Free Fanny by Erica Jong

the Means of getting it causes us to detest ourselves? Wealth is nothing but the Oil which allows the Wheels of the World to turn.
    So I reason’d then and so I reason now; and the Fates surely must have approv’d my Journey, for they arranged it that the Groom and the Stable-Boys were off in the Meadows exercising two prize Arabian Stallions which Lord Bellars wisht to race at Newmarket the following Year, and I was able to saddle my own dear Horse, Lustre, and make my Escape without anyone being the wiser.
    How I lov’d that Horse! He was my first, and I shall ne’er forget his rich chestnut Colour, his silken Coat, the Blaze upon his Forehead, and the dear white Stocking upon his left Leg—as if he had stumbl’d into a Bucket of white Paint. He was fleet, too, tho’ I should ne’er take him to a Race-Meeting and let all sorts of scurvy Blackguards lay Wagers upon his Flesh. No, to me a Horse was more than an Excuse for Gaming. A Horse was sleek as the Wind, Grace itself; in short, ’twas entirely clear to me why the Ancients had identified Horse with Poesy. Moreo’er, one of the chief Things I had learnt at the Knee of my Step-Mother was the very tender Sensibilities of our four-legged Friends. Thus I ne’er fail’d to converse sensibly with Lustre, to inform him of the Purpose of our Journey, and he always serv’d me better for that Reason, because I honour’d him as a Rational Creature.
    For mark you, Belinda, Dean Swift (about whose personal Proclivities I shall have more to say later) was entirely right about Horses! Compar’d to their orderly, rational Behaviour, we Humans do, i’faith, appear as Yahoos. Who can be more sympathetick towards the Trials and Tribulations of Love than a loyal Horse (unless it be a loyal Dog)? And who can listen with more Affection to one’s Woes than a Member of either of those noble Races of Creatures which we, in our o’erweening Hubris, dare to term sub-human? I avow that we , rather, are sub-equine and sub-canine!
    What Heavenly Bliss to gallop across the English Meadows upon a June Morning, talking to one’s Horse! What a perfect Cure for the Vapours! Ne’er did I mount Lustre without Exhilaration, and ne’er did I gallop upon his Back, the Wind at my Ears, without a Sense of Freedom so compleat it banish’d all Melancholia. Yet suddenly I remember’d this was no ordinary Morning Gallop, but my very last Morning at Home, whereupon the Tears began to flow as if they should ne’er cease!
    Adieu! Adieu! Sweet Home of my Youth, and all the Safety I e’er have known! I began then to brood upon the terrible Tales I’d heard told of London, Tales of Highwaymen and Bawds, of Robbers disguis’d as Dealers in Hair or old Clothes, or Procuresses disguis’d as Housekeepers or Decent Matrons. I’faith, I was upon the very Point of turning back when I harshly commanded myself to cease weeping and be brave. Whereupon my old Determination did not fail me (for I had learnt e’en then the curious Knack of commanding myself to appear courageous in the Face of Fear—and lo and behold, the Pretence of Courage almost created it!).
    I had travell’d but little about the Countryside in my younger Years, yet I knew that if I could make my Way to the Bath Road, I should be able to follow it easily enough to London. Certainly I fear’d the Highwaymen that infested the Roads to London, and certainly I knew that they grew more num’rous as one approach’d the Metropolis, but I forced myself to feel a certain Safety, dress’d as a Man. Perhaps, as I remarkt to Lustre, ’twas a false Safety. But there is nothing quite so liberating as being free of the Fear of Ravishment—which, unless she dresses as a Man, a Woman can ne’er, not e’en for a Moment, forget. Besides, there is an Exhilaration in leaving off one’s Hoops and Petticoats and wearing Breeches. And there is a Freedom in Disguise that one ne’er knows when one appears as oneself.
    “Can you conceive that,