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.