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 |  |
“A pretty tale,” said I, “friend Arundel,
Prettily told! And I believe it well.
But, how did that majestic servant-maid,
So queenly, so superior to her grade,
And yet so fond of labour, and so fit
By birth and breeding, to indulge in it,
How did she like such novel scenes as these?
The admiration, the luxurious ease,
Which she enjoy'd with you—I mean, with him—
Did they convert her? Did her waist grow slim,
Her large hands smooth and more presentable,
And she herself more apt to sit at table
Among the ladies who admired her so?
Or did she (my alternative, you know)
Did she forsake all this, and run away
Back to her kitchen?”
Prettily told! And I believe it well.
But, how did that majestic servant-maid,
So queenly, so superior to her grade,
And yet so fond of labour, and so fit
By birth and breeding, to indulge in it,
How did she like such novel scenes as these?
The admiration, the luxurious ease,
Which she enjoy'd with you—I mean, with him—
Did they convert her? Did her waist grow slim,
Her large hands smooth and more presentable,
And she herself more apt to sit at table
Among the ladies who admired her so?
Or did she (my alternative, you know)
Did she forsake all this, and run away
Back to her kitchen?”
“I am glad to say,”
Said Arundel with something of reserve,
“That neither happen'd. She had strength and nerve
Of body and of soul, to stand the strain
Of her new life, so long as it was vain
To seek escape from that strange ladyhood:
But, being sensitive, she felt how rude
Her own upbringing was; and what a rent
The apparatus of accomplishment
Which she beheld, whatever way she went,
Would make, in such a nature as her own.
Oh, to be back in service, all alone,
With none to notice what she did or said,
Nor with what toil she won her daily bread,
Nor how uncouth her manners were at meals!
That is her feeling; and she also feels
That she had known no burden, all her life,
So hard as this—to be her husband's wife,
And not allow'd to be his servant too!
‘Dear heart alive, I dunno what to do!’
She said to him; ‘you know, I'd liefer stand
Behind your chair, an' change the plates, an' hand
What dishes you may want, an' call you Sir,
Same as I used to, nor to sit and purr
Like a tame cat, among these gentlefolk!
Bless you, I feel as if I'd got a yoke
Stuck always on my showthers, with it pails,
An' me afeard to spill 'em! Eh, what tales,
What a queer sight o' tales, I've got to tell
When I get back to Jim's! It's terrible
To think o' me among such clever talk,
An' such long words they welly seems to baulk
My wits, an' bash my senses to a maze;
Aye, an' such dainty airs an' mincin ways—
I never seed the like! No, master, no:
I arena fit for 'em,—an' that you know.’
Said Arundel with something of reserve,
“That neither happen'd. She had strength and nerve
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Of her new life, so long as it was vain
To seek escape from that strange ladyhood:
But, being sensitive, she felt how rude
Her own upbringing was; and what a rent
The apparatus of accomplishment
Which she beheld, whatever way she went,
Would make, in such a nature as her own.
Oh, to be back in service, all alone,
With none to notice what she did or said,
Nor with what toil she won her daily bread,
Nor how uncouth her manners were at meals!
That is her feeling; and she also feels
That she had known no burden, all her life,
So hard as this—to be her husband's wife,
And not allow'd to be his servant too!
‘Dear heart alive, I dunno what to do!’
She said to him; ‘you know, I'd liefer stand
Behind your chair, an' change the plates, an' hand
What dishes you may want, an' call you Sir,
Same as I used to, nor to sit and purr
Like a tame cat, among these gentlefolk!
Bless you, I feel as if I'd got a yoke
Stuck always on my showthers, with it pails,
An' me afeard to spill 'em! Eh, what tales,
What a queer sight o' tales, I've got to tell
When I get back to Jim's! It's terrible
To think o' me among such clever talk,
An' such long words they welly seems to baulk
My wits, an' bash my senses to a maze;
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I never seed the like! No, master, no:
I arena fit for 'em,—an' that you know.’
He smiled at her untutor'd vehemence—
Born of a soul that hated all pretence,
And had no guidance save its own plain sense;
He smiled, and said, ‘But we two are alone:
Love is our comrade, and our only one.
You see I always keep you from the taunts
Of such as in these fashionable haunts
Are curious, and would be revenged on you
For your superior beauty, if they knew
That you are not as they are. Truly, dear,
You need not feel anxiety nor fear,
For none of these who criticise and stare
Could once imagine what you really are,
Save that you are my wife.’ ‘Aye, that's the thing,’
Cried she, ‘as frets an' galls me like a sting:
I are your wife, so I mun sit, an' see
Them others do my work, instead o' me!
I munna do a single job for you—
Cleanin or cookin, what I like to do,
Nor waitin neither, easy though it is;
I'm good for nothin. Why, it's come to this—
You winna let me even clean your boots!—
You think to pluck my life up by the roots,
My life an' work an' all my livelihood,
What I ha' said I'd stick to it for good
An' be your servant always? Eh, my lad,
For all thee bist a gentleman, I'm glad
Thou canna do it, nohow. Dun yo' think
As I forget my scullery an' my sink,
An' wants to leave 'em an' be took away
An' rose to be a lady? Nay lad, nay!
What did that lady's maid once say to me,—
The proud un', as spoke French? Her said, says she,
‘You're only fit to live in scullery;
The sink's your toilet, Susan; stick to it—
You'll want no better!’ That was just her wit;
But it was true; an' so I says to her,
‘Yes Ma'am,’ I says; ‘an' that's what I prefer.’
An' so I always says to you, dear heart!
Bless you, I'm not afeard; I've got the start
Of every other servant, in this race:
Aye, I've got you, an' means to keep my place!’
Born of a soul that hated all pretence,
And had no guidance save its own plain sense;
He smiled, and said, ‘But we two are alone:
Love is our comrade, and our only one.
You see I always keep you from the taunts
Of such as in these fashionable haunts
Are curious, and would be revenged on you
For your superior beauty, if they knew
That you are not as they are. Truly, dear,
You need not feel anxiety nor fear,
For none of these who criticise and stare
Could once imagine what you really are,
Save that you are my wife.’ ‘Aye, that's the thing,’
Cried she, ‘as frets an' galls me like a sting:
I are your wife, so I mun sit, an' see
Them others do my work, instead o' me!
I munna do a single job for you—
Cleanin or cookin, what I like to do,
Nor waitin neither, easy though it is;
I'm good for nothin. Why, it's come to this—
You winna let me even clean your boots!—
You think to pluck my life up by the roots,
My life an' work an' all my livelihood,
What I ha' said I'd stick to it for good
An' be your servant always? Eh, my lad,
For all thee bist a gentleman, I'm glad
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As I forget my scullery an' my sink,
An' wants to leave 'em an' be took away
An' rose to be a lady? Nay lad, nay!
What did that lady's maid once say to me,—
The proud un', as spoke French? Her said, says she,
‘You're only fit to live in scullery;
The sink's your toilet, Susan; stick to it—
You'll want no better!’ That was just her wit;
But it was true; an' so I says to her,
‘Yes Ma'am,’ I says; ‘an' that's what I prefer.’
An' so I always says to you, dear heart!
Bless you, I'm not afeard; I've got the start
Of every other servant, in this race:
Aye, I've got you, an' means to keep my place!’
Those were her words,” said Arundel; “and then—
And then—she kiss'd him, and went on again:
‘What, me,’ she said, ‘to think o' giving in
To such a set o' servants as I've sin
At every place we come to? Fid-fad chits,
What seems as they ha' welly lost their wits
A-gossippin wi' any fool they sees!
They canna scrub a floor on hands an' knees,
Nor clean a winder, nor wash out a steen,
Nor blacklead grates—for there's no grates to clean,
I' these outlandish countries wheer we be,
For all their fauseness an' their flummery.
Eh, I ha' watch'd them wenches now for long,
Doin their work, an' doin of it wrong;
An' me, as could ha' done it, traipsin here
As idle as a popinjay. Oh dear!
When will you think o' me, an' be that wise
To take me fairly out o' this disguise,
An' let me don my livery again—
Your livery, my Master—poor an' plain,
What I have always wore?’
And then—she kiss'd him, and went on again:
‘What, me,’ she said, ‘to think o' giving in
To such a set o' servants as I've sin
At every place we come to? Fid-fad chits,
What seems as they ha' welly lost their wits
A-gossippin wi' any fool they sees!
They canna scrub a floor on hands an' knees,
Nor clean a winder, nor wash out a steen,
Nor blacklead grates—for there's no grates to clean,
I' these outlandish countries wheer we be,
For all their fauseness an' their flummery.
Eh, I ha' watch'd them wenches now for long,
Doin their work, an' doin of it wrong;
An' me, as could ha' done it, traipsin here
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When will you think o' me, an' be that wise
To take me fairly out o' this disguise,
An' let me don my livery again—
Your livery, my Master—poor an' plain,
What I have always wore?’
So she ran on,
Time after time; entreating to be gone
From those fair lands of indolence; resolved
That she at least would never be involved
In the gilt meshes of luxurious life.
He loved to listen to his ignorant wife
Thus setting forth in language apt though rude
The larger liberty of servitude;
He loved to hear her soft voice rise and fall,
While its clear tones in accents musical
Rang out for him and reproduced uncheck'd
Quaint phrases of her native dialect,
Quaint sayings of her own; he loved to see
The emphasis, the stout simplicity
Of action, that possess'd her and set free
Such sudden contrasts to her softer charms:
She flung abroad her big laborious arms;
Her warm lips quiver'd and her blue eyes flash'd;
And her strong hands, smitten together, clash'd
Like cymbals, with a hard metallic ring.—
Time after time; entreating to be gone
From those fair lands of indolence; resolved
That she at least would never be involved
In the gilt meshes of luxurious life.
He loved to listen to his ignorant wife
Thus setting forth in language apt though rude
The larger liberty of servitude;
He loved to hear her soft voice rise and fall,
While its clear tones in accents musical
Rang out for him and reproduced uncheck'd
Quaint phrases of her native dialect,
Quaint sayings of her own; he loved to see
The emphasis, the stout simplicity
Of action, that possess'd her and set free
Such sudden contrasts to her softer charms:
She flung abroad her big laborious arms;
Her warm lips quiver'd and her blue eyes flash'd;
And her strong hands, smitten together, clash'd
Like cymbals, with a hard metallic ring.—
A panther of the desert—a wild thing
Not civilised to any common mood—
A woman of God's making! If you could,
You would not pare this rugged shape divine
To the smooth form that we call feminine,
We, nursed in parlours and brought up on pap?
The large live creature, caught as in a trap
By strange privations, strange indulgences,—
All the strict usage of an etiquette
Such as she never dream'd of,—can she yet
Have patience with such novelties as these?
She asks no praise; she scorns to be at ease;
She asks not anything, save Love alone,
And that stern strenuous labour of her own
Which is the free expression of her love.
Sure, he were less than man, who would not move
To meet the wishes of a wife like this!
He owns her love and her: her every kiss,
And all her best endearments, are for him:
Nay, each apt effort of each hardy limb
Has his love for its motive. Shall he then
From fear of censure, or for praise of men,
Still strive to break this ardent nature in,
By rules she hates, and ways that seem like sin
To her robust untutor'd womanhood?
She is already beautiful and good:
And shall she risk the dangers of a class
That would despise her and think him an ass
For loving such as she is? Well he knows
Her love is like its perfume to the rose—
Part of herself: 'tis inexhaustible,
Boundless and fathomless; as deep as hell,
As high and pure as heaven. And her reward
Is, that he loves her though her hands are hard,
And that her treasure, in its earthen mould,
Shall be as highly honour'd, and shall hold
As fair a place, as if its vase were gold.
Not civilised to any common mood—
A woman of God's making! If you could,
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To the smooth form that we call feminine,
We, nursed in parlours and brought up on pap?
The large live creature, caught as in a trap
By strange privations, strange indulgences,—
All the strict usage of an etiquette
Such as she never dream'd of,—can she yet
Have patience with such novelties as these?
She asks no praise; she scorns to be at ease;
She asks not anything, save Love alone,
And that stern strenuous labour of her own
Which is the free expression of her love.
Sure, he were less than man, who would not move
To meet the wishes of a wife like this!
He owns her love and her: her every kiss,
And all her best endearments, are for him:
Nay, each apt effort of each hardy limb
Has his love for its motive. Shall he then
From fear of censure, or for praise of men,
Still strive to break this ardent nature in,
By rules she hates, and ways that seem like sin
To her robust untutor'd womanhood?
She is already beautiful and good:
And shall she risk the dangers of a class
That would despise her and think him an ass
For loving such as she is? Well he knows
Her love is like its perfume to the rose—
Part of herself: 'tis inexhaustible,
Boundless and fathomless; as deep as hell,
As high and pure as heaven. And her reward
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And that her treasure, in its earthen mould,
Shall be as highly honour'd, and shall hold
As fair a place, as if its vase were gold.
Thus then he ended this long argument:
Rising, he took her in his arms, and sent
Through all the pulses of her broad firm breast
A sense that she had conquer'd, and was blest.
‘Oh,’ she exclaim'd, with such a countenance
As when some maiden, eager for the dance,
Takes her first plunge in that enchanting whirl
(And this fond creature also was a girl)
‘Oh, what a blessed thing! You've set me free:
Thank Goodness, Master, I shall coom to be
Myself again at last, an' never more
Pretend to be a lady! I ha' bore
A deal o' fine folks' coompany, for you:
Eh, how I've suffer'd! For you know it's true
I hate pretending.’ Kisses plump and warm
Confirm'd that truth; then she upon his arm
Descended bravely to the table-d' hôte,
Not now confused or sad: her graceful throat
Throbb'd with the pleasure of a newborn hope—
The hope of finding exercise and scope
For her own talents, and becoming soon
No silken saunterer in a gay saloon,
But a good servant, working underground.
Rising, he took her in his arms, and sent
Through all the pulses of her broad firm breast
A sense that she had conquer'd, and was blest.
‘Oh,’ she exclaim'd, with such a countenance
As when some maiden, eager for the dance,
Takes her first plunge in that enchanting whirl
(And this fond creature also was a girl)
‘Oh, what a blessed thing! You've set me free:
Thank Goodness, Master, I shall coom to be
Myself again at last, an' never more
Pretend to be a lady! I ha' bore
A deal o' fine folks' coompany, for you:
Eh, how I've suffer'd! For you know it's true
I hate pretending.’ Kisses plump and warm
Confirm'd that truth; then she upon his arm
Descended bravely to the table-d' hôte,
Not now confused or sad: her graceful throat
Throbb'd with the pleasure of a newborn hope—
The hope of finding exercise and scope
For her own talents, and becoming soon
No silken saunterer in a gay saloon,
But a good servant, working underground.
| Susan | |