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 |  |
Such was the story. In his wide armchair
Sat Arundel; who told it with an air
Of sad mysterious gravity; of hope
Still tentative, yet of unusual scope
And unexpected promise. And so well,
With such familiar knowledge, did he tell
The tale of that fair woman's character,
One could but think him wedded—and to her.
For courtesy, I dared not say De te—
(A phrase ambiguous, as you surely see)
But still, I wish'd to know the very truth,
And lead him to confession. In our youth
We framed and shared strange views of women's work:
How a divinest woman need not shirk
The meanest, rudest calling; how that she
Who spends her days in household drudgery,
Or toils afield, or in the swarthy mine,
Or at the forge, may still be feminine
And noble, and most lovable and pure,
Gaining the while robustness to endure
The charge of wifehood and of motherhood.
What if her hands are hard, her life but rude?
She can subdue the rigour of her lot
By a strong nature, that disdains it not
Or glories in the labour it disdains,
Using her muscles to employ her brains.
Sat Arundel; who told it with an air
Of sad mysterious gravity; of hope
Still tentative, yet of unusual scope
And unexpected promise. And so well,
With such familiar knowledge, did he tell
The tale of that fair woman's character,
One could but think him wedded—and to her.
For courtesy, I dared not say De te—
(A phrase ambiguous, as you surely see)
But still, I wish'd to know the very truth,
And lead him to confession. In our youth
We framed and shared strange views of women's work:
How a divinest woman need not shirk
The meanest, rudest calling; how that she
Who spends her days in household drudgery,
Or toils afield, or in the swarthy mine,
Or at the forge, may still be feminine
And noble, and most lovable and pure,
Gaining the while robustness to endure
The charge of wifehood and of motherhood.
What if her hands are hard, her life but rude?
She can subdue the rigour of her lot
By a strong nature, that disdains it not
Or glories in the labour it disdains,
Using her muscles to employ her brains.
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Perhaps this Susan was of such a kind;
A woman form'd and fashion'd to his mind
By him, the new Pygmalion—but who wrought
Unwisely at the model of his thought;
For the rough marble, so constrain'd to live,
Refused that polish he had wish'd to give?
Well—I admired at least her homely sense,
Her fortitude, her hatred of pretence,
Her beauty, and her hot heroic heart
That clung to her own class, and would not part—
No, not for him to whom she was so true—
With the stern duties she was born to do.
A woman form'd and fashion'd to his mind
By him, the new Pygmalion—but who wrought
Unwisely at the model of his thought;
For the rough marble, so constrain'd to live,
Refused that polish he had wish'd to give?
Well—I admired at least her homely sense,
Her fortitude, her hatred of pretence,
Her beauty, and her hot heroic heart
That clung to her own class, and would not part—
No, not for him to whom she was so true—
With the stern duties she was born to do.
Thus then, half jesting, I at length began:—
“That was a striking creature! And the man,
The husband, his too was no common case:
Not merely captive to a pretty face,
But bent on giving that fair misplaced soul
The charm of culture and of self-control;
Prompt to endow her with whate'er she lack'd,
And yet defeated in the very act
By her own purpose—her resolve to prove
Only a servant, with a servant's love
For him she call'd her Master. But as yet
The sequel is not told. You do forget,
Perhaps, that famed adventure of the bear,
That broke off in the middle?”
“That was a striking creature! And the man,
The husband, his too was no common case:
Not merely captive to a pretty face,
But bent on giving that fair misplaced soul
The charm of culture and of self-control;
Prompt to endow her with whate'er she lack'd,
And yet defeated in the very act
By her own purpose—her resolve to prove
Only a servant, with a servant's love
For him she call'd her Master. But as yet
The sequel is not told. You do forget,
Perhaps, that famed adventure of the bear,
That broke off in the middle?”
“Do you care,”
Said Arundel, “to know the rest, my friend?”
“Oh yes!” said I; “each novel has an end,
And this is very novel: 'tis too soon
To close your story with the honeymoon—
So strangely spent, too! Did she still desire
To dwell beside her husband's kitchen-fire;
Or did his wife consent to go up higher?”
“That,” said my host, “will presently appear.
But I must tell you, 'tis not yet a year
Since all this happen'd; we are still afloat
And in mid-ocean; and the little boat
Sits gallantly, with her and him aboard,
And no one else: but can such craft afford
To take in others? Many a passenger
Would scoff at him; and few would sail with her.
But you shall see her. I have long since felt
That you perceive my heroine has dwelt
Under this roof; and that you do not fail
To find in me the hero of my tale.
Yes; this is my experimental life;
And Susan is my servant—and my wife!”
Said Arundel, “to know the rest, my friend?”
“Oh yes!” said I; “each novel has an end,
And this is very novel: 'tis too soon
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So strangely spent, too! Did she still desire
To dwell beside her husband's kitchen-fire;
Or did his wife consent to go up higher?”
“That,” said my host, “will presently appear.
But I must tell you, 'tis not yet a year
Since all this happen'd; we are still afloat
And in mid-ocean; and the little boat
Sits gallantly, with her and him aboard,
And no one else: but can such craft afford
To take in others? Many a passenger
Would scoff at him; and few would sail with her.
But you shall see her. I have long since felt
That you perceive my heroine has dwelt
Under this roof; and that you do not fail
To find in me the hero of my tale.
Yes; this is my experimental life;
And Susan is my servant—and my wife!”
“And do your other servants know,” I said,
“That she is now the mistress, not the maid?”
“That she is now the mistress, not the maid?”
“Oh yes—for they are of her kith and kin;
And her unique position seems to win
Respect for her, in kitchen company.
'Tis true, they envy her; they ask her ‘Why,
Why won't you be a lady? Him and you
Was wed in church, an' us was theer to view—
Why don't you live like equals, and sit down
Wi' him to dinner, in a satin gown?’
And Susan answers, ‘I are none such fool!
I mean to live wi' him by that same rule
As I was bred to; for ye see, I hate
To be wi' ladies, or to sit in state.
I'd liefer live i' kitchen here, wi' yo'.
Still, I are with him as his wife, ye know,
An' if he wants my coompany, he rings,
Or tells me when I take away the things.’
And her unique position seems to win
Respect for her, in kitchen company.
'Tis true, they envy her; they ask her ‘Why,
Why won't you be a lady? Him and you
Was wed in church, an' us was theer to view—
Why don't you live like equals, and sit down
Wi' him to dinner, in a satin gown?’
And Susan answers, ‘I are none such fool!
I mean to live wi' him by that same rule
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To be wi' ladies, or to sit in state.
I'd liefer live i' kitchen here, wi' yo'.
Still, I are with him as his wife, ye know,
An' if he wants my coompany, he rings,
Or tells me when I take away the things.’
Such are her views of marriage! Rather, say
That she propounds her views in this blunt way
To hide the deep devotion that she feels
For him who loves her, and who ne'er conceals
His passion for the labourer in her.
You do me more than justice, worthy sir,
Concerning culture: she already knows
A good deal more than you perhaps suppose,
Aye, all that she has need of; and her wit,
Her untaught wit, can jump with mine, and hit
The mark at which my own would have her aim.
No: I confess I like her double fame,
As a strong servant, a most willing drudge,
And yet a clever woman, who can judge
Of beauty, and of literary skill
(She can do that too—wonder, if you will)
And can enjoy the higher forms of art,
Yet keep her humble ways, her rustic heart,
And be to me—no fashionable wife,
But one who fills the compass of my life,
From highest needs to lowest, with her powers.
None but myself can know our evening hours
Of full companionship; to other men,
And to all women, she becomes again
A servant, talking as a servant should,
And shunning aught that smacks of ladyhood.
I wish'd to make a lady of her—true:
But that was just to see if men like you,
And ladies like your wife, could understand
An Odalisque so fitted to command,
Yet only born to serve: and I would know
If she, so uninstructed and so low,
Could rise to new occasions, and appear
Born in the purple of another sphere.
She did: she show'd me what she might have been
Had Nature and had Fortune changed the scene;
She proved herself right worthy to become
The gracious mistress of a wealthy home:
Yet she preferr'd her own home—underground!
Well—since she does so, am not I too bound
To share her preference, and give her leave,
Being what she is, to please herself and weave
Her web of daily duties as she will?
She is my wife and eke my servant, still,
Though the world blame us both, and take it ill
That nevermore will she consent to try
With me, the pleasures of society.
That she propounds her views in this blunt way
To hide the deep devotion that she feels
For him who loves her, and who ne'er conceals
His passion for the labourer in her.
You do me more than justice, worthy sir,
Concerning culture: she already knows
A good deal more than you perhaps suppose,
Aye, all that she has need of; and her wit,
Her untaught wit, can jump with mine, and hit
The mark at which my own would have her aim.
No: I confess I like her double fame,
As a strong servant, a most willing drudge,
And yet a clever woman, who can judge
Of beauty, and of literary skill
(She can do that too—wonder, if you will)
And can enjoy the higher forms of art,
Yet keep her humble ways, her rustic heart,
And be to me—no fashionable wife,
But one who fills the compass of my life,
From highest needs to lowest, with her powers.
None but myself can know our evening hours
Of full companionship; to other men,
And to all women, she becomes again
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And shunning aught that smacks of ladyhood.
I wish'd to make a lady of her—true:
But that was just to see if men like you,
And ladies like your wife, could understand
An Odalisque so fitted to command,
Yet only born to serve: and I would know
If she, so uninstructed and so low,
Could rise to new occasions, and appear
Born in the purple of another sphere.
She did: she show'd me what she might have been
Had Nature and had Fortune changed the scene;
She proved herself right worthy to become
The gracious mistress of a wealthy home:
Yet she preferr'd her own home—underground!
Well—since she does so, am not I too bound
To share her preference, and give her leave,
Being what she is, to please herself and weave
Her web of daily duties as she will?
She is my wife and eke my servant, still,
Though the world blame us both, and take it ill
That nevermore will she consent to try
With me, the pleasures of society.
But I forget: she's waiting now below,
Till I shall ring for tea. You must not show,
By word or look, that she is more to me
Than any other servant. We shall see
How she behaves; and my behaviour too
Depends on hers. She comes to wait on you;
Not to be gazed at, not to be made known,
Or spoken to, or order'd to sit down,
Or introduced as Madame Arundel:
To call her that, would be to sound the knell
Of your acquaintance with my servant-wife;
She has been known as Susan, all her life,
And you must call her Susan. As for her,
You are my friend, and she will call you Sir.
No matter! We shall not disgrace ourselves:
No need to leave our manners on the shelves,
Nor quite forget that Susan bears my name,
Though she declines to be a drawing-room dame.”
Till I shall ring for tea. You must not show,
By word or look, that she is more to me
Than any other servant. We shall see
How she behaves; and my behaviour too
Depends on hers. She comes to wait on you;
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Or spoken to, or order'd to sit down,
Or introduced as Madame Arundel:
To call her that, would be to sound the knell
Of your acquaintance with my servant-wife;
She has been known as Susan, all her life,
And you must call her Susan. As for her,
You are my friend, and she will call you Sir.
No matter! We shall not disgrace ourselves:
No need to leave our manners on the shelves,
Nor quite forget that Susan bears my name,
Though she declines to be a drawing-room dame.”
| Susan | |