15 comments/ 16449 views/ 5 favorites The Private Diary of Alexander Pope By: BlackShanglan This story, while using the names of certain historical persons, is a work of fiction. No insult is intended to the reverenced memory of Mr. Pope, or of his servants, friends, or fellow authors. Anno Domine 1722 Thursday, 1st January – My prayer for the new year is: may God confound William Park, who has left my service this morning without word or notice, leaving me to choose should I drag myself forth by my very nails or lie abed like an infant crying help from the girl who cleans the chambers. I dragged myself out, though cursing him and my own scattering hand in equal parts – for I gave him the sum of ten shillings this night past, for his loyal service, and see to what it has tempted the wretched man. Martha Blount I entrusted for my aid, sending at last the char girl with a message. This roused her to worry, and she came on the instant. Were our friendship half the scandal Lady Montagu would have it, I had born it easier that she saw me thus in my bedclothes, wrapped in a blanket. She affected good grace, but will not vanity have its sting even in such extremities? For were I strong and unbent in body, I do not doubt that she would have born it with more blushes than I received. But a plague on such thoughts. I am overstrained in my efforts of the morning, but determined that I will not lay down without putting pen to paper. I have sworn to make this journal for a year, and see what use it brings me. Here is the first. Friday, 2nd January – Martha has brought me, with special care, her own man – a John Serle. She makes him over to me swearing him loyal and honest, and that he will help me, and not leave me in such a state as our good Park has. I doubt that I should take an able servant from any person, for they are as scarce as primroses in January. But she would have it, and to ease her mind – and in truth my own – I have taken him. He minds well and seems loyal in character, for he was much affected when leaving Martha. He is young – perhaps five and twenty, or something less – but grave enough in duty, and with a sober bearing. If he steals only the half of what Park did, I shall count myself content. Sunday, 4th January – Had in the priest, and gave thanks for the new year and the grace of God that my work prospers. On Homer and Shakespeare I proceed apace, as if I wrote with a pen in each fist. Yet it is a gloomy thing that a man must hide his conscience and keep his faith in a closet. Serle stood without; I looked to him, to see would he be loathe to serve a master known a Papist. But he only bowed to the priest, to show his reverence, and that minded me that I had thought his voice Irish from the first. It seems that in God's eye we are suited, master and man, and in the world's despite. Had a cough this morning that wrung all the strength from me. Weather foul and the ice thick; sent the good father hence with hot brandy to brace him, and a gift of a pound to keep his house. Wednesday, 7th January – My good doctor John Arbuthnot is come to scold me and Serle as well, that he knows not his master's strength. Martha brought him this Thursday past to see what ill William Park might have wrought me, that morning when I found myself overtaxed. Now he calls again to assure himself of his trade, and has long and solemn words with Serle where he thinks I cannot hear him in the hall. He means well enough, but it is galling to have my own man recruited against me as if I were a child. When Serle came with tea and some foul draught John had left, I bid him sharp to forget what word he'd heard from him, and mind his master over a leech. Martha came today, and I was loathe to receive her after the trouble she'd sent me that morning. But she read so well from Swift's latest that I was moved to forgiveness, and when she'd gone I threw down twenty couplets in near as many minutes, my mind revived at last. Friday, 9th January – Late in rising. The cold sits in my chest and plagues me. Little enough work done today – only a letter to John Swift and a note to Gray, and a page or a little more on Lear. Tried Serle and found him surprisingly clear in his hand; gave the letters by his hand, and so spared some effort. Sent to Martha that I will not come to dinner; will lay in, and take some broth. My aches somewhat relieved; Serle has a trick for it, kneading with his hands on my back and shoulders. Sunday, 11th January – Much revived. Took last morning a cup of wine mingled with honey and ginger, a thing of Serle's contrivance that he plagued me with it until I drank it. It is a fool's antic to be dosed by a servant, and he deserves what comes to him, who will trust his health to his valet. Yet it braced me so that I wrote a bit, and I took more when he brought it to me with food past noon. He found me mired in papers and looked as if he would have spoken, but I sent him off. He would only parrot me the words John Arbuthnot left him, and I had no temper for it. Back to Homer this afternoon. The battle singing in my head, and the fine lines all through me. Sent Serle out to seek Gray, who is about town, but only to have him from the house. He hovers, and I would have those lines out. They came sharp and fine as fire. Friday, 16th January – Little to write and much to-do. I am sunk more in the ruin of Troy than in the chambers about me, and am an exasperation to Arbuthnot, who would that I bated the fury of my muse in some gentleness to my body. Wretched thing. It has been of little use to me, but a long disease of a life; the words are the thing. Monday to Lady R's for a wretched gallimaufry and God knows what. Gray swears I do myself harm that I will not sit and smile with those more endowed with money than wit, but is it not a curse to seek one's bread from door to door with hat in hand, begging a patron? I curse the time I spend upon it; work is a better savior than the purse of some rattle-headed fop. Tuesday, 20th January – Spent the night at Lady R's digging my nails in my palms to still my tongue. Lady G was there, a fleering, jibing creature, and found me good sport for what she thinks her wit, that is, her ill nature dressed in laughter. She thought herself wise beyond words when Robert Fine's marriage became our topic, and said to me, with her claws all out and smiling, "And when shall we cheer your wedding bells, Mr. Pope?" Damn the creature. My pen is no friend to fools, nor have I hesitated to lay bare such failings as any man might correct, had he the wit or grace to do't. But I pray that I have never stooped to mock a man for that which lay beyond his power to amend, or to sneer upon an infirmity given at God's hand. I might, otherwise, have told all London, and in such phrases as it would not soon forget, that she was a fool, and her husband the greatest whoremonger born, though he had rivals ample, either whose purses, or health, were not equal to his prodigies. This I was sore tempted to, even grouping the rhymes for it while the smart of her ass's wit was yet upon me. Did she think it had escaped me that I would not marry? Did she think this body, bent and twisted until I needs must have Serle by me to help me to table, seemed beautiful to its owner? Did she guess that I sat with a seat raised under this child's frame so that I might eat with them, plague'd half my waking hours with pain and illness, and thought myself the very pattern of fashion? Blast her, for there is no wit but cruelty in pointing a man's weakness, who cannot correct it. So I sat at the table, composing in my mind a diatribe to blacken the earth beneath it, while I said to Lady G that God had sent me trials, but in his kindness had sent too such friends as would aid me through them. She began to puzzle over those words, but at that moment, by the happiest accident in the world, my man John, in aiding me at table, upset a dish of herrings over her skirts. Then all was a wail and a fluster. That cool, jibing cat yowled as if he'd trod her tail, for the herrings were in vinegar, and she so drenched with it that she smelt to heaven. She looked murder and I do believe would have struck him, but I ordered him from the room with a show of anger that I soothed, when dinner was done, with a shilling and a softer word. He smiled so that I looked at him askance; I think him hardly more sorry for it than I, and find an honest liking for him. Wednesday, 28th January – No time for this scrawl of late; the rush had been upon me. The work pours forth, with Serle my scrivener and by me every hour of the day. His duty is exceeding fine; I come more and more to think him what Martha said, a week past when she came to call and stopped long to visit with him 'ere she came to me. She called him more than a servant, or one who might have been more if born in another condition or station. I am persuaded. He takes my words so well that he half-anticipates them, until I am much amazed to see the end of a line shaping itself on the page 'ere it is well past my lips. Nor is the house the worse for him in it, for I find my money stays by me as it did not under William Park's guidance, and all things are in place – and the pertness of the staff much abated. Even upon his half day, he will not go until I have risen and he has seen me settled, and he returns 'ere the lamps are well lit, that he may help me to bed. Thus he takes his half of the day from the middle, and leaves himself the ends with all the labor to them. It is his duty brings him to't, and in truth I am grateful for him. So this evening I watched him, bent over the page, all intent upon the words he wrote – and was moved. What bitterness it was to me in youth, that all doors were closed to a Catholic. What sorrow to be shut out from the universities, banned even from living in London – what pain it gave me, who felt myself so in sympathy with the great world within those things. And here is poor John Serle who shall be a servant all his life, though he might have been better. He must feel as damned in his prospects as I did. I make him no complaint now when he would nurse me with some morsel or draught of his making; he has no ill hand at such contrivances, and it seems to cheer him. Friday, 30th January – The weakness of my eyes betrays me, and I have little strength left to write. Yet the lines for Homer come so well – can I turn from them, when we are rushing like a tempest on to Troy? Serle is caught up in it, so that it is a joy to see; and he is my prop as well, for I sat over-long today, until all my body knotted with pain. Then good John worked his touch upon my leg, until the cramp left it, and my neck and cursed back, so that they give now as little pain as 'ere they will. If I thought Arbuthnot would be lessoned, and not take it for a slight, I would that Serle would teach him his skill, for it is better physick than a guinea's worth of drafts and powders. Thursday, 5th February – Damning my weakness, I spill a few words here. Tired and with a wretched ache in my head; ill these four days past, through excess of pleasure before. I needs must push myself and write late into the night, and now I pay't, for these four days I have not taken up a pen, and John Serle, purely to spite me I swear, will not take a word from me, though I feel full and ripe to bursting. No, it is unfair. John does his duty well, and I fear I have much frighted him with my illness, for which he blames himself for aiding me to write. Arbuthnot has come near every day, and been hard upon him, for Wednesday noon Serle came in from a talk with him as pale as milk, and could not be moved for love nor money to speak a word on the Iliad, though I longed to talk over it with someone of good sense. Arbuthnot the same; they would have me meek as a kitten, and though I feel near as weak as one, my heart rages. Monday, 9th February – Near my strength again, and the worst of the aching head behind me. John aids me again in writing, thought damnably mothering in insisting that I not try my strength. He sits close by that I may see and correct without the trouble of him reading it back – though he reads well, and with feeling. Thirty couplets, at least, today, and a great gain made by it; I begin to see more clearly the shape of the whole, and to touch upon the soul of the thing. And John, the fool, grows dear to me – for it was his day, this day, to be at liberty, but he begged leave to stay and hear out Cassandra. Saturday, 14th February – A night so strange, my mind can hardly grip it. Yet I must make some confession, and set it down plainly. This day past I asked John a favor I blushed to ask. Yet with weeks of hard work behind me, and my body at last recovered – and I but a man in flesh ... I must have some release. These weeks of close labor have made him dear to me, and all that Martha promised – truly, trusted more than I have any servant, and justly earned in that trust. So. Though hesitant, and ashamed of't, though it be no monstrous thing, but mere humanity – I asked John, carefully – for he is a sober man, and very clean in his habits – if he might find such a thing as a woman quiet and discreet. He looked askance, and I felt hot to lower myself thus before a valet, whatever his fine parts. But he recovered himself, and said that he would seek it, though he was but little accustomed and might go slowly. In any other, I would have thought this mere protestation – yet in him, it seemed earnest, so that I would half have unsaid my request. But he was determined for it, and swore that he would go so carefully that no breath of it would reach any man. He was gone part of the day, and I sat in agonies until he came back, near evening, and said the thing was done. The woman, he said, was of honest birth, and ashamed with what poverty had driven her to; but he had sworn me to be a good man who would use her kindly. Her only wish was that she come late at night, to hide her face and her shame. John would aid me to bed, and then she would come to do as I would. I agreed, and hastily, ashamed to see John red-faced with arranging his master's whoring. I was not proud in it, yet salved my conscience with the thought that I would pay her well. Thus do all deceive themselves, their own pleasures to pursue. John aided me to bed, and at my bidding put money in reach upon the table. Then he went from me, and left the door open. She came, too many long minutes later for my heart entirely to be at ease, and stood in the doorway with a long cloak about her and the hood pulled close. She paused a moment by the candle, then shut the door and put the light out. I was much misgiven; though perhaps she acted from shame, it seemed as like that she hid any other thing – pox, or boils, or some hideous shape of face. But then, for what purpose had I summoned her, but that my own shape is unlovely? It would be a fine thing, that a man shrunken, hunched, and near crippled had a nice taste in the face of his doxy. I put it from me as best I could. She came close with a gliding movement that I saw in the starlight from the window. She crouched at my side, then touched softly my hand, lifted it, and kissed it. This gentleness so surprised me that I sat in confusion, and she kissed again, unlike, nay, very unlike any woman who had come to me before. For yes, even Park, blast him, had run this errand time and again, when the flesh cried out past enduring, and I knew what was like to come to me – a starving, vacant creature, half-fuddled with gin, or else a hardened whore, toothless and coarse, with a braying laugh that would ache in my head. This gentle silence was not looked for, but much the superior in practice, for when she had spread open my palm and pressed a kiss upon it, I found myself much excited, and alive with interest to what she might do. Still kneeling, she undressed me from my nightclothes, slowly, pressing kisses to my skin like a woman with a lover she has chosen from her heart. I began to doubt if I should continue, for I could not make out what she was, but surely no whore. Then even as I would have spoken, and as I reached out my hand to stay her, in the dark it lighted on the bosom of her gown. She drew in her breath, but her hand caught mine and held it there, and some moments later, with a rustle of her gown, I touched bare flesh, soft and smooth and alive to my fingers. Her voice came to me, very low – "Would you touch, sir?" It was so simple and untutored a question that my conscience smote me again, but the stiffening brush of her nipples woke me, and at last I took her in hand for answer. She leaned over the bed, and my lips were buried in the swell of her breasts. When she hesitated, having opened my nightclothes all down my body, I thought she wondered at how the thing would be done – though at that moment I was so eager that I felt as whole as any man, and as ready for a spirited ride asaddle. I would have risen up as well I could, but then received a shock I could scarce believe as she bowed her head and took up an act even a practiced jade is loathe to own to. Her lips closed on my body, and her mouth took me in, and I fairly leapt to it. The heat of her – the hot, soft embrace of lips and tongue, worked so eagerly that I scarce could keep from crying aloud. I shuddered, clung to her, and then at last the spasm took me, hard and sudden, so that I had not even time to marvel how she kept with me, close upon my body, all through it until I lay panting and stunned with sensation. She clothed me again, and gently – a kind touch, but one that baffled me. I hardly know what to make of her. She turned and would have left, and this strangest of all – she, who pled poverty, was near to the door 'ere I could call to her to return and take up the money that was set aside on the table. I can make nothing of her. As for Serle, he is ashamed, I think, to play the pander, for he avoids my eye and when I asked who the woman was, would say only that he knew her well, that she lived in great sorrow and want, and that she did not wish to be known. I am all unsettled in it, and my mind will hardly light upon my work. Sunday, 15th February – Had the priest to the house, to make confession and partake of the Host. And scarce could meet John's eye, who knew what sin I'd been about. He has said no word upon it, but our discourse is much altered; he tends me well, but has a sadness about him that scalds me more than any censure. It is well for him; he is grown straight and slender, with a face near as pretty as a girl's. Let him hunch a day within this ruined frame, with the cough in his chest and the ache driving through his back and head, and then mourn that a scant moment of comfort was paid for. Foul temper all the day. No stomach for food, nor peace in the sacrament. Tuesday, 17th February – I much fear that I have ruined John Serle for my servant. He is awkward, and looks blushing whenever I catch his eye. He does not chide, but I cannot but believe that he thinks less of me. This works me to a temper that I vented in some several cutting words to him, for we are none of us so cruel as when we know ourselves in the wrong. I must be kinder, for he has done me no harm and much duty, and yet – it taunts me, that this shadow lingers in my mind. When I see him set in confusion, I am ashamed; yet if I would know that touch again, and I own that I would, I must ask it through him, and that works me hotly in every direction. Hardly a line is written these days past; when he takes up the pen, my tongue withers at the root. Reading and pondering seem best to a weighty mind, though my eye strays from the page. Lost in wonder upon Cordelia, I think whose name I truly would call. Friday, 20th February – Tense still, but somewhat better. An attack of wheezing and hardness of breath took me this morning as Serle helped me to bathe, and so alarmed him that his awkwardness fled at once. Though no Samson, he had me before the fire in an instant, crying sharp for the maids to fetch a soothing draught that John Arbuthnot left, and for whiskey as well, to revive me. That was well thought, for the fit left me half-senseless, and much in need as he brought me back to myself. That noon and after, a little dictation by his hand, and something easier with each other than we have been. The Private Diary of Alexander Pope I am troubled still. Gray came to visit, with a piece of nonsense Addison has put about that badly needed an answer, and I could give nothing of my mind to't while Serle stood at hand. At last I sent him out on some errand not worth remembering, but still could hardly bring my mind to task. This thing must be got out, like a lancing, else there will be no peace between us. And yet am I not a coward? For I blanch to lay it before him. Saturday, 21st February – Serle with me yet, at least, and not run to tell Martha all the tale of my ruin and evil character. This morning I put the question to him. Who was this woman, and what relation to him? He replied that he was bound by a promise to say only that he knew her well, and vouched for her character – and who would not bite his tongue at that, to save a laughter not ill-meant but cruel, that he would give a character to a jade? Yet he meant it earnestly, and in truth she was as unlike what she must be called as I can imagine. So I would not use that word to him, nor say aught against her. But though I would have done better to hold my silence, the next words were out 'ere I caught them marshalling upon my lips, and I asked him did he think her likely to come again? This I thought sure to end his service. I had meant to say no such thing at this moment with the man all at odds, and it was handled so badly that I looked to see anger and hot denial. Yet he came to it readily, so that I hardly knew how to judge him. Even now he seeks her, to bring her again. And what a fool I am, I know too well – and yet with what abandon. Sunday, 22nd February – To what has passed this night, my pen is unequal – and is that not a laughable thing? I had begun, indeed, a wretched doggerel – "Some Lines to a Lady Glimpsed by Starlight" – but who would read it, save I who must groan to see my hand write paeans to a whore? But it is ungentle. Whatever she may be. For she came to kneel by me again this night, softly as before, and with the same care to hide her face. This troubles me considerably; I begin to wonder if I know her, if she be some one of the char maids or cook's girls, unbeknownst to me. Yet I would swear that the hand that touched me this night has known no rough work – not that palm and gentle fingers that curled about me, so strangely forward and yet so delicate that I did not know how to call her. That troubled me so that in even in my body's eager cry, rising up to her hand, I found strength to beg her name. She was silent for a long breath, her hand still upon me so that my will lay fainting. Then she said, "They call me Kate." And to end all argument, dropped her lips upon me, and made me in all ways speechless. It was more lingering this night, and gladly so. I was not so wild with the shock of a thing entirely new to me, and she seemed less in haste. All the while her mouth worked me to heaven – a glad sin, pleasure near unendurable – her hands touched all upon my chest and arms and legs. My body answered her then, and eagerly – but my mind, now, lies more upon it. She touched this body, bent as a broken root, with all kindness and reverence, nor shied from its secrets, so unlike those of other men. And here again I was much bewildered in her, for her manner and speech were so soft, but her hands so sure upon me – like hands that have known man in all his forms. I could not but think her practiced – yet so shy and gentle, that even as she stooped to lay her lips upon me, and kissed warm upon my thigh, I could not call her any name unkind, nor fault her in any way. When she had done, she lay panting like a doe, her cheek to my belly. Lightly, so as not to do me hurt – yet there, bare against my skin, until I near had dozed with it. At last she stood, and though vanity stings me with the memory, I caught her hand – and asked, would she come again. She stood trembling, and her breath came hard; I was ashamed to press her to it. But at last she said, "Ask John Serle. He will send for me." And left. It was only this morning that I thought of her money, and that in my eagerness I had set none out for her. Much ashamed, I gave twice the sum of before into John Serle's hands, and bid him bring it to her. Thank God, he is a man can be trusted with such things; so honest, that I know the sum will reach her entire. And is this not stranger than any thing, that a man should trust none so well, nor have better faith in any but his whore and her pander? Thursday, 26th February – The work goes on apace. Enough on Lear to fill some part of a volume, and some lines upon Thetis as well, which have troubled me exceedingly this month past. Serle in a strange good humor; levity is not his manner, but a quiet content that leaves me no doubt that we are easier with one another. And this the more strange, in that I did ask of him, and receive, word that Kate might come again upon the week's end. Tomorrow night, and Serle to fetch her. Yet he writes a calm hand, and is nearly himself, as he was a month past 'ere I started this coil. Consider: that the man feared turning off, as he knew a thing about me that I would not have known? That he is quieter now, because he sees that I will not cast him aside having got my ill pleasure? The thing is possible. Good health today. Unbidden, John brings me wine tonight, mingled with herbs and honey, that does strengthen me greatly, and gives his sure touch to all my limbs, to unknot and straighten them. And though he knows to what use I will put this strength, he tends me earnestly and with a look – not of pity, that I would scorn, but a care touching on kinship. He is nigh a friend; 'tis but his fee stands between us. I own, when I first took him from Martha Blount, I thought she paid his wages over high. But now I think him worth the double of it, and look to improve him. Saturday, 28th February – Now here is a knot will take some long unpicking, for if I am Alexander, then this is Gordium. The thing teases me, and yet ... my mind is glad for some strange and tangled web, for it sharpens all my wits. Kate came this night past. Incomparable Kate. I write it here, for in any company of men I would brand myself an ass and a fool, to sigh after she who bates my lust at hire. But bates so well, and bating raises again – for never have I sought company so often, or in such swift succession. She grows bolder each time, and this visit she made me, she cast her gown to the floor. I touched only the lightest shift between us, and her bosom unlaced and bared as she knelt kissing my chest and my shoulders with her breasts rubbing against me until I groaned aloud. But is it not strange – that a jade should come by degrees, to that practice she knows so well? Yet I will call her jade no more. For when she had kissed upon my chest and my palms and my throat, this night, with a tremble, she kissed my lips. Then I took her hair in my hands, and kissed her hungrily and let her feel how urgent a man she made me, and how glad, at heart, of this opening in her. She groaned with it no less than I, until at last she fell upon my thighs and work'd on me hot and I swear eager. I gave over all pretense and cried out under her hands, utterly naked to her and glad of it as she took me to her lips and I stroked her silken hair upon my lap. Then I would touch lower, struggling up to reach her, and putting my hand down along her shift. At last, like a grip of heaven, I felt the warm parting of her legs, and she raised her mouth with a breathless gasp that drove all the hunger through me. But she took my hand and put it from her, and press'd it to her bosom – fine and soft, but I wonder that she refused me. Is this her means to salve her conscience? Then, as if to make amends, she dropped her lips and began a long oratorio upon me, with such dextrous facility in the high notes, and wondrous depth in the low, that I was utterly taken, and cried out heedless. When she had done she knelt at the bed side, trembling, and her cheek against me, as she had that night before. I made bold to touch her, though how there is boldness in the petting of a – but I will not say it. I stroked her hair down her back. She shuddered under it, I know not why, but stayed, and that moment I felt myself blessed in her. I feel the weakest sort of fool now to write it, and it stings me senseless to think what they would make of it, who have felt the cut of my pen in the press, or smarted under my tongue when they begg'd to be lessoned for their idiocy. Yet she makes me soft to her, who rages like fire against all else, though she speaks hardly a word, only such soft sounds as stir my blood when her skin touches mine. I would speak to her, but was defeated again. She lay long against me, quiet under my hand, and I felt a peace and drowsy pleasure. I would, at that moment, very much that she would come into bed with me – not for glutting of a lust supremely gratified, but that I might touch her once more – I hardly know how. I near asked her to't – but that moment she stood, and dress'd so hastily that at once she was by the door, and hardly called back in time to have her payment. Then she was gone, and what few words I had put to her – who she was, and would she not tell me more of herself – put aside with swift demurral, and unanswered. That is puzzle enough, but here is more. This noon John Serle was out of my call, and having a sudden chill, I bid the char maid fetch me a wrapper. Taking the warmest she found, though not my usual, she brought it, and I pulled it about me as best I could. Then putting my hand into the pocket, what did I find but a sum of money that never was put there by me? I counted it through, and here is the knot: it was, to a farthing, the fees I have paid to Kate. What this means, I cannot guess – but watched Serle close all the day when he was back, until he looked at me askance. There is many a man complains that his servants empty his purse – yet surely I am the first to cry that his fill it. Monday, 2nd March – Have put thoughts of the flesh from me for the sabbath, to bring coolness to my temper. But watched Serle so close, that he chafes, and seems as if he would know my mind. Made no mention of the money I found, only put the wrapper back whence it came, and showed no sign that I had found it. He serves well, almost a pleasure. And this teases me every hour, for I can make nothing of his actions. Yet I cannot think ill of him. His manner is very fine, devoted, and near unconscious of this wretched deformity that makes me. Though I scorn the mockery of my foes, who would make my body the outward emblem of a gross and malignant heart – yet who could long put it from him, this cramped, bent body that can be a pleasure to no one? (Save to me, and under certain lips ... ah, my sabbath has not cured me.) Yet John heeds it little; even in undressing me, or bathing my limbs, or working his strong touch upon them, his good nature will not yield to revulsion, or worse, to a damning pity – and can I say as much even of myself? I had thought him a friend, had we met otherwise. He is a sober creature, and quiet, yet has a flash of wit now and again, and an earnest nature that is truer than easy flattery. He takes words well, and more – this day past, in writing out my notes for the death of Hector, he asked questions prompted by a good mind, if untutored, and all alive to the sense and movement of it. I cannot but pity that he is so bound, a servant all his life. Yet he shows no bitterness – only a gratitude, quiet but very winning, that I would entertain his questions, and speak with him upon the work. He spurs me, and we proceed apace; he little sees it, but he brings a light to the endeavour, and shines it where I had not thought to look. Wednesday, 4th March – This work was begun for the stirring of my mind, and yet see how I make it a mere record of my dalliances. It would shame me to have it seen. Yet she comes tonight, and my mind will not take to work. John has set out money; I have marked it most carefully. I will see where it goes. And she will come. Midnight – Cramped, and damnable hard to write – at table. She is come. Gone. Lain with me, but shyly. Her fee – 4 s. – still on table. Thursday, 5th March – At the desk now, with more comfort to write. John out on an errand of my devising, and I hobbled far enough to fetch this scrawl to me. I conceal it now. Why, I can hardly say. I fear no villainy from John, and yet ... he is wrapt in this somehow. And the money. In the pocket of my wrapper. I had the maid fetch it for me of a purpose. This Kate. What am I to make of her? And what did she, last night, to so unmake my mind? Only kissed me, knelt by my bed, shivering in her shift, and let my hands and lips to her bosom. I strayed there amid the fruits of a rich garden. Though poor she is so cleanly, her person so nice and freshly made, that the cloy of perfumes in the town belles is a poor exchange. I feasted at her bosom, and felt a hot stirring, though her touch was gentle. Then she would have set herself to that duty she had done me times before, but I caught her hand; then asked her, would she come to bed with me. Low and very soft she gave me answer, "yes, sir." Then helped me, most simply and without qualm, to the side, stood a long moment, and lay down with a sigh in the warmth where I had lain, and came to my bed entire. I had wished it devoutly, but was confounded in its encompassing. I lay warring with myself 'ere I dared touch her. Damnable cowardice! What was it, but a man with his jade, whom he had fee'd, and full generously? Yet it is her special power to make it seem other, so that when I turned to her body and touched my hand upon it, I swear she trembled. Her breath came sharp, though I touched but where I had moments past as she knelt by my side. Yet there was difference. Why else had I bid her come? And I felt it all the more, when beneath my touch her bosom heaved, then lay still, and at last, as I strove, in truth, to be kind to her, moved, gently under my hands, and then arched up to them. God. Lord and creator. It has pleased you to make me as I am. Can it but please you too, this last, sweetness incomparable, that a man entered into his thirty-fourth year upon this earth, at last should lay upon the body of a lover, and press kisses to her lips – and feel it in his heart? Do not chide me, vanity. You have had your way these many years, and will again, but this night I was out from under your spur. Though a fool in every way, and kissing lips fee'd by the half of Twickenham – my heart moved in me. Kate took these kisses in earnest, and returned them, I would swear, with a passion more than the heat of bodies – though heat grew between us. It torments me to this moment. Though my own eyes tell it to me, I swear she is no whore, when she twines her arms about my neck and kisses me so that even this raging heart gives up its bitterness and only ... opens. Touched her. All adown her body. Warm bosom. Sweet hips. Rich thighs. Then put my hand soft and close between them, and she jumped and shivered like a rabbit. Drew back, but in a little time, with much kissing and stroking between, assayed again – and was received. Ah, that touch – for I had a longing never felt when the thing was more easily gained, with some jade who – but no. I will not think on't, in the same page as this. Touched her soft, and found her so eager to hand, so ready, that a groan passed my lips at the mere hot, tender touch of her. She panted low and shuddered. My hand, dewed with the musk that clung to my fingers, I pressed, and felt a cry and tremble through her body. Thinking the moment come at last, and more eager for it than I can say, I was manned as never man was – but that moment she pulled from me. Put her hands against mine, and half wept, and would say only "please sir" – yet 'twas clear enough what she pled, and I loosed her, though sore vexed. Now all her seeming kindness had a look of loathing, so that I would near have cast her from me in a fit of anger, sure that it was the thought of my body that stayed her and set her to weep. But 'ere I could, she threw herself on the floor and knelt kissing wildly at my hand – that hand, that had touched her. Watered it with tears, begg'd my pardon, and pleaded that I be patient with her. Patience. For a ... I was struck dumb entire. But at length this came to me. She had not shown herself a whore, not any such as your most of men would mean by't. Was I right to make one of her, who had been gentle to me? I touched her hair, and bid her rest quiet, and said I know not what – that I would do her no harm, and she might do as she would, and I would make no demands of her. She kiss'd my hand so fervently that for a moment I felt my troubles entirely paid. And then she kissed, and petted, and stroked me, in so many ways, and with a touch so tender, that at last she soothed all the bitterness from me. When she caressed all down my limbs, and then came at last to kiss and lap my thighs, softly with her tongue, I could make no protest, only hold her to me, and urge her with soft words of thanks that rose, at last, to pleading. She left without her fee. I woke to it this morning, on the table still. Gave it to Serle, to bring to her; found it when he'd left, in the pocket of my wrapper. He is much affected, and strange to me today; I think she has told him what passed, wherever it is that they meet. I wonder will she have no more of't. I cannot think of the worse of her – and yet I pray she might come again. Friday, 6th March – What shock last night. I can hardly write – and so wroth with Serle that I cannot look upon him. Dog! Hound! There is no name I can lay to him that suits this deed. My heart is sick with it, and I, damn him – his willing accomplice. She came last night. Unbidden. Abed, I heard the door open, and then a voice, very low – "It is Kate, sir." How glad I was. Fool! I made no question, though wondered if she might be come for her money. But she came to the bed and fell straight to her knees and to kissing of my hand. And thence naked to bed, unbidden but utterly welcome and eager, I swear. All shyness had gone, and irresolution; I met no defense, but felt her press to my hands with a groan, and lay her kisses all down my neck, and nuzzle my ears and my lips, and move against my body as one who with all her heart desires. Or so I think – for this, in truth, is the first I have dared to hope it of any woman. Damn Serle, the treacherous hound! For this happened. I touched again, where last I was denied, and shuddered to find admittance. She parted to me, and hungrily, pressing into my palm all hot and dewed and longing, so that my blood surged and I craved her. And her voice came at last, she who is so silent – soft cries of "sir, oh, sir!" that were sweet hymns to me, who touched with hands and then – more. When the moment was come, I found a strength wild and rare – moved over her, my body for once answering my call, and felt, of all things, her hands urging my hips, her body opening, and, God – guiding me to her. Was no light labor for a man made as I, but what shudder to have her kisses upon my chest as I came to't, and more – her body, arched to mine, taking to me her. Made entrance, and ah – taken whole, and at once, into the temple of Venus. And near missed, thereby, what I did, though sensed it somewhat. Her cry told me more, even as she slipped sweet about me, and what damnable confusion this – for was she not what no whore could be? It was morning 'ere I saw the blood, sign indisputable, but in short – I was right. And what, damned of all, can this mean? But last. In that moment, bliss and sudden shock, I must – I must see who joined with me. Threw back the curtain, wrenched wide the blind with a struggling hand, and – The Private Diary of Alexander Pope Damn Serle. She's as like him as his twin. The man has whored his own sister. Saturday, 7th March – This trouble is upon me most heavy. Sent Serle out upon his day, early. Put him from me so harshly that he stared, but could not look on him. Silence between us last night, as he helped me to bed; this morning he would bathe me, but I could not suffer the touch of his hand. Orders not to disturb me. Would turn him off, but – What the devil does he mean by't? What depravity does he lie sunk in, that he would sell his own blood to bate the lust of his employer? What humanity is there in the man, that he would whore his own kin? I can lay my hand to no thing, nor tell what he wants of me. Or her. Her face, that night – when I'd flung wide the blind, and saw her there, arched in an attitude of ecstasy, beyond all doubting, I swear – rising to my body. Her eyes closed. I clawed back the drape and made an end of the act, too much stunned to speak, only acting in an instinct of shame to hide what I knew of her. She felt how sudden my change, but I feigned cough, and weakness, and she fled – to fetch John, for he came when she had parted, and dosed me with a physick of his making that has ever worked its virtue on me. But there was no sickness in my chest – only in my heart, and when he knelt, solicitous, and would have spoken, I turned from him, for in truth I could not keep my stomach to look at him. He must leave me. That morning, 'ere he stirred – for I had not slept a moment the night through – I found upon the sheets the mark of her shame and innocence. What have we done between us? I half fear this is some plot – that they would trap me with her, and have money, or marriage, or preferment for him. And yet they cannot think there is much in my power to give. How are they, these two – damn them both! So treacherous, foul, and profane – yet so gentle in word and gesture, that even to bid Serle from my sight 'ere I struck him was more than my heart could do easily, seeing how wounded he looked. He asked would I need him in the evening, with a look of fawning hope – as if he counted the hours to sit by me again, and take dictation, and pander his damned sister. God help me if I do not do him some violence. And Kate. How is she caught in this? What has she done to please him, who would play her as badly as he plays me? Her ruin is made, and I am heartily ashamed of't. Yet if she had some design, surely she would have spoken by now. Surely I would have seen her. No peace, no rest, no joy. And my heart misgives me every way. He must go. Sunday, 8th March – It is done. No stomach for food, and the wine is bitter. Damn him. Monday, 9th March – Now here is as great a piece of folly as I have seen. Who should come to me this morning, unbidden, but Martha Blount, and her eyes darting fire? I saw her errand at once but let her speak, and she chid me greatly that I had turned off John Serle. Spoke paeans to his character, and swore upon him as a very saint, and reviled me in the hottest terms, that I would put him from me – who, she said, was devoted with all his heart, and thought only how to please me. This last struck so hard on my shame and anger that I near roared at her to hold her tongue, and she stared at me as if I'd run distracted. Mastered myself a little, though still near my wit's tether, and told her that any man who kept John Serle in his house would be sorry of't, and prayed that she be rid of him the instant she returned. She looked at me amazed; I begged that she would heed me from strength of long affection, for John Serle was in no way what he seemed. And here – blast, what does she mean by't? For she was much changed. Of a sudden her anger melted to sadness, and she gave me a look of such reproach that my heart faltered, and I began to doubt if I had done some terrible wrong. Yet all she said was, "So you know. And yet you cannot forgive?" Could she speak so cooly of it, a thing no lady might admit to know of? I was so stunned that my tongue would not serve me. Then she stood most calmly, looked hard in my eyes, and said, "We are none of us but what God has made us. I did not look, Alexander, to see this from you." And left! With an air, as if I had as good reason to be ashamed of myself as any man who ever lived. I am wretched, and utterly baffled. I cannot imagine what she means by't. We are but what God has made us? He made Serle a pander, and Kate a whore, and I their willing fool! How can she speak of it? Lord, I am well repaid. I have earned this by my evil pleasures. Only have mercy on Martha. I do not know what she believes, but I fear for her virtue in a home with a man like Serle. I must speak to her father on the morrow; it is not friendship to hide this, when her name and honor are at stake. Tuesday, 10th March – And am I not the greatest ass that has ever lived? Wednesday, 11th March – So plain now. How blind, and what a fool! Yet what pleasure, too – that dawning. So I write, and breathe it again. These two nights past, Monday evening – what a man I was. As sore, and sorrowed, and bitten to the heart, as any man 'ere has been. I would not own even to myself how I missed her – and aye, him, who would know my will, and look to my aid unbidden, and take my words with an eagerness that drew them from me like a brook. I had a boy in to aid me until I could find another man, praying to God to send me no heart-scalds like the last. I had him get me a bath, then drove him out, for I could see how his eyes widened and the loathing came into them as I would undress. Was all my strength could do, to tear the garments from me, and pull myself from the chair to the bath, and let myself fall into't. I lay hunched in it by the fire, shivering with the chill but glad of the heat from the flames, working me so variously that it seemed to suit my heart – hot, and cold, and shivering through, and in such misery as I wish never to know again. I do not know how she came – only felt her touch on my shoulder, kneeling behind me. I would turn, but so cramped in the narrow thing – I only felt her lips upon my neck, and knew it was her. My heart and body leapt at her touch, and when I heard her voice soft by my ear, I wanted no other happiness. And yet, her hands caressing me all the while, and stroking upon my neck and shoulders, this is what she said – "Can you not forgive me?" What had I to forgive her? That she bated my lust? That she sold her honor, poor fool, in kindness to me, and to maintain a worthless hound that claimed her kinship? My mind was all in a turmoil, and then – Her hands. Closed strong upon me, kneading the muscles that ached with long sitting, drawing the pain and weariness from them. Strong. Sure. Knowing. His. I trembled. Then let my head fall back, and looked up to her as best I could. She was still in her coat, that I had given her when she came to me as my man. Her hair tied back. Her body hidden in the heavy frieze. Slender. Straight. A face near as pretty as a girl's. With wit, and will, and honest strength, and all the devotion she had shown me, these months past, and silent as to why. Then came Martha's words: "We are none of us but what God has made us." Oh, the ass I was! For she knew. What sacrifice she had made, to come these many nights, who could not bear to see money – or bring to me another, and let her heart be wrung to torment. It was pride even to think it, and yet – her fingers twined in my hair, and her lips pressed to my neck, and I felt her tears as she clung there, kneeling behind me, fierce in sorrow and ... I swear it. Love. What was I to take her? What to refuse? At last some strength came to me and I took her hand, and clung to it, and stammered that I had not known, that I only now was undeceived. Then she came to kneel by me and meet my eyes – that same deep glance, that light and wit, that I had marked in her when I thought her John Serle. So dressed – she was so much him that I half doubted, until she spread my palm, and kissed tenderly, and pressed her head to my hand, as a supplicant. Then I must touch her, and feel her silken hair, and touch the coat that hid her. She put her steady gaze to my own, then took my hand and press'd it frankly to her bosom. Ah, wondrous Kate. She was alive to my touch, so that I could bear it no longer but drew to her with a groan. She gave me her aid, strong and sure as when I thought her my man, and I lay at her bosom, breathing the scent of her skin. Then she drew back to meet my glance, and kissed me. Slow. Deliberate. Unshrinking. As one who sees, and takes, what it is she most desires. What was it, that moment, to be her heart's prize? I cannot say, who marshals words the whole of my life. They are not equal to it. But I kissed her with a hunger deep in my heart, and to feel her shake with it, and press into my hands – how I wanted her, I cannot say. She helped me from the bath. It was strange, to lay my weight upon a woman; but in her coat and breeches, she was still so much my John, that I found the strangeness did not bide. Her arm was strong beneath mine, and more – she was tender now, with a touch that burned in my blood, and a smile, now hopeful, now that she dared hope. We came to the bed and were hardly down upon it 'ere we kissed madly, wanton and joyous, at riot in our release. I saw her at last, clear in the candlelight, her eyes shy a moment, but then strong, earnest, with a passion that struck my heart and left it reeling. Shaking in my hands, I kissed her, and touched her bosom; she groaned and kissed my throat, and my neck, and my ear, and drew off her coat. She was strange in such clothing, a shirt, and breeches, and the coat she threw upon a chair. But my every touch bared her to me; hot with hunger, we soon lay naked to each other, all upon the bed. And then I did touch, and hold her there a long moment – for I would see her, who was hidden from me for so long. All that I had touched, all my lips had met, at last was spread before my eyes – the white curve of her bosom, the rounding of her hips, the golden nest where I longed to find my peace. She was shy of't, and would half hide her face – but I took her wrist, though gently, and drew her look to me. Then she kissed, and put her hands to my body in such welcome as could leave me no wise deceived. She looked long upon me, as if she would drink in the sight, and what words can say what that was – to be look'd upon, with pleasure? I might have lain the whole of the night. But a sweet bank of haws called my lips to them, a drift of white petals that made her bosom, and I sank my kiss at last to her body. Ecstasy, entire – to touch, and see, and hear her, voiced now and trembling, begging softly, and arching her body to me. God had my thanks, that he brought me to this. Then all down her body, the stroke of my hands found her sleek and warm, and her lips sought mine, and we drew together. Was some surprise, that she pressed me gently to my back. But when she stooped to kiss, her breasts brushing my skin, and then slipped astride – God, what eagerness would I not give her. With a dozen hungry kisses she settled upon me, and at last with a groan I came into her with a pleasure that near ended me. All that night we lay loving – hardly sleeping for joy. To wake, and feel her warm beside me – was it not the Divine itself? And yet she has asked, can I forgive her. She is near the fool that I am. Thursday, 19th March – This tale is told – though nowise what I thought it when first it was begun. Kate is by me, and ne'er to move from't, for call'd John Serle she is once more in my hire, and swears not to part again. What else between us, I write upon our lives. It is time this book was ended, nor soiled with the petty stuff of court and gossip. Yet I would not burn it, nor for all the world have any find it. I shall keep it by me, to put me to mind that I have been an ass and a fool, and need not plume myself o'ermuch upon my wit. Yet also for the record of this: that I have met, and keep, such a manservant as none would ever credit.