flame, which few survive, but those who do, are stronger for it their whole Lives long.
’Twas the third Week in March when, the Heavens having been open and streaming most of the Month, my own Waters broke and you, my Belinda, began your Storm-toss’d Voyage into the World.
I shall ne’er forget that I was reading a Romance by Mrs. Haywood (Idalia, perhaps, or The Fatal Secret) and thinking to myself that I could do as well and perhaps should try my Hand at one, when I discover’d that my Smock was wet beneath me, as indeed was the Seat of my Chair, and this I believ’d was the tell-tale Sign of the Beginning of Travail.
Quickly I rang for Susannah and directed her to notify Lord Bellars, at whose London Apartments the Great Accoucheur, Dr. Smellie, was to be arriving that very Day.
After dispatching Susannah, and whilst waiting for my Pains to become strong and regular, I remember that, quite unaccountably, I sat down at my Writing Bureau and then and there began a Romance in the Manner of Mrs. Haywood. I was fill’d with such Energy and creative Fire that it seem’d I could compleat an entire Book that very Ev’ning, so I took Quills and Foolscap in Hand and began, in a Frenzy, to write. Dimly, I recollected that Women at the Start of Travail are said to be seiz’d with great Vigour, that some compleat entire Tapestries, and others sew Christening Gowns, with intricate Embroideries, whilst others are seiz’d with a Passion to sweep Floors, clean Grates, bake dozens of Pyes, and roast Legs o’ Mutton!
But the Vigour is at best a passing Fancy, o’erwhelm’d quite soon by the Pains of Travail; for no sooner had I determin’d upon the Names for my Star-cross’d Lovers—Clotilda and Philidore—and penn’d an appropriately obsequious Epistle Dedicatory (with Blanks for the Name of whiche’er Noble Lord should be most worth my Flatteries when the Romance was done), than the Pains of Travail became strong indeed, and I dropp’d my Quill to the Paper (where the Inkblot oddly form’d the Profile of a curious Horn’d Creature) and I held my Belly and pray’d to the Goddess above for my own Life and the Life of my Child.
Then, ’twas all I could do to walk to my Bed, lye upon it in my Smock, breathe as calmly as I could to bear the Pains, and await the Return of Susannah.
O the Pains were bearable at first, but in an Hour or so they grew stronger. My entire Belly would rise in a tight Knot, causing me to grit my Teeth, to blank out the World by shutting my Eyes, and to enter, as if I were a Traveller to a distant Land, the red Universe of Pain. At Times I forgot my very Surroundings, tho’, indeed, the Walls of my Chamber were cover’d with painted Clouds, painted Cherubim, and painted Goddesses reclining upon rosy Clouds, and I would attempt to stare at ’em to distract myself from my Distress. ’Twas impossible; I was driven inward by the Tumult taking place inside me, and ’twas all I could do to keep myself from moaning, much less to concentrate upon the painted Cherubim, that were a Man’s Idea of Paradise.
Time lost all Meaning as I dwelt in the e’er briefer and briefer Spaces betwixt the Pains. Thus when Dr. Smellie came to attend me, I was in no great Condition to observe his Form and Figure with a Poet’s Eye.
And yet I recollect his great unwieldy Hands—more like a Farrier’s than a Midwife’s—and more for holding Horses’ Hooves than the tender Skulls of Babes.
He had put off his Peruke and capp’d his Head with a sort of Turban of white Linen, ty’d with white and silver Ribbands. Likewise, he wore a great loose Gown of flower’d Calico in which he lookt a sort of curious Pasha, his Eyes blazing in his Head and his wide Mouth set in a determin’d Posture.
He sent Susannah for hot Water, clean Sheets, a fresh Shift for me; then he began to question me as to the Onset of my Travail.
“Sir,” said I, betwixt the Pains, “’twas about Eight o’ the Clock when the Pains began—but I know not what Time it might be now.”
“This Babe will be born ere Midnight if I have my Way,” said he, pressing upon my swelling Belly (causing me still greater Grief).
“Pray what Time is it now?” I askt, nearly breathless from the great Waves that engulf’d me.
“Why, half past Nine, Lass.”
My Heart leapt in my Bosom to believe that this great Accoucheur possess’d Magick that might so shorten my Travail. Thus arm’d with his Promise (like a Shield against my Woe), I vow’d I would endure any Terrors the Goddess might send. O I still wore my Magick Garter for Occasions such as this; and tho’ ’twas fray’d and tatter’d, I dar’d to hope that ’twould shield me from all Harm.
Lord Bellars, I was told, waited without my Chamber for the happy Conclusion of my Lying-in. Susannah brought hot Water and Sheets as she was bid. She ty’d one of these ’round the Neck of Dr. Smellie, stretching its nether Ends o’er me, so that my Privy Parts were duly cover’d (as Modesty requir’d), whereupon the Great Doctor bade me spread my Legs, and with his enormous Hands he prob’d the Inmost Centre of my Being, causing me more than once to catch my Breath and almost wail with Pain.
Yet I did not. I bit my Lips; I held my Breath; I shut my Eyes until num’rous salty Tears were squeez’d from their Corners; but moan and wail would I not, howsoe’er the Pain demanded it. I’faith, I felt a sort of Pride in being a Warrior Woman, a Mythick Amazon of Old, and thus enduring the Distress without a Cry.
Dr. Smellie withdrew his Hands, with the Verdict that my Womb was opening quickly and ’twould be no Time at all before the Babe emerged, whereupon he strode from my Chamber to report to Lord Bellars in the Ante-Chamber, leaving me alone with Susannah.
O we could hear ’em talking and laughing without, as if the Birth of a Babe were no more to ’em than an Ev’ning at a Coffee-House, and, Truth to tell, it griev’d me deeply to hear their mirthful Chatter (o’er Jests I could not share) whilst I was labouring to bring the next Generation into this World.
“Mrs. Fanny,” said Susannah, whisp’ring in my Ear, “I would have yer Leave to call the Midwife….”
“’Twill all be o’er soon,” I mutter’d betwixt the Pains. “Dr. Smellie said so.”
“I have me Doubts,” said Susannah; but I was too far gone by then to answer her.
“I will do what I will do,” Susannah mutter’d ’neath her Breath, whereupon she departed the Chamber (most privily, thro’ a Door that led only to the Back-Stair) and left me to my Griefs.
Now, I would fain describe the Hours of Travail that follow’d but a curious Fog hath misted ’em, like Clouds snagg’d upon a Mountaintop; and try as I may, I have only the haziest Recollection. You will say, Belinda, that this is because so many Years have pass’d since your Birth; but ’tis not so. I swear that when you were but five Weeks old, I tried in vain to recollect the Pains of Travail and e’en then could scarce succeed. O I remember that the Cramps grew terrible at length and that it seem’d both my Back and my Belly should burst from the Ache. I remember that my Teeth chatter’d and my whole Body shook and my Feet grew cold as Ice; but for the Life of me I cannot recollect the Pains themselves, nor e’en their Duration.
I have since question’d many Women concerning this curious Phenomenon, and ’tis common as the Dust we come from and the Dust to which we return. Pain, you will say, is ne’er memorable; but I swear I can better recollect the Pains I suffer’d in my Foot and Hands when I tried to escape from Coxtart’s Brothel to join Lancelot’s Sailing than I can the Pains of Travail. I’faith, ’tis almost as if I were not fully present at your Birth (tho’ indeed I am your Natural Mother).
What can be the Cause of this strange Phenomenon? I have meditated long and hard upon it. Perhaps ’tis part of Nature’s mighty Plan for the Continuation of the Race of Humankind; for if Women truly could recollect the Pains of Travail, they would take a Vow of Chastity forthwith, go at once to a Nunnery, and ne’er lye with a Man again their whole Lives long!
Perchance this curious Forgetfulness of Birth hath another Significance as well. Maybe it reminds us that we are not so much the Mothers of our Babes as Nature is; that we are but Conduits for the Great Goddess; that Babes derive from and belong to Her and we must possess our Children but lightly, for they are lent to us, not given.
If ev’ry Mother recollected her Travail too strongly, she would be inclin’d to cling to her Child more desperately when she should send it forth into the World to seek its own Fortune. In this wise are we all Orphans of Destiny, whether we know our Natural Parents or not.
How many Hours I labour’d, I cannot say. Dim Figures came and went in the Chamber’s Gloom. Susannah’s anxious Face loom’d above my own; Susannah’s gentle Hands mopp’d my fever’d Brow. Dr. Smellie strode in and out from Time to Time, thrust his Hands ’neath the Sheet, prob’d me roughly, grunted unintelligible Words, and strode out again. Susannah sat beside me, now holding my Hand, now placing her Hand ’neath my Back to ease the Pain, now encouraging me, now mutt’ring that she would give the Doctor but one Hour more.
When ’twas already past Midnight (or so I gather’d from the Doctor’s Consternation), Smellie examin’d me again, declar’d that the Babe was obstinate and would not turn its Head, and withdrew to fetch his Secret Instruments.
Then the Nightmare began in earnest, for the Doctor return’d, hiding bulky Instruments ’neath his Smock, and now I cried out in Terror lest they be the dread Extracting Hooks that spell’d the Death of my Unborn Babe!
“Nonsense, Child,” said Dr. Smellie to my Fears. “This Secret Invention will but ease your Pain and bring your Babe to birth alive.” Whereupon he thrust his Hands again ’neath the Sheet, bade me spread wide (which was well-nigh impossible in the midst of my tumultuous Pains), and quite suddenly inserted cold Metal into the Interior of my Being.
I felt at once like a Prisoner of the Inquisition, or a Felon being put to the Peine Forte et Dure, for e’en as my Pains came in Waves, this other Force of cold Metal insinuated itself into my very Bowels, jabbing and twisting; ’twas groping, it seem’d, for the Head of the Babe, that refus’d, in its Obstinacy, to turn. I’faith, Smellie seem’d to be in a Battle with the unborn Babe, angry that it did not yield to his Secret Implements, for he mutter’d and snarl’d ’neath his Breath e’en as he prob’d me, and he curst the Babe that would make a Mockery of all his Reputation and make him seem a Liar in his Predictions that ’twould be born ere Midnight.
Despite my awful Anguish, I sens’d this Battle betwixt the Babe (who had its Life to sustain) and the Accoucheur (who consider’d nought but his Fame).
O he was not entirely insensible of my Pains, but truly he seem’d more to wish for the Vindication of his own Success, than for the Happy Conclusion of my Travail. And so he prob’d and grunted and prob’d, until at last, he withdrew the Metal Instrument of Torture (to which I gave a grateful Sigh), secreted it again ’neath his Calico Gown, wip’d one huge Hand—across his resolute Brow, and said: “I fear I can no longer spare the Babe.”
These dread Words gave me Energy and Determination where I fear’d none were left, and suddenly, I was seiz’d with the Conviction that I could bear the Pains of Travail for all Eternity rather than sacrifice my Child.
“Leave me in Peace,” I mutter’d, “and let Nature take her Course.”
Smellie lookt at me with his great goggling Eyes. “My Dear,” said he, “I know what’s best for you. Pray, let me extract the Infant and spare the Mother’s Life. ’Tis the only Way, I fear.”
O now I recall’d from all my Reading, dreadful Drawings of Extracting Hooks and Babes remov’d in Pieces from their Mothers’ Wombs, and I scream’d at the learned Doctor with all my Might: “Leave me in Peace! Let Nature take her Course!”
“I have sworn to Lord Bellars that I would spare your Life, my Dear. Come, let us baptise this doom’d Child, and save the Mother’s Life at least.”
Whereupon, to my own Amazement, I rose up out of my Bed of Anguish, and kickt the Great Doctor with all my Might, screaming at the top of my Lungs: “I’ll see you roast in Hell before I see you kill my Babe!”
Susannah fairly chear’d to behold this new and surprizing Turn of Events, and somehow, betwixt us two, we shov’d the astonish’d Accoucheur out the Chamber Door and lockt it from within.
That Effort took all my Breath away and I fell to the Floor moaning in great Grief and near fainted away. Then I lay for a Time upon the Floor, writhing in Agony, whilst Dr. Smellie and Lord Bellars beat with angry Fists against the Door, screaming to be admitted; but I could no more rise to unlock it than I could fly to the Isle of Wight to join Lancelot (who, in my Delirium, I fancied still to be awaiting me there).
I lay upon the Floorboards, listening to the beating Fists like Thunder in a Storm. I knew not where I lay nor why, but I vow’d, somewhere in the Recesses of my Heart, ne’er to let my Infant dye ere ’twas born, or if Matters came to that, to dye along with it, and ascend to Heaven with my own pink Babe in my Arms!
O I must have been quite gone in Delirium, for I rav’d of Angels and Devils, saw Visions of enormous Sunflow’rs growing quite up to the Clouds, and e’en said once to Susannah (for she told me later): “The Man accosts the Sunflow’rs.” But what that means, I know not.
At length, I was in my own Bed again (but how or by whom transported, I cannot tell) and Susannah was whisp’ring in my Ear: “Mistress Fanny, ye ’ave suffer’d enough. I’faith, fer the Love o’ God, let me fetch the Midwife,” whereupon (without awaiting any Reply from me—indeed I was perhaps beyond Reply) she again left the Chamber by the Back-Stairs Door, which was unknown to Lord Bellars.
Next I recall blue Eyes looking down at me from ’neath a low white Wimple and a soft Voice saying, “My Child, ’tis true, you have suffer’d too long already.” Then Susannah and the Midwife undrap’d me, open’d my whole Belly to their View, and, with utmost Gentleness, the Midwife laid her tender Hands upon my Belly, feeling for the Position of the Babe.
She traced my throbbing Belly, as if she could discover ’neath it, as in an Anatomist’s Drawing, the true Outlines of the Child. My Pains continu’d tumultuous as e’er before, yet the Midwife’s Tenderness brought me new Hope. Perhaps we would yet save the Babe. How curious, I thought, I had once sought to do away with this Creature, and now I felt I would do anything to spare its budding Life. ’Tis odd indeed that once we are truly caught up in the Dance of Life, we follow the Steps as diligently as we have been taught. The Musick swells; our Feet and Hearts obey; and we are whirl’d into the Centre of the Ball.
“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.