Memoirs of Fanny Hill: A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749)Cleland, John
General
Memoirs of Fanny Hill: A New and Genuine Edition from the Original Text (London, 1749)
Cleland, John
England -- Fiction; Erotic fiction; Prostitutes -- Fiction
entirely on what she could squeeze out of her lodgers.
When she saw such a young pair come under her roof, her immediate
notions, doubtless, were how she should make the most money of us, by
every means that money might be made, and which, she rightly judged,
our situations and inexperience would soon beget her occasions of.
In this hopeful sanctuary, and under the clutches of this harpy, did we
pitch our residence. It will not be might material to you, or very
pleasant to me, to enter into a detail of all the petty cut-throat ways
and means with which she used to fleece us; all which Charles
indolently chose to bear with, rather than take the trouble of
removing, the difference of expense being scarce attended to by a young
gentleman who had no ideas of stint, or even economy, and a raw country
girl who knew nothing of the matter.
Here, however, under the wings of my sovereignly beloved, did the most
delicious hours of my life flow on; my Charles I had, and, in him,
every thing my fond heart could wish or desire. He carried me to plays,
operas, masquerades, and every diversion of the town; all which pleased
me, indeed, but pleased me infinitely the more for his being with me,
and explaining every thing to me, and enjoying perhaps, the natural
impressions of surprise and admiration, which such sights, at the
first, never fail to excite in a country girl, new to the delights of
them; but to me, they sensibly proved the power and dominion of the
sole passion of my heart over me, a passion in which soul and body were
concentered, and left me no room for any other relish of life but love.
As to the men I saw at those places, or at any other, they suffered so
much in the comparison my eyes made of them with my all-perfect Adonis,
that I had not the infidelity even of one wandering thought to reproach
myself with upon his account. He was the universe to me, and all that
was not him, was nothing to me.
My love, in fine, was so excessive, that is arrived at annihilating
every suggestion or kindling spark of jealousy; for, one idea only,
tending that way, gave me such exquisite torment, that my self-love,
and dread of worse than death, made me for ever renounce and defy it:
nor had I, indeed, occasion; for, were I to enter here on the recital
of several instances wherein Charles sacrificed to me women of much
greater importance than I dare hint (which, considering his form, was
no such wonder), I might, indeed, give you full proof of his unshaken
constancy to me; but would not you accuse me of warming up against a
feast, which my vanity ought long ago to have been satisfied with?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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