University of Virginia Library

You cannot know the woman that I love:
You see her in her cottage, or abroad
In yard and garden, working vigorously
At such rude service as a labourer's wife
Does for her husband and herself, and all
Who care to seek her in her humble home.
You see her rough of aspect, and in speech
A peasant like the rest: her daily garb
Is coarse and homely; picturesque indeed,
And suited to the toils of common life
But just as different from a lady's wear
As she is from its wearer. Look at her—
Her old hood-bonnet and her sunburnt face,
Her bare red arms, and the big sacking skirt
That clips her ample waist, and folds her round
In apt embrace, a drudge's drapery.
Look at her thus and you would never think
That she could be a lady. Yet indeed
She once attain'd to that fair eminence;
And stood there with such unaffected ease,
Such gentle dignity, such quiet grace,
Such beauty both of form and countenance,
That those who saw her, felt she had a right
To dwell there, where she surely had been born.

Ah, but she was not born there! He whose hand
Had help'd her up, who saw her fit herself
Without an effort and without a break
To the calm courtesies of ladyhood,
So strange to her experience, in his heart
Rejoiced, that nature thus had given to her
Instinctively, what others have to learn
By methods not their own. But suddenly
She from that summit leap'd into his arms,
Entreating him with passionate desire
To break for her the fetters of restraint,
And take her back, and let her have again
That lowly station which was really hers.

She was too honest for duplicity:
She knew her outward graces could not hide
The difference of manners and degree
That lay between her and those shining ones,
Who did not know her story, and whose lot
She had not envied, had not wish'd to share;
And now, she hated it. For she had seen,
Seen for herself, how far it was removed
From all her interests, all her sympathies,
And all the work her willing hands had done
For him and others. Why, in this new life,
She could do nothing, for the man she loved!
She must not serve him, must not wait on him;
She must stand by, and see his wants supplied
By other women, servants like herself,
Who thought she was a lady, and behaved
With such distracting deference to her,
While they usurp'd her place, and did for hire
What she could do far better, and for Love.

That was the point at which her heart rebell'd;
Was she to live for ever in disguise,
And be a mere pretender, not allow'd
To do her duty, and to be herself?
No, truly! For the love that fill'd her heart
Had but one end, one object, one intent,
One settled purpose: She would live with him
In her own way, and be throughout her life
His servant always, though she was his wife.

Well, she has had her wish: For twenty years,
She, the fair wife of him whose name she bears,
Who gave her, not himself alone, but all
That to the damsels of his own degree
Seems natural and needful—a refined
And graceful home, and leisure, and repose,
And maids to wait on her and keep her free
From the dull round of household drudgery—
She has refused all this: and has remain'd
By her own act, the woman that she was
In youth: A peasant, just as she was born.

That was the method of her rustic love,
Unselfish, and devoted, and sincere.
She gave him fully all she had to give—
Affection, comfort, care, companionship
With her meek self, and service of the best,
Unstinted and unpaid; but how could she,
Being what she was, suffice a man like him,
And be his mate, in wedlock such as hers?
How could she share his duties, prompt his aims,
Or understand his life, so largely shaped
By influences beyond her simple ken,
Beyond the hedgerows of her village world?
True: There were limits, and she knew them well,
To what a wife like her could be to him:
She could not talk with educated folk,
Adorn his house, or entertain his friends
With the light topics of society;
And therefore, she would never live with him
On his own level, nor consent to know
Or imitate his equals. But, for her,
Wedlock means nothing but the right to love;
To love for ever and to love but once.
What has her love, or his, to do with rank,
Or wealth, or knowledge, or the things of sense?
The man himself is everything she wants;
The woman, all that he wants. For indeed
Love has no limits: It has altitudes,
And it has depths: but both are fathomless;
Wide as the world, and free as Heaven itself,
Love takes no heed of anything at all,
Except possession of the thing it loves.

Such was her creed: Not fetter'd into words,
Not learnt by rote, nor borrow'd from the lips
Of higher women, or of wiser men:
But born with her, and held unconsciously;
Part of her being, as her being's whole
Is part of him who loves her. In his youth
He dreamt of such a woman, such a creed—
A dim fantastic vision, as it seem'd,
Impalpable, unreal: but at length,
In finding her, he found the vision true.