 | Dorothy |  |
'Twas on that very same day, while Dorothy, after her milking,
Went along White Rose Lane, driving her cattle a-field,
Whom should she see but him, the youth with the lovely moustaches,
Sauntering there all alone, smoking his evening cigar!
Leaning, he was, on the gate of the field into which she was going;
Gazing, it seem'd, towards the West: what was he studying there?
Well, there was something to see; for the sun was setting in glory,
Glowing through marvellous clouds, molten, suffused, with his light;
Clouds all rosy above, like the snows of an Alpine sunset,
But in the heart of their snow thrill'd with a cavernous fire;
Clouds that were couch'd superb in a blaze of opal and em'rald,
Haunting the clear cool sky, lucid and lovely and blue.
Yes, he was studying that; and Dorothy noticed it also:
How could she help it, you know, walking straight into the West?
Her heart too was refresh'd by the sight of those wonderful colours,
Though she had seen them before, many and many a time.
‘What, is it you?’ said the youth; ‘the White Rose maid of the farm there!
‘Ah, you do well to be out now, in an evening like this!
‘Is it not beautiful here? And do you not often enjoy it,
‘Strolling abroad in the lanes, after your duties are done?
‘You have been milking, perhaps? What clear-eyed beautiful creatures!
‘Why, they have skins, I believe, almost as soft as your own!’
Dolly had curtsey'd and blush'd, when he open'd his lips to address her;
Awed by his presence, and yet wishing he hand't been there;
Now, she started and stared—what, again? Would he never have done, then,
Talking his nonsense? And worse, making such game about her?
Who would have thought, indeed, that gentlefolks could be so artful,
Saying in roundabout words just what they never could mean?
It was too bad, Dolly thought; and she solemnly said, ‘If you please, Sir,
Just let me open the gate—let me come through with the cows!’
‘Oh, is it this way you go? Let me set the gate open for you!
Gaily he did it, and held; but the poor ignorant cows,
Seeing a stranger, hung back; and Dorothy scamper'd around them,
Calling, and waving her arms, using her stick now and then,
Till they were all in the field: while he, with his critical eyeglass,
Scann'd her (she felt it), and stood calmly surveying the scene.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Dorothy said, turning hastily round to go homeward:
But he had shut-to the gate; closed it, and she was inside!
There he stood, leaning without, and smiling, and holding her captive;
Smiling persuasive smiles, under his golden moustache!
‘I have done something for you—and will you do nothing for me, then?
‘You must pay toll, don't you know? That is the rule of the road!’
Toll! Though the phrase was new, she guess'd what he meant; and it call'd up,
Over her bonny brown face, crimson as deep as the sky's:
What, should she stand like a stock, and a stranger gentleman kiss her?
No! And she sprang to the gate, meaning to climb it at once:
Gates were a trifle, to her: she would climb it in spite of him, easy,
And from the topmost bar lightly leap down, and away!
But he relented: ‘Oh no! Not that—I would never detain you—
‘Only a moment's talk—won't you just hear me, for once?’—
‘Hear you, Sir?’ Dolly replied, as she came through the gate very proudly,
‘You can ha' nothing to say—nothing as I understand!
‘You are demeaning yourself, Sir, to talk to a servant like I am;
‘Let me go home to the farm—I am no fellow for you!’
‘Servant?’ he said, ‘But indeed I do not believe you're a servant;
‘You are too pretty for that. Tell me, now, what is your name?’
‘Dolly's my name, Sir,’ she said. ‘Dolly what?’ ‘Oh, nothing but Dolly!
‘Why was you axing my name?’ For, with a flutter of shame,
All her heart took fire at the thought that she had not a father,
Save such a stranger as this: just such another, perhaps!
All her simple heart went flickering this way and that way,
Thinking of him that was gone, whom she could love very well—
Thinking of this one here, this gentleman, dainty and clever,
Whom she could not love at all: why was he bothering her?
‘Give me your hand,’ said he, ‘and I'll tell you your name without asking!’
She, with a sudden disdain, put it behind her at once:
But, in a moment, she thought, ‘He'll see I am really a servant,
‘If I but show him my hand: yes, let him see it, and feel!’
Therefore, she held out her hand; and he snatch'd it, poor man! without looking:
'Twas but her face that he saw—that was the thing he admired;
That, and her picturesque dress; and perhaps her arms, just a little;
Though even peasants, he thought, might have more delicate arms.
Lightly he took her hand; intending, doubtless, to press it:
Meaning at least to bestow some pretty compliment there;
But, as to one in the dark, who, feeling for silk or for velvet,
Suddenly grasps unawares rusty old iron instead,
So did it happen to him, thus grasping the hand of our Dolly—
Rough as old iron, and hard—terribly callous—within.
Singular contrast, this, these two hands mated together!
One so laborious and large, one so refined and so small;
Singular, too, to reflect—these young folk facing each other,
He no effeminate man, she a most womanly maid—
Curious, I say, to reflect that the hands were not as their owners:
That which was small and refined, slender and soft, was the man's;
That which was clumsy and coarse, and big, was the hand of the maiden!
He was the lady, it seem'd; she was the muscular man.
Have you not noticed this thing—this strange pathetic bouleversement,
Making our culture and class stronger than Nature and sex?
Desinit in piscem mulier formosa supernè—
While from his homelier couche Man rises tender and fair!
So that a well-bred youth, fastidious, gracious, and gentle,
Lives in his delicate world, beauty around him at will,
While some poor maid of the house, as gentle by nature as he is,
Grows, through hard labour, unfit even to wait upon him.
This is an evil, you say? I respectfully beg to deny it:
'Tis not an evil at all: 'tis but the half of a good.
She by her labour shall gain self-reliance and strength, as a man does:
He, through his culture, shall share her inexhaustible grace.
So—let the man be refined, highly organised, even a poet,
And let the woman be coarse, wholly subdued to her work:
Yet, when her love-time comes, and her motherhood after her marriage,
Nature asserts itself then—sex has its rights in the end.
Went along White Rose Lane, driving her cattle a-field,
43
Sauntering there all alone, smoking his evening cigar!
Leaning, he was, on the gate of the field into which she was going;
Gazing, it seem'd, towards the West: what was he studying there?
Well, there was something to see; for the sun was setting in glory,
Glowing through marvellous clouds, molten, suffused, with his light;
Clouds all rosy above, like the snows of an Alpine sunset,
But in the heart of their snow thrill'd with a cavernous fire;
Clouds that were couch'd superb in a blaze of opal and em'rald,
Haunting the clear cool sky, lucid and lovely and blue.
Yes, he was studying that; and Dorothy noticed it also:
How could she help it, you know, walking straight into the West?
Her heart too was refresh'd by the sight of those wonderful colours,
Though she had seen them before, many and many a time.
‘What, is it you?’ said the youth; ‘the White Rose maid of the farm there!
‘Ah, you do well to be out now, in an evening like this!
‘Is it not beautiful here? And do you not often enjoy it,
‘Strolling abroad in the lanes, after your duties are done?
‘You have been milking, perhaps? What clear-eyed beautiful creatures!
‘Why, they have skins, I believe, almost as soft as your own!’
Dolly had curtsey'd and blush'd, when he open'd his lips to address her;
Awed by his presence, and yet wishing he hand't been there;
Now, she started and stared—what, again? Would he never have done, then,
Talking his nonsense? And worse, making such game about her?
Who would have thought, indeed, that gentlefolks could be so artful,
Saying in roundabout words just what they never could mean?
It was too bad, Dolly thought; and she solemnly said, ‘If you please, Sir,
Just let me open the gate—let me come through with the cows!’
‘Oh, is it this way you go? Let me set the gate open for you!
Gaily he did it, and held; but the poor ignorant cows,
Seeing a stranger, hung back; and Dorothy scamper'd around them,
Calling, and waving her arms, using her stick now and then,
44
Scann'd her (she felt it), and stood calmly surveying the scene.
‘Thank you, Sir,’ Dorothy said, turning hastily round to go homeward:
But he had shut-to the gate; closed it, and she was inside!
There he stood, leaning without, and smiling, and holding her captive;
Smiling persuasive smiles, under his golden moustache!
‘I have done something for you—and will you do nothing for me, then?
‘You must pay toll, don't you know? That is the rule of the road!’
Toll! Though the phrase was new, she guess'd what he meant; and it call'd up,
Over her bonny brown face, crimson as deep as the sky's:
What, should she stand like a stock, and a stranger gentleman kiss her?
No! And she sprang to the gate, meaning to climb it at once:
Gates were a trifle, to her: she would climb it in spite of him, easy,
And from the topmost bar lightly leap down, and away!
But he relented: ‘Oh no! Not that—I would never detain you—
‘Only a moment's talk—won't you just hear me, for once?’—
‘Hear you, Sir?’ Dolly replied, as she came through the gate very proudly,
‘You can ha' nothing to say—nothing as I understand!
‘You are demeaning yourself, Sir, to talk to a servant like I am;
‘Let me go home to the farm—I am no fellow for you!’
‘Servant?’ he said, ‘But indeed I do not believe you're a servant;
‘You are too pretty for that. Tell me, now, what is your name?’
‘Dolly's my name, Sir,’ she said. ‘Dolly what?’ ‘Oh, nothing but Dolly!
‘Why was you axing my name?’ For, with a flutter of shame,
All her heart took fire at the thought that she had not a father,
Save such a stranger as this: just such another, perhaps!
All her simple heart went flickering this way and that way,
Thinking of him that was gone, whom she could love very well—
Thinking of this one here, this gentleman, dainty and clever,
Whom she could not love at all: why was he bothering her?
‘Give me your hand,’ said he, ‘and I'll tell you your name without asking!’
She, with a sudden disdain, put it behind her at once:
45
‘If I but show him my hand: yes, let him see it, and feel!’
Therefore, she held out her hand; and he snatch'd it, poor man! without looking:
'Twas but her face that he saw—that was the thing he admired;
That, and her picturesque dress; and perhaps her arms, just a little;
Though even peasants, he thought, might have more delicate arms.
Lightly he took her hand; intending, doubtless, to press it:
Meaning at least to bestow some pretty compliment there;
But, as to one in the dark, who, feeling for silk or for velvet,
Suddenly grasps unawares rusty old iron instead,
So did it happen to him, thus grasping the hand of our Dolly—
Rough as old iron, and hard—terribly callous—within.
Singular contrast, this, these two hands mated together!
One so laborious and large, one so refined and so small;
Singular, too, to reflect—these young folk facing each other,
He no effeminate man, she a most womanly maid—
Curious, I say, to reflect that the hands were not as their owners:
That which was small and refined, slender and soft, was the man's;
That which was clumsy and coarse, and big, was the hand of the maiden!
He was the lady, it seem'd; she was the muscular man.
Have you not noticed this thing—this strange pathetic bouleversement,
Making our culture and class stronger than Nature and sex?
Desinit in piscem mulier formosa supernè—
While from his homelier couche Man rises tender and fair!
So that a well-bred youth, fastidious, gracious, and gentle,
Lives in his delicate world, beauty around him at will,
While some poor maid of the house, as gentle by nature as he is,
Grows, through hard labour, unfit even to wait upon him.
This is an evil, you say? I respectfully beg to deny it:
'Tis not an evil at all: 'tis but the half of a good.
She by her labour shall gain self-reliance and strength, as a man does:
He, through his culture, shall share her inexhaustible grace.
46
And let the woman be coarse, wholly subdued to her work:
Yet, when her love-time comes, and her motherhood after her marriage,
Nature asserts itself then—sex has its rights in the end.
| Dorothy | |