Susan A poem of degrees. By the author of "Dorothy: a country story in elegiac verse," "Vulgar verses," etc. [i.e. A. J. Munby] |
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 | Susan |  |
“But, Arundel,” said I, “what was the end
Of this romance? Did the stout serving-lass
Keep her resolve, and stay in her own class,
While her superior husband stay'd in his?
Was he content to leave her as she is—
As you have left her—drudging all unknown
Down in his kitchen, whilst he held his own
Among fair ladies on the tennis lawn?
Or did she come, reluctantly withdrawn
From servile tasks, and standing at his side
Arouse the indignation and the pride
Of all that fashionable loveliness
By her rough aspect, and her kitchen dress,
Her bare red arms, and many another sign
That she was one whom they must all decline
To visit or to recognise? ‘He dare
To bring that unaccustom'd creature there,
Who, though good-looking certainly and tall,
Was nothing but a menial, after all!’
Ah yes—I fancy I can see her stand
With that one ring upon her big brown hand,
While he, politely bending over it
As if she were a lady, in his fit
Of love, says most ungallantly, ‘I fear
You may be somewhat startled, ladies dear,
But what I tell you is exactly true:
This is the woman I prefer to you;
This is my wife—a servant!’”
Of this romance? Did the stout serving-lass
Keep her resolve, and stay in her own class,
While her superior husband stay'd in his?
Was he content to leave her as she is—
As you have left her—drudging all unknown
Down in his kitchen, whilst he held his own
Among fair ladies on the tennis lawn?
Or did she come, reluctantly withdrawn
From servile tasks, and standing at his side
Arouse the indignation and the pride
Of all that fashionable loveliness
By her rough aspect, and her kitchen dress,
Her bare red arms, and many another sign
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To visit or to recognise? ‘He dare
To bring that unaccustom'd creature there,
Who, though good-looking certainly and tall,
Was nothing but a menial, after all!’
Ah yes—I fancy I can see her stand
With that one ring upon her big brown hand,
While he, politely bending over it
As if she were a lady, in his fit
Of love, says most ungallantly, ‘I fear
You may be somewhat startled, ladies dear,
But what I tell you is exactly true:
This is the woman I prefer to you;
This is my wife—a servant!’”
Arundel
Look'd up and smiled; as if he too could tell
How nearly I had happen'd on the truth;
But he replied, “Oh no, ingenuous youth!
The man I spoke of did not mar his life,
Nor do such despite to his low-born wife,
As to produce her that way. In a word,
I'll tell you what I happen to have heard
About his marriage, not so long ago.
Look'd up and smiled; as if he too could tell
How nearly I had happen'd on the truth;
But he replied, “Oh no, ingenuous youth!
The man I spoke of did not mar his life,
Nor do such despite to his low-born wife,
As to produce her that way. In a word,
I'll tell you what I happen to have heard
About his marriage, not so long ago.
He could not, dared not, let his own folk know,
So none of them were present: as for hers,
Her sisters and her brothers—labourers
And servants like herself—they all were there
In the old church at Hazelhurst, to share
In giving up the maiden whom they loved
To that one man whom she and they approved,
Though he was not of their sort; for they knew
He loved her purely, and his love was true.
It was a rustic wedding. What she wore
Confess'd her station, and proclaim'd once more
Her love for it. She wore no gloves, no veil,
No ornament, no flowers; but none could fail
To like her simple bonnet, her neat cloak,
Her plain stuff gown; and even gentlefolk
Might surely now admire her shapely hands,
Large as they were, since the disfiguring brands
Of daily labour had been scrubb'd away
For once, in honour of her wedding-day
And of that ring she soon would have to wear.
So none of them were present: as for hers,
Her sisters and her brothers—labourers
And servants like herself—they all were there
In the old church at Hazelhurst, to share
In giving up the maiden whom they loved
To that one man whom she and they approved,
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He loved her purely, and his love was true.
It was a rustic wedding. What she wore
Confess'd her station, and proclaim'd once more
Her love for it. She wore no gloves, no veil,
No ornament, no flowers; but none could fail
To like her simple bonnet, her neat cloak,
Her plain stuff gown; and even gentlefolk
Might surely now admire her shapely hands,
Large as they were, since the disfiguring brands
Of daily labour had been scrubb'd away
For once, in honour of her wedding-day
And of that ring she soon would have to wear.
She look'd as charming and she look'd as rare
As on that other day at Hazelhurst
When he who now possess'd her, saw her first,
Walking alone, on homely errands bent;
Silent, yet in herself most eloquent—
And wonder'd much who such a girl might be.
She walk'd erect, with grace and dignity;
And yet she was a servant, he could see:
Her round and ruddy arms were wholly bare,
And she was drest as other servants are,
White-capp'd, white-apron'd; and the cotton print
That mask'd her queenly figure, gave no hint
That she could be a lady in disguise.
But yet, her rosy mouth and clear blue eyes
Had more of purpose, nobler character,
Than a mere peasant's: one might well infer
That some august progenitor in her
Had reappear'd; so delicate and fine
Her features were, so proudly aquiline.
As on that other day at Hazelhurst
When he who now possess'd her, saw her first,
Walking alone, on homely errands bent;
Silent, yet in herself most eloquent—
And wonder'd much who such a girl might be.
She walk'd erect, with grace and dignity;
And yet she was a servant, he could see:
Her round and ruddy arms were wholly bare,
And she was drest as other servants are,
White-capp'd, white-apron'd; and the cotton print
That mask'd her queenly figure, gave no hint
That she could be a lady in disguise.
But yet, her rosy mouth and clear blue eyes
Had more of purpose, nobler character,
Than a mere peasant's: one might well infer
That some august progenitor in her
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Her features were, so proudly aquiline.
Ah, surely, she, now wedded to her love,
And he a man in rank at least above
Her birth and calling, would at last begin
To feel her new position, and take in
The sweetness of its leisure; and perceive
That she had reach'd the land of Make-believe,
And must be mistress of her lord's abode
And whirl with him along the broad high road
That leads to Fashion, to Society!
Yes, she will like the change, no doubt. Not she!
She wants no change; she hates the thought of change.
Her range is bounded by the kitchen-range,
And asks no wider tether. When he came
To seek his bride, he found her just the same
As yesterday; a waiting-maid stood there,
Ready to serve behind her husband's chair,
And hand the dishes, and uncork the wine!
‘What, is it thus,’ said he, ‘I am to dine
Upon our wedding-day? Why have you laid
One cover only? Are you still afraid
To sit beside me, now you are my wife,
Named by my name, and one with me for life?’
He open'd out his arms; and she came near,
And, clasp'd within them, whisper'd ‘Massa dear,
I dunna wish to be nought else, you know,
Nor what I was afore; I told you so:
Call me your bride, or call me what you will,
I only feel I are your servant still!’
And he a man in rank at least above
Her birth and calling, would at last begin
To feel her new position, and take in
The sweetness of its leisure; and perceive
That she had reach'd the land of Make-believe,
And must be mistress of her lord's abode
And whirl with him along the broad high road
That leads to Fashion, to Society!
Yes, she will like the change, no doubt. Not she!
She wants no change; she hates the thought of change.
Her range is bounded by the kitchen-range,
And asks no wider tether. When he came
To seek his bride, he found her just the same
As yesterday; a waiting-maid stood there,
Ready to serve behind her husband's chair,
And hand the dishes, and uncork the wine!
‘What, is it thus,’ said he, ‘I am to dine
Upon our wedding-day? Why have you laid
One cover only? Are you still afraid
To sit beside me, now you are my wife,
Named by my name, and one with me for life?’
He open'd out his arms; and she came near,
And, clasp'd within them, whisper'd ‘Massa dear,
I dunna wish to be nought else, you know,
Nor what I was afore; I told you so:
Call me your bride, or call me what you will,
I only feel I are your servant still!’
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That day, they dined on little else than love.
And he, intent to soften or remove
Her dread of things that she had never known,
Intent to show that she was all his own,
And by her right of wedlock, now should be
If not a lady, yet as good as he,
Respected for her own sake and for his—
He, arm'd with many a soft persuasive kiss,
At last prevail'd; yet only half prevail'd.
She murmur'd, and she pleaded, and she quail'd,
At the bare thought of going out with him,
Drest up so smart, and forced to be so prim,
And kept away from all she loved to do
For him and for herself; and fearing too
That in her ignorance she might disgrace
The man she loved, and shame him to his face.
‘At least, yo' munna let 'em see my hands,’
Said she; ‘'cause them as sees 'em, understands
How you an' me is different, like afore.
Lend me your gloves, a pair as you have wore—
They'd do, when you ha' stretch'd 'em out a bit!’
And he, intent to soften or remove
Her dread of things that she had never known,
Intent to show that she was all his own,
And by her right of wedlock, now should be
If not a lady, yet as good as he,
Respected for her own sake and for his—
He, arm'd with many a soft persuasive kiss,
At last prevail'd; yet only half prevail'd.
She murmur'd, and she pleaded, and she quail'd,
At the bare thought of going out with him,
Drest up so smart, and forced to be so prim,
And kept away from all she loved to do
For him and for herself; and fearing too
That in her ignorance she might disgrace
The man she loved, and shame him to his face.
‘At least, yo' munna let 'em see my hands,’
Said she; ‘'cause them as sees 'em, understands
How you an' me is different, like afore.
Lend me your gloves, a pair as you have wore—
They'd do, when you ha' stretch'd 'em out a bit!’
Alas, poor soul! She never thought of it,
But gloves like his, so masculine in size,
Suited but ill the lady-like disguise
In which he had her clothed: such draperies
As, till that hour, she never had endured.
But, when she donn'd them, and was well assured
That this must be, she set herself at once
To play the clever wife, and not the dunce;
And do him credit, in her new attire,
Just as she did beside the kitchen fire.
But gloves like his, so masculine in size,
Suited but ill the lady-like disguise
In which he had her clothed: such draperies
As, till that hour, she never had endured.
But, when she donn'd them, and was well assured
That this must be, she set herself at once
To play the clever wife, and not the dunce;
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Just as she did beside the kitchen fire.
| Susan | |