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 |  |
He rang the bell. A minute of suspense;
A gentle knock; and with most curious sense
Of incongruity, I saw at last
The woman for whose sake my friend had pass'd
Out of the greater world; content to live
Far from such pleasures as it has to give.
She enter'd, with the modest mien demure
Of a train'd servant, who can well endure
To know that neither for her comeliness
(If she be comely) nor her artless dress
Nor her demeanour, is she aught to you;
Save for the sake of what she comes to do.
You ring—she brings the tea-tray or the coals;
She mends the fire; she serves the breakfast-rolls
In their hot napkin; with unnoticed arts
She does each stated task, and then departs
And no one misses her: none check their talk
For her, unless indeed they wish to baulk
Her ears of news that servants should not hear.
A gentle knock; and with most curious sense
Of incongruity, I saw at last
The woman for whose sake my friend had pass'd
Out of the greater world; content to live
Far from such pleasures as it has to give.
She enter'd, with the modest mien demure
Of a train'd servant, who can well endure
To know that neither for her comeliness
(If she be comely) nor her artless dress
Nor her demeanour, is she aught to you;
Save for the sake of what she comes to do.
You ring—she brings the tea-tray or the coals;
She mends the fire; she serves the breakfast-rolls
In their hot napkin; with unnoticed arts
She does each stated task, and then departs
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For her, unless indeed they wish to baulk
Her ears of news that servants should not hear.
Thus Susan enter'd; and 'twas very clear
She wish'd to be unnoticed. At the door,
She blush'd and curtsy'd; and the tray she bore
Shook for a moment, in her sinewy hands.
She set it down, like one who understands
Her duties well; and with minute display
Arranged the cups—then wish'd herself away.
I knew she wish'd it; for I saw her looks
Glance toward her husband bending o'er his books
As if he did not see her. So she stay'd,
Unwillingly, and as it were afraid
To vex him by retiring. In the glass
I saw her figure: what a servant-lass,
And what a queen of womanhood, was there!
Tall and robust; by labour bronzed, yet fair;
With large blue eyes, and soft abundant hair
Hid by her housemaid's cap, whose snowy white
Made all her rosy blushes glow more bright;
Robust and tall, yet lissom and refined
In shape, her large limbs suited well the mind
That spoke expressive in her noble face.
No servile soul was there; no kitchen grace
Inspired her movements: she was one of those
Who in the lowliest station never lose
Their primal sense of woman's dignity.
True, she was humble; but in such as she,
Humility is like a nobler pride:
Whatever lot were given or denied,
Whatever labours she might undergo,
She kept her place; and loftily said No
To all who bade her change it.
She wish'd to be unnoticed. At the door,
She blush'd and curtsy'd; and the tray she bore
Shook for a moment, in her sinewy hands.
She set it down, like one who understands
Her duties well; and with minute display
Arranged the cups—then wish'd herself away.
I knew she wish'd it; for I saw her looks
Glance toward her husband bending o'er his books
As if he did not see her. So she stay'd,
Unwillingly, and as it were afraid
To vex him by retiring. In the glass
I saw her figure: what a servant-lass,
And what a queen of womanhood, was there!
Tall and robust; by labour bronzed, yet fair;
With large blue eyes, and soft abundant hair
Hid by her housemaid's cap, whose snowy white
Made all her rosy blushes glow more bright;
Robust and tall, yet lissom and refined
In shape, her large limbs suited well the mind
That spoke expressive in her noble face.
No servile soul was there; no kitchen grace
Inspired her movements: she was one of those
Who in the lowliest station never lose
Their primal sense of woman's dignity.
True, she was humble; but in such as she,
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Whatever lot were given or denied,
Whatever labours she might undergo,
She kept her place; and loftily said No
To all who bade her change it.
Thoughts like these
Flash'd through that instant of admiring ease
When first I saw her waiting attitude—
So graceful, so expectant. Nothing rude
Nor coarse, in all her person could be seen,
Save her broad hands; and they were all but clean,
And shapely as a noble hand should be.
Flash'd through that instant of admiring ease
When first I saw her waiting attitude—
So graceful, so expectant. Nothing rude
Nor coarse, in all her person could be seen,
Save her broad hands; and they were all but clean,
And shapely as a noble hand should be.
'Twas but an instant; for her husband, he
Who had not seem'd to see her, quickly rose
And went to her, and said, “You don't suppose
I did not mean to own you, Susan dear?
I only wish'd you, darling, to appear
One moment as you are, before I tell
My friend, that you are Susan Arundel.
Come—he would know you! And you recollect
I told you long since, that we must expect
Friends of my own, to see us; gentlemen,
Not ladies: they will never come again,
And so you need not fear them. Anthony,
This is my wife—my Susan!”
Who had not seem'd to see her, quickly rose
And went to her, and said, “You don't suppose
I did not mean to own you, Susan dear?
I only wish'd you, darling, to appear
One moment as you are, before I tell
My friend, that you are Susan Arundel.
Come—he would know you! And you recollect
I told you long since, that we must expect
Friends of my own, to see us; gentlemen,
Not ladies: they will never come again,
And so you need not fear them. Anthony,
This is my wife—my Susan!”
But when I,
Advancing, smiled and offer'd her my hand,
She made as though she did not understand;
With those laborious fingers of her own
She twitch'd her frock, and smooth'd her apron down;
Then curtsy'd, and look'd gravely on the floor.
At length, with eyes averted towards the door,
She shyly said, “Oh Sir, I are afeard
Your lady wouldna like it, if her heerd
As you should offer to shake hands wi' me;
For why, it seems too great a liberty
In one like me, a-shakin hands wi' you.
I are my Master's wife, it's very true;
But still a servant; and my hands is hard—
They winna do for you, Sir.” Her regard
Rose as she spoke; and in those clear blue eyes
I saw the very soul of sacrifice;
The pathos of humility; the wise
Undoubting ardour of a woman's love—
Lit by some inner light, as from above;
A light that is not ours. I might have framed
Some trivial answer; but her husband, shamed,
Yet proud of her, cried, “Nonsense, Susan! Come,
Shake hands with him! this dwelling is your home,
And you its mistress: though your hand be hard
With work all done for me, and roughly marr'd
By honest toil, it is the very same
You gave me, dear, when you received my name
In church, before the parson. So, for shame,
Give him your hand!” “Oh Master, let me first
Take yourn!” she said; and with a sudden burst
Of tenderness, she took his hand, and smiled;
Kiss'd it; look'd up; and, like a happy child
That does its mother's bidding, gave me hers.
Advancing, smiled and offer'd her my hand,
She made as though she did not understand;
With those laborious fingers of her own
She twitch'd her frock, and smooth'd her apron down;
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At length, with eyes averted towards the door,
She shyly said, “Oh Sir, I are afeard
Your lady wouldna like it, if her heerd
As you should offer to shake hands wi' me;
For why, it seems too great a liberty
In one like me, a-shakin hands wi' you.
I are my Master's wife, it's very true;
But still a servant; and my hands is hard—
They winna do for you, Sir.” Her regard
Rose as she spoke; and in those clear blue eyes
I saw the very soul of sacrifice;
The pathos of humility; the wise
Undoubting ardour of a woman's love—
Lit by some inner light, as from above;
A light that is not ours. I might have framed
Some trivial answer; but her husband, shamed,
Yet proud of her, cried, “Nonsense, Susan! Come,
Shake hands with him! this dwelling is your home,
And you its mistress: though your hand be hard
With work all done for me, and roughly marr'd
By honest toil, it is the very same
You gave me, dear, when you received my name
In church, before the parson. So, for shame,
Give him your hand!” “Oh Master, let me first
Take yourn!” she said; and with a sudden burst
Of tenderness, she took his hand, and smiled;
Kiss'd it; look'd up; and, like a happy child
That does its mother's bidding, gave me hers.
Well—'twas a rugged hand; a labourer's,
Though shapely, as I said: in lack of grace,
Sad contrast to her figure and her face.
Yet, I could feel the deep significance,
When such a hand and such a countenance
Meet in one woman who adorns them both.
I took her hand, and grasp'd it, nothing loath;
And answer'd, “Surely, such a hand as this
Deserves all reverence! Let me claim a kiss,
For friendship's sake, fair Susan, and your own.”
And so I stoop'd, and kiss'd it. As a stone
Dropt into water, did that strange surprise
Enlarge the circles of her brilliant eyes.
“Oh Sir, to think as you should kiss my hand!
I didna think as any in the land
'Ud kiss it—such a noggan hand as mine!”
“What, wench?” said Arundel, “do I decline
That privilege? then I will have it now,
To kiss away my friend!” And with a bow,
He too brought fresher crimson to her cheeks,
Doing as I did.
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Sad contrast to her figure and her face.
Yet, I could feel the deep significance,
When such a hand and such a countenance
Meet in one woman who adorns them both.
I took her hand, and grasp'd it, nothing loath;
And answer'd, “Surely, such a hand as this
Deserves all reverence! Let me claim a kiss,
For friendship's sake, fair Susan, and your own.”
And so I stoop'd, and kiss'd it. As a stone
Dropt into water, did that strange surprise
Enlarge the circles of her brilliant eyes.
“Oh Sir, to think as you should kiss my hand!
I didna think as any in the land
'Ud kiss it—such a noggan hand as mine!”
“What, wench?” said Arundel, “do I decline
That privilege? then I will have it now,
To kiss away my friend!” And with a bow,
He too brought fresher crimson to her cheeks,
Doing as I did.
When the master speaks,
The servant must obey; and Arundel,
Using his high prerogative, cried, “Well,
A truce to kissing! Susan dear, sit down—
Sit down and talk with us.” Her cotton gown,
Her large white apron and her servant's cap,
And those hardworking hands upon her lap,
Embarrass'd her; and yet of old she knew
This was the thing that she would have to do,
When once her wifehood and herself were known.
Ah, but to sit unaided and alone,
Observed of others, and in that fine room
Where she was wont to ply her pail and broom
And clean the windows and blacklead the grate—
To sit down there, how throughly did she hate
That new position! And to sit with us,
Her betters, men who make so great a fuss
About them books she dusted, and to bear
The stress of talk in which she could not share—
Oh what a dreadful prospect! And, alas!
That dreadful future now had come to pass.
The servant must obey; and Arundel,
Using his high prerogative, cried, “Well,
A truce to kissing! Susan dear, sit down—
Sit down and talk with us.” Her cotton gown,
Her large white apron and her servant's cap,
And those hardworking hands upon her lap,
Embarrass'd her; and yet of old she knew
This was the thing that she would have to do,
When once her wifehood and herself were known.
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Observed of others, and in that fine room
Where she was wont to ply her pail and broom
And clean the windows and blacklead the grate—
To sit down there, how throughly did she hate
That new position! And to sit with us,
Her betters, men who make so great a fuss
About them books she dusted, and to bear
The stress of talk in which she could not share—
Oh what a dreadful prospect! And, alas!
That dreadful future now had come to pass.
She yielded: it were hopeless to refuse;
But took the furthest chair, as servants use,
And next the door. Thence, with that manly grace
Wherewith he hands a lady to her place,
Her husband brought her forward; and decreed
That she should sit between us, and should read.
What—read aloud, and to a stranger too?
“Oh yes,” said he; “this volume is not new;
You've read it. Once, when you were dusting it
For me, I saw you open it a bit,
And so I let you read it to yourself;
And when you put it back upon the shelf,
I ask'd you if you liked it. Now confess
How wet your eyes were, when you answer'd Yes!”
'Twas Enoch Arden and his wretchedness.
“Eh!” said poor Susan, “it's a cuttin tale!
Him to ha' lost her, an' his love to fail
For want o' knowin! In the kitchen, now,
I've often tell'd it; an' they wonder'd how
He could ha' left her, when he seed her first
In at that winder, an' was fit to burst,
Seein' her theer, an' childern at her knee.
‘Aye, but,’ I says, ‘that was his misery:
It was them childern, why he let her be.’”
But took the furthest chair, as servants use,
And next the door. Thence, with that manly grace
Wherewith he hands a lady to her place,
Her husband brought her forward; and decreed
That she should sit between us, and should read.
What—read aloud, and to a stranger too?
“Oh yes,” said he; “this volume is not new;
You've read it. Once, when you were dusting it
For me, I saw you open it a bit,
And so I let you read it to yourself;
And when you put it back upon the shelf,
I ask'd you if you liked it. Now confess
How wet your eyes were, when you answer'd Yes!”
'Twas Enoch Arden and his wretchedness.
“Eh!” said poor Susan, “it's a cuttin tale!
Him to ha' lost her, an' his love to fail
For want o' knowin! In the kitchen, now,
I've often tell'd it; an' they wonder'd how
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In at that winder, an' was fit to burst,
Seein' her theer, an' childern at her knee.
‘Aye, but,’ I says, ‘that was his misery:
It was them childern, why he let her be.’”
“Right, Susan!” I exclaim'd; “and you are one
Who can enjoy the charms of Tennyson.
And have you read The Lord of Burleigh, too?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said; and the rich blushes grew
Like sunset, o'er her face; “Oh yes, indeed!
My Master often give it me to read,
An' never tell'd me why.” “There was no need,”
Said Arundel; and took her hand in his,
And kept it: rude memorial of the bliss
Of a new Sally, and a new John Jones.
“But then,” he said, “I was not one who owns
An earldom, or a splendid heritage;
And Susan here, who wrought for little wage
As a mere maid-of-all-work, could not vie
With that fair Shropshire maid, in dignity.”
“No,” said his wife; “her was a farmer's child;
Not such as me, brought up to run like wild
Among the lads an' wenches, in the street.
Her got her edication all complete,
My Master says, an' stopp'd at school quite big.
But me, I work'd afield, an' had to dig,
An' carry muck, an' go a-peapickin
An' leasin, wi' poor Mother. We begin,
Poor folks like us, uncommon early, Sir!”
“Yes,” I replied; “but you have character,
And sense, and spirit; and you like your work;
And you have health and strength. You need not shirk
The hardest labours nor the humblest gains
For want of muscle, or for lack of brains!”
That was a compliment she understood;
She smiled, and said, “Sir, you are very good,
To speak so well o' me! An' in my time
I've done a deal o' black work: soot an' grime
Enough to bash the strongest servant-maid!
No one have bested me wi' broom an' spade,
Nor yet at scrubbin on my hands an' knees.
But what is all such common things as these
To them as lives wi' ladies?” “Much,” said I;
“Much!” cried her master; “never be afraid,
Oh Susan, to compare your work with theirs.
You claim no rank; you give yourself no airs;
You show your worth by keeping in your place:
Proud of her labour and her peasant race,
My wife remains a simple servant still.”
“Aye—so I do, an' so I always will!”
Cried Susan, clasping in her prison'd hand
His smaller palm; “an' yet, I understand
All as he tells me, an' can do it too,
As well as any lady: though it's true,
I canna tell no music, nor no French.
But what, I reckon as a kitchen-wench
Could never come to that. Eh, look at me,
Talkin a-thisns, sittin here so free,
Wi' you Sir, an' my Master!” “Well, why not?”
Said I; “you are contented with your lot—
More than contented. If I may speak plain,
You, Mistress Susan, are a trifle vain,
Because your dress, and these hard hands of yours,
Show that your place is not the same as ours.”
“Nay, dunna call me mistress, Sir! I scours
This very room, an' cleans this very hearth:
An' that's no missis' work! It's true, I'm worth
More nor a servant, to my Master here;
But, for my hands, I know he holds 'em dear;
An' if I'm proud on 'em, it's ony this—
They tell folks what my work an' station is,
An' I are not ashamed on it!” “Quite right,”
Her husband said; “and it is my delight
That you are not ashamed, dear. To the strong,
There is no shame, except in doing wrong.
But now for Enoch Arden.”
Who can enjoy the charms of Tennyson.
And have you read The Lord of Burleigh, too?”
“Yes, Sir,” she said; and the rich blushes grew
Like sunset, o'er her face; “Oh yes, indeed!
My Master often give it me to read,
An' never tell'd me why.” “There was no need,”
Said Arundel; and took her hand in his,
And kept it: rude memorial of the bliss
Of a new Sally, and a new John Jones.
“But then,” he said, “I was not one who owns
An earldom, or a splendid heritage;
And Susan here, who wrought for little wage
As a mere maid-of-all-work, could not vie
With that fair Shropshire maid, in dignity.”
“No,” said his wife; “her was a farmer's child;
Not such as me, brought up to run like wild
Among the lads an' wenches, in the street.
Her got her edication all complete,
My Master says, an' stopp'd at school quite big.
But me, I work'd afield, an' had to dig,
An' carry muck, an' go a-peapickin
An' leasin, wi' poor Mother. We begin,
Poor folks like us, uncommon early, Sir!”
“Yes,” I replied; “but you have character,
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And you have health and strength. You need not shirk
The hardest labours nor the humblest gains
For want of muscle, or for lack of brains!”
That was a compliment she understood;
She smiled, and said, “Sir, you are very good,
To speak so well o' me! An' in my time
I've done a deal o' black work: soot an' grime
Enough to bash the strongest servant-maid!
No one have bested me wi' broom an' spade,
Nor yet at scrubbin on my hands an' knees.
But what is all such common things as these
To them as lives wi' ladies?” “Much,” said I;
“Much!” cried her master; “never be afraid,
Oh Susan, to compare your work with theirs.
You claim no rank; you give yourself no airs;
You show your worth by keeping in your place:
Proud of her labour and her peasant race,
My wife remains a simple servant still.”
“Aye—so I do, an' so I always will!”
Cried Susan, clasping in her prison'd hand
His smaller palm; “an' yet, I understand
All as he tells me, an' can do it too,
As well as any lady: though it's true,
I canna tell no music, nor no French.
But what, I reckon as a kitchen-wench
Could never come to that. Eh, look at me,
Talkin a-thisns, sittin here so free,
Wi' you Sir, an' my Master!” “Well, why not?”
Said I; “you are contented with your lot—
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You, Mistress Susan, are a trifle vain,
Because your dress, and these hard hands of yours,
Show that your place is not the same as ours.”
“Nay, dunna call me mistress, Sir! I scours
This very room, an' cleans this very hearth:
An' that's no missis' work! It's true, I'm worth
More nor a servant, to my Master here;
But, for my hands, I know he holds 'em dear;
An' if I'm proud on 'em, it's ony this—
They tell folks what my work an' station is,
An' I are not ashamed on it!” “Quite right,”
Her husband said; “and it is my delight
That you are not ashamed, dear. To the strong,
There is no shame, except in doing wrong.
But now for Enoch Arden.”
“Stay, oh stay!”
I cried; “let Susan tell me, if she may,
About her schooling. Time could never yield
Fruits to your liking, even from this fair field,
Without some schooling.” “Well, Sir, all I had
Was charity. You should ha' seen how glad
Poor Mother was, when I had got the chance!
I was a Bluecoat Girl, Sir; me an' Nance,
My cousin, as was cleverer nor me,
We sat together in our livery
(A blue serge frock, an' yellow band, it were;
White apron, an' a cap to hide your hair)
We sat, an' we was learnt to stitch an' hem,
An' do our samplers, an' such things as them;
Aye, an' they learnt us how to read and write:
An' that was all. My goodness! what a fright
I used to think myself, in that theer dress!
An' yet I wore it always. You mun guess
How pleased I was, when after three good year
I left, an' had a cotton frock to weer!”
“But was that all, you say? Did they not teach
How to do sums, and know the parts of speech?”
“The what, Sir?” said poor Susan, in amaze:
“I never learnt no speech, in all my days,
Except our country talk, as used to come
As nateral to me as kiss-my-thumb;
An' Sir, I are a-speakin of it now.
But, as for sums, they never show'd us how;
Us never learnt no summin. Reason good—
I canna reckon, nor I never could!”
I cried; “let Susan tell me, if she may,
About her schooling. Time could never yield
Fruits to your liking, even from this fair field,
Without some schooling.” “Well, Sir, all I had
Was charity. You should ha' seen how glad
Poor Mother was, when I had got the chance!
I was a Bluecoat Girl, Sir; me an' Nance,
My cousin, as was cleverer nor me,
We sat together in our livery
(A blue serge frock, an' yellow band, it were;
White apron, an' a cap to hide your hair)
We sat, an' we was learnt to stitch an' hem,
An' do our samplers, an' such things as them;
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An' that was all. My goodness! what a fright
I used to think myself, in that theer dress!
An' yet I wore it always. You mun guess
How pleased I was, when after three good year
I left, an' had a cotton frock to weer!”
“But was that all, you say? Did they not teach
How to do sums, and know the parts of speech?”
“The what, Sir?” said poor Susan, in amaze:
“I never learnt no speech, in all my days,
Except our country talk, as used to come
As nateral to me as kiss-my-thumb;
An' Sir, I are a-speakin of it now.
But, as for sums, they never show'd us how;
Us never learnt no summin. Reason good—
I canna reckon, nor I never could!”
We smiled in concert, Arundel and I,
At Susan's—shall I say vulgarity?
No; it was artless candour and plain sense,
Resolved to tell the truth, and shun pretence.
But still—her husband was a gentleman,
A scholar: let him tell us if he can
How he could bear with one so ignorant,
One who had nothing that his own class want,
One whose rough manners and whose uncouth talk
Prove her unfit for aught, except to walk
In the strait compass of a servant's life.
He did; he thus address'd his candid wife:
“My faithful Susan, this will never do!
What will my clever friend here think of you,
Confessing such enormous ignorance?
You, who have been with me abroad—in France,
In countries where each traveller must find
A thousand methods to improve his mind;
You, who have read and talk'd with me so much,
Who know the tragic or the comic touch
Of Johnson and of Boswell and of Thrale—
Clarissa's moving story, and the tale
Of bright Angelica, and the high tone,
Courteous and apt, that thrills through Grandison—
You, to pretend you never were at school
Save in your Bluecoat livery? Oh fool,
To trust the wit of woman!” And he threw
His arms aloft, as she was wont to do
When struck with sudden pity or surprise.
She thought he meant to scold her; and her eyes
Grew moist with tears: then, seeing her mistake,
She laugh'd, and cried “Eh, what a fuss yo' make
Wi' them fine names an' stories, Master dear!
Yes, I ha' read 'em all; I read 'em here,
Betwixt your knees, a-sittin on my boss;
An' when I read 'em wrong, you wasna cross,
But tell'd me all about 'em—many a score
O' long hard words I'd never sin afore!
Aye, that was edication; an' of coorse
Yo' mean as I med easy ha' bin worse,
If yo' had never teach'd me. Well, it's true:
All as I know, I've took it in fro' you,
Except that once when I lived nursery-maid
At Parson Sandys's. It was me, as laid
The schoolroom fire, for lesson-times; an' then
I waited on the two young gentlemen,
An' little miss, too, and the governess.
So, when I dared, I used to make a mess,
Spillin the coals, to pick up wi' my hands
An' listen while I did it. Master Sandys
Made fun o' me, an' so did Master Jack,
An' wonder'd I could bear to get so black—
They loved to tease a youngling wench like me.
But what, I didna care; I let 'em be,
An' listen'd to the lessons as they said,
An' stored 'em up, like, in my empty head,
An' thought on 'em, a tryin to make out
By bits an' bits, what they was all about.
An' Sir, you'll maybe think it's ony cheek
In such as me—but when they said their Greek,
Their Alpha Beta and the like o' that,
I learnt it too, an' said it off quite pat
To my own self: aye, I could say it still.”
“Could you? Then say it, Susan, if you will;
And you shall have the honour you deserve,
For talking Attic Greek: you, a mere serv---
I mean, a rustic, all unknown to fame.”
“Nay, it was schoolroom Greek, Sir; I should shame
To speak it in my attic, wheer I slept
With Ann, the under-housemaid as they kept;
Her would ha' call'd it gibberish! After all,
'Twas ony A B C, Sir, what they call.”
“Well, say it!” And she said it perfectly,
First turning to her husband, then to me,
From Alpha to Omega. “Now,” said he,
“You see her education: what it was,
And how she got it. She has none, alas!
Save what she gain'd by these nefarious means,
And what myself have given her, in scenes
Where we have dwelt together. Susan dear,
Your memory for Greek is good and clear;
And now at last my friend and I will hear
The tale of Enoch Arden.”
At Susan's—shall I say vulgarity?
No; it was artless candour and plain sense,
Resolved to tell the truth, and shun pretence.
But still—her husband was a gentleman,
A scholar: let him tell us if he can
How he could bear with one so ignorant,
One who had nothing that his own class want,
One whose rough manners and whose uncouth talk
Prove her unfit for aught, except to walk
In the strait compass of a servant's life.
He did; he thus address'd his candid wife:
“My faithful Susan, this will never do!
What will my clever friend here think of you,
58
You, who have been with me abroad—in France,
In countries where each traveller must find
A thousand methods to improve his mind;
You, who have read and talk'd with me so much,
Who know the tragic or the comic touch
Of Johnson and of Boswell and of Thrale—
Clarissa's moving story, and the tale
Of bright Angelica, and the high tone,
Courteous and apt, that thrills through Grandison—
You, to pretend you never were at school
Save in your Bluecoat livery? Oh fool,
To trust the wit of woman!” And he threw
His arms aloft, as she was wont to do
When struck with sudden pity or surprise.
She thought he meant to scold her; and her eyes
Grew moist with tears: then, seeing her mistake,
She laugh'd, and cried “Eh, what a fuss yo' make
Wi' them fine names an' stories, Master dear!
Yes, I ha' read 'em all; I read 'em here,
Betwixt your knees, a-sittin on my boss;
An' when I read 'em wrong, you wasna cross,
But tell'd me all about 'em—many a score
O' long hard words I'd never sin afore!
Aye, that was edication; an' of coorse
Yo' mean as I med easy ha' bin worse,
If yo' had never teach'd me. Well, it's true:
All as I know, I've took it in fro' you,
Except that once when I lived nursery-maid
At Parson Sandys's. It was me, as laid
59
I waited on the two young gentlemen,
An' little miss, too, and the governess.
So, when I dared, I used to make a mess,
Spillin the coals, to pick up wi' my hands
An' listen while I did it. Master Sandys
Made fun o' me, an' so did Master Jack,
An' wonder'd I could bear to get so black—
They loved to tease a youngling wench like me.
But what, I didna care; I let 'em be,
An' listen'd to the lessons as they said,
An' stored 'em up, like, in my empty head,
An' thought on 'em, a tryin to make out
By bits an' bits, what they was all about.
An' Sir, you'll maybe think it's ony cheek
In such as me—but when they said their Greek,
Their Alpha Beta and the like o' that,
I learnt it too, an' said it off quite pat
To my own self: aye, I could say it still.”
“Could you? Then say it, Susan, if you will;
And you shall have the honour you deserve,
For talking Attic Greek: you, a mere serv---
I mean, a rustic, all unknown to fame.”
“Nay, it was schoolroom Greek, Sir; I should shame
To speak it in my attic, wheer I slept
With Ann, the under-housemaid as they kept;
Her would ha' call'd it gibberish! After all,
'Twas ony A B C, Sir, what they call.”
“Well, say it!” And she said it perfectly,
60
From Alpha to Omega. “Now,” said he,
“You see her education: what it was,
And how she got it. She has none, alas!
Save what she gain'd by these nefarious means,
And what myself have given her, in scenes
Where we have dwelt together. Susan dear,
Your memory for Greek is good and clear;
And now at last my friend and I will hear
The tale of Enoch Arden.”
“Must I read?”
She said; “you know I like it, and indeed
The only parlour job as I can do
Is readin out. But still—to read to you
Afore your friend, it do seem strange an' new.
Sir, you'll remember what I are, I hope,
An' not expect a barrowful o' soap
Off them as deals in coals.” Harsh metaphor!
Yet accurate, in what she meant it for.
She said; “you know I like it, and indeed
The only parlour job as I can do
Is readin out. But still—to read to you
Afore your friend, it do seem strange an' new.
Sir, you'll remember what I are, I hope,
An' not expect a barrowful o' soap
Off them as deals in coals.” Harsh metaphor!
Yet accurate, in what she meant it for.
Her Master gave the signal, with a look:
Then, timidly as if afraid, she took
In her rough hands the Laureate's dainty book,
And straight began. But when she did begin,
Her own mute sense of poesy within
Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet
His graceful fancies and the accents sweet
In which they are express'd. Oh lately lost,
Long loved, long honour'd, and whose Captain's post
No living bard is competent to fill—
How strange, to the deep heart that now is still,
And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear
Whose soft melodious measures are so dear
To us who cannot rival them—how strange,
If thou, the lord of such a various range,
Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's tale!
For this was no prim maiden, scant and pale,
Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight
In pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant might
Of noble verse with arts rhetorical
And simulated frenzy: not at all!
This was a peasant woman; large and strong;
Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song—
Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose.
And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes
A heart as true as Arden's; and a brain,
Keener than his, that counts it false and vain
To seem aught else than simply what she is.
How singular, her faculty of bliss!
Bliss in her servile work; bliss deep and full
In things beyond the vision of the dull,
Whate'er their rank: things beautiful as these
Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies
Suiting the tale they tell of; bliss in love—
Ah, chiefly that! which lifts her soul above
Its common life, and gives to labours coarse
Such fervour of imaginative force
As makes a passion of her basest toil.
Then, timidly as if afraid, she took
In her rough hands the Laureate's dainty book,
And straight began. But when she did begin,
Her own mute sense of poesy within
Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet
His graceful fancies and the accents sweet
In which they are express'd. Oh lately lost,
Long loved, long honour'd, and whose Captain's post
No living bard is competent to fill—
How strange, to the deep heart that now is still,
61
Whose soft melodious measures are so dear
To us who cannot rival them—how strange,
If thou, the lord of such a various range,
Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's tale!
For this was no prim maiden, scant and pale,
Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight
In pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant might
Of noble verse with arts rhetorical
And simulated frenzy: not at all!
This was a peasant woman; large and strong;
Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song—
Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose.
And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes
A heart as true as Arden's; and a brain,
Keener than his, that counts it false and vain
To seem aught else than simply what she is.
How singular, her faculty of bliss!
Bliss in her servile work; bliss deep and full
In things beyond the vision of the dull,
Whate'er their rank: things beautiful as these
Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies
Suiting the tale they tell of; bliss in love—
Ah, chiefly that! which lifts her soul above
Its common life, and gives to labours coarse
Such fervour of imaginative force
As makes a passion of her basest toil.
Surely, this servant-dress was but a foil
To her more lofty being! As she read,
Her accent was as pure, and all she said
As full of interest and of varied grace
As were the changeful moods, that o'er her face
Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky,
At each sad stage of Enoch's history.
Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment
To what she utter'd, moulded as she went
Her soft sweet voice, and with such self-control
Did she, interpreting the poet's soul,
Bridle her own, that when the tale was done
I look'd at her, amazed: she seem'd like one
Who from some sphere of music had come down,
And donn'd the white cap and the cotton gown
As if to show how much of skill and art
May dwell unthought of, in the humblest heart.
Yet there was no great mystery to tell:
She felt it deeply, so she read it well.
To her more lofty being! As she read,
Her accent was as pure, and all she said
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As were the changeful moods, that o'er her face
Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky,
At each sad stage of Enoch's history.
Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment
To what she utter'd, moulded as she went
Her soft sweet voice, and with such self-control
Did she, interpreting the poet's soul,
Bridle her own, that when the tale was done
I look'd at her, amazed: she seem'd like one
Who from some sphere of music had come down,
And donn'd the white cap and the cotton gown
As if to show how much of skill and art
May dwell unthought of, in the humblest heart.
Yet there was no great mystery to tell:
She felt it deeply, so she read it well.
I rose; and glancing at her tearful eyes,
Her glowing cheeks, and that wherein the sighs
Of sympathy with sorrow, long represt,
Now went and came at liberty—her breast—
I thank'd her much; and took her willing hand,
And said to Arundel, “I understand
At last, your love for her, and hers for you.
You have no need to do as others do,
To mask the real woman in the wife
Of fashion or of circumstance: your life
Is independent of all else but her,
Be she a heroine or a labourer,
A lady or a servant.”
Her glowing cheeks, and that wherein the sighs
Of sympathy with sorrow, long represt,
Now went and came at liberty—her breast—
I thank'd her much; and took her willing hand,
And said to Arundel, “I understand
At last, your love for her, and hers for you.
You have no need to do as others do,
To mask the real woman in the wife
Of fashion or of circumstance: your life
Is independent of all else but her,
Be she a heroine or a labourer,
A lady or a servant.”
“She is all,”
He answer'd; “and whatever lot befall,
She can adorn it. Yes, she is all these,
And more than that, to me!”
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She can adorn it. Yes, she is all these,
And more than that, to me!”
“But if yo' please,”
Said Susan, smiling on him through her tears,
“What is a heroine? I've know'd for years
What lady means; though any one can see
I are no lady, nor I winna be:
And labourer, and servant—yes, indeed!
I ha' bin both; for all I like to read
Such books as this. But Master, what you said
Is true—there's more betwixt us; we are wed:
An' so,” she added in her softest voice,
“To be your wife an' servant, is my choice!”
Said Susan, smiling on him through her tears,
“What is a heroine? I've know'd for years
What lady means; though any one can see
I are no lady, nor I winna be:
And labourer, and servant—yes, indeed!
I ha' bin both; for all I like to read
Such books as this. But Master, what you said
Is true—there's more betwixt us; we are wed:
An' so,” she added in her softest voice,
“To be your wife an' servant, is my choice!”
| Susan | |