like itself. To English Empire fashions she added such foreign touches as cowry shells and iridescent beetles’ wings, whilst her African robes frequently sounded such non-African notes as sable collars, or gold sailor buttons. On most people, such fanciful details would have seemed outlandish, but on Feben they always looked stunning.
“I was blessed, at my christening, by my fairy godmother,” she explained, “who gave me the gift of good taste.”
Feben not only dressed in a variety of different ways, but also spoke and acted according to her mood. She could easily slip from the beautifully modulated Abyssinian accent of her parents to vulgar London street vernacular, veering from delicate to crude in the blink of an eye. These quicksilver changes unnerved some of her friends, and she was frequently asked why she found it necessary to affect so many different disguises.
“They are not dis guises,” Feben explained. “They are pan guises. None of us is really a single entity; every individual is a thousand different people. A mob can overthrow a king, repulse an invasion, or celebrate a holiday with universal abandon. Human beings may act as one, because we are one; we are all of us interchangeable with everybody else. So why do we limit ourselves to the same look, the same personality, day after day? If I dress like an aristocrat, it is because I am an aristocrat. When I talk like a fishwife, nothing could be more natural, for that is what I am. The truly strange thing for a human being, the real disguise, would be to suddenly start behaving like a canary, or a tomato worm.”
There was something about Feben that implied that she dwelt on a higher plane than you did, in a place where the standards were much stricter than you could possibly imagine or live up to, and Arabella found her slightly intimidating. At finishing school, Feben had been elected the girl most likely to marry an ambassador.
The treasurer, on the other hand, was a loafer and a sloucher, who, in repose, liked to prop her feet up on tables. But once Amy Golder-Green came out of doors, she was grace personified. Amy was an all-round athlete, who, with her lion’s mane of golden hair, rather put one in mind of the goddess Diana, except for the chastity part. Amy preferred to dress like a man, but could never be mistaken for one. In any event, it scarcely mattered, for this in no way diminished her attraction for the opposite sex. In some cases, it even enhanced it.
“I would like to propose Lady Caroline Lamb for membership,” said Amy, resting one tasseled Hessian boot on the opposite buckskinned knee.
“She isn’t a courtesan,” Arabella replied.
“Well, not technically, perhaps, but she certainly behaves like one of us. So, what shall it be, ladies? Yea or nay?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Arabella. “She shares our glamour, but incurs none of our risks or disadvantages. Besides, the woman is tediously unstable. If we admit her, we shall be obliged to spend all our time in trying to soothe her frequent bouts of hysteria.”
“Why not put it to a vote?” asked Feben diplomatically.
“Why should we?” countered Arabella. “This is a courtesans’ club, and she is not a courtesan. Let us proceed to the next item.”
Arabella was the CS president. No surprises there. But the secretary and treasurer glanced at one another sidelong: If she persisted with this high-handed, dictatorial attitude, the club was destined for failure. Arabella may have been queen of her own establishment, but she needed to realize that the other members were also monarchs in their own right.
“I have here,” said the president, unrolling a print-sized version of her Birds of Paradise etching, “my design for the Cyprian Society’s calling cards. Subject to your approval, each of our members will initially receive a packet of three hundred.”
The officers inspected and approved the design, but voted two to one against Arabella’s motto,
“I was blessed, at my christening, by my fairy godmother,” she explained, “who gave me the gift of good taste.”
Feben not only dressed in a variety of different ways, but also spoke and acted according to her mood. She could easily slip from the beautifully modulated Abyssinian accent of her parents to vulgar London street vernacular, veering from delicate to crude in the blink of an eye. These quicksilver changes unnerved some of her friends, and she was frequently asked why she found it necessary to affect so many different disguises.
“They are not dis guises,” Feben explained. “They are pan guises. None of us is really a single entity; every individual is a thousand different people. A mob can overthrow a king, repulse an invasion, or celebrate a holiday with universal abandon. Human beings may act as one, because we are one; we are all of us interchangeable with everybody else. So why do we limit ourselves to the same look, the same personality, day after day? If I dress like an aristocrat, it is because I am an aristocrat. When I talk like a fishwife, nothing could be more natural, for that is what I am. The truly strange thing for a human being, the real disguise, would be to suddenly start behaving like a canary, or a tomato worm.”
There was something about Feben that implied that she dwelt on a higher plane than you did, in a place where the standards were much stricter than you could possibly imagine or live up to, and Arabella found her slightly intimidating. At finishing school, Feben had been elected the girl most likely to marry an ambassador.
The treasurer, on the other hand, was a loafer and a sloucher, who, in repose, liked to prop her feet up on tables. But once Amy Golder-Green came out of doors, she was grace personified. Amy was an all-round athlete, who, with her lion’s mane of golden hair, rather put one in mind of the goddess Diana, except for the chastity part. Amy preferred to dress like a man, but could never be mistaken for one. In any event, it scarcely mattered, for this in no way diminished her attraction for the opposite sex. In some cases, it even enhanced it.
“I would like to propose Lady Caroline Lamb for membership,” said Amy, resting one tasseled Hessian boot on the opposite buckskinned knee.
“She isn’t a courtesan,” Arabella replied.
“Well, not technically, perhaps, but she certainly behaves like one of us. So, what shall it be, ladies? Yea or nay?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Arabella. “She shares our glamour, but incurs none of our risks or disadvantages. Besides, the woman is tediously unstable. If we admit her, we shall be obliged to spend all our time in trying to soothe her frequent bouts of hysteria.”
“Why not put it to a vote?” asked Feben diplomatically.
“Why should we?” countered Arabella. “This is a courtesans’ club, and she is not a courtesan. Let us proceed to the next item.”
Arabella was the CS president. No surprises there. But the secretary and treasurer glanced at one another sidelong: If she persisted with this high-handed, dictatorial attitude, the club was destined for failure. Arabella may have been queen of her own establishment, but she needed to realize that the other members were also monarchs in their own right.
“I have here,” said the president, unrolling a print-sized version of her Birds of Paradise etching, “my design for the Cyprian Society’s calling cards. Subject to your approval, each of our members will initially receive a packet of three hundred.”
The officers inspected and approved the design, but voted two to one against Arabella’s motto,
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