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 |  |
“I knew a man,” said Arundel, “unknown
Perchance to many, but not all obscure,
Who chose himself a maiden of the poor,
A wench like these we speak of; and to her,
Though she was but a rustic labourer,
He gave the best he had, till she became
The sharer of his life and of his name.
He married her. Well—she could read and write,
But that was all; she could take no delight
In what he lived for: she could never share
His wider sympathies, nor greatly care
For his high aims and interests. How absurd,
To think that things which she had never heard,
Names that she knew not, places all unknown
To her who knew one spot of earth alone
And cared for naught beyond it, could become
To her as real as her humble home!
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Who chose himself a maiden of the poor,
A wench like these we speak of; and to her,
Though she was but a rustic labourer,
He gave the best he had, till she became
The sharer of his life and of his name.
He married her. Well—she could read and write,
But that was all; she could take no delight
In what he lived for: she could never share
His wider sympathies, nor greatly care
For his high aims and interests. How absurd,
To think that things which she had never heard,
Names that she knew not, places all unknown
To her who knew one spot of earth alone
And cared for naught beyond it, could become
To her as real as her humble home!
Yes—but he did not think so. Not for these—
Not for her knowledge or her sympathies—
He loved her: why, the compass of her head
Would hold all books that ever she had read,
And all the outland treasures she had seen!
What was her knowledge? She could scrub and clean,
And sweep and scour; wash dishes mugs and plates;
Cleanse the foul chimneys, and blacklead the grates,
And clean your boots, and polish up your knives.
Hers was the blackest busiest of lives;
For, having done all this, she still work'd hard—
Dug coals, hew'd wood, drew water, swill'd the yard,
Shook carpets, wash'd the doorsteps: furthermore,
She daily fetch'd and carried to the door
Some stranger's luggage, which she had to bear
On her strong shoulders up or down the stair
That she had clean'd, descending on her knees.
Such tasks she stoutly did, and did with ease;
For now, she was promoted to a place
Of indoor service; and her comely face,
Though clouded oft with labour and with sweat,
Still pleased the guests, and made them half forget
How rough she was, how humble, how forlorn
Of all those gifts and graces that adorn
The ways of man or woman who enjoys
A life of leisure in a land of toys.
Not for her knowledge or her sympathies—
He loved her: why, the compass of her head
Would hold all books that ever she had read,
And all the outland treasures she had seen!
What was her knowledge? She could scrub and clean,
And sweep and scour; wash dishes mugs and plates;
Cleanse the foul chimneys, and blacklead the grates,
And clean your boots, and polish up your knives.
Hers was the blackest busiest of lives;
For, having done all this, she still work'd hard—
Dug coals, hew'd wood, drew water, swill'd the yard,
Shook carpets, wash'd the doorsteps: furthermore,
She daily fetch'd and carried to the door
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On her strong shoulders up or down the stair
That she had clean'd, descending on her knees.
Such tasks she stoutly did, and did with ease;
For now, she was promoted to a place
Of indoor service; and her comely face,
Though clouded oft with labour and with sweat,
Still pleased the guests, and made them half forget
How rough she was, how humble, how forlorn
Of all those gifts and graces that adorn
The ways of man or woman who enjoys
A life of leisure in a land of toys.
But she was well contented with her lot:
For gifts and graces, they concern'd her not,
Save those she had; and they were genuine,
And suited her, because they were not fine.
Her artless manners and her rustic speech,
Her modest reverent curtsy, well might teach
The virtue of a sweet simplicity
To all who saw her. Oh how simple, she
Who counted as the best of all her charms
The massive hands and strong laborious arms
That earn'd her living! Yet, from such as knew
The worth of toil, these gain'd her honour too.
For gifts and graces, they concern'd her not,
Save those she had; and they were genuine,
And suited her, because they were not fine.
Her artless manners and her rustic speech,
Her modest reverent curtsy, well might teach
The virtue of a sweet simplicity
To all who saw her. Oh how simple, she
Who counted as the best of all her charms
The massive hands and strong laborious arms
That earn'd her living! Yet, from such as knew
The worth of toil, these gain'd her honour too.
And he who loved her knew the worth of toil:
He did not care, though drudgery might soil
Her helpful hands and arms, or leave its trace
Even on the rural roses of her face.
Truly, he loved her just for what she was:
The beauty which her lowly calling has
When used aright, to his indulgent mood
Seem'd more than all the bliss of ladyhood.
And she loved him, because he was to her
Not sweetheart only, but interpreter
Of all the many things she did not know.
How good of him, to love a maid so low;
To be content with what she had to give,
And ask no higher aid, but let her live
Still in the quiet ways where she was born!
So thought she; and she dreaded too the scorn
And cold contumely of his kith and kind.
What would they think of her? What could they find
In such as she, to warrant or excuse
His conduct, who for her sake should refuse
His own fair station and his proper friends?
Would they not say, that for her own bad ends
She let him love unworthily; that thus
She might escape her life laborious,
And rise to be a lady? No, indeed!
They never should have room for such a creed,
For she would not be raised. Why should she be,
Why should she leave the work she loved, when he,
Her master and her lover, loved it too,
And liked to see her do it? He well knew
She did it now by custom, and for hire;
But, as she sat beside her kitchen fire,
She thought, How nice, to do it all for love!
Then, she need never have to go above
Into that life of his, remote and strange,
For which she would not willingly exchange
Her homely labour, and her humble dress,
And all that gave her health and happiness
In the sweet service of the man she loved.
Could she have happiness, if once removed
From that familiar footing? Should she vie
With the young ladies of his family
In looks and manners, or attempt in vain
Things that to them came easily and plain,
By lifelong use? ‘I arena such a fool,’
She thought; ‘for when I left the Bluecoat School,
I know'd no more but just to read and write,
And do my sampler of a winter's night
When stockins was all mended. Bless your heart!
What, me, as never rode but in a cart,
An' trudged afoot to market wi' my load,
An' gather'd muck upon the hot high road,
An' work'd afield, an' welly fit to clem—
Me, to be even'd up wi' such as them
What sits i' parlours, an' is drest up fine,
An' has soft hands, not granner'd hands like mine?
Nay, that 'ud never do! Wife or no wife,
I are the master's servant, all my life.’
He did not care, though drudgery might soil
Her helpful hands and arms, or leave its trace
Even on the rural roses of her face.
Truly, he loved her just for what she was:
The beauty which her lowly calling has
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Seem'd more than all the bliss of ladyhood.
And she loved him, because he was to her
Not sweetheart only, but interpreter
Of all the many things she did not know.
How good of him, to love a maid so low;
To be content with what she had to give,
And ask no higher aid, but let her live
Still in the quiet ways where she was born!
So thought she; and she dreaded too the scorn
And cold contumely of his kith and kind.
What would they think of her? What could they find
In such as she, to warrant or excuse
His conduct, who for her sake should refuse
His own fair station and his proper friends?
Would they not say, that for her own bad ends
She let him love unworthily; that thus
She might escape her life laborious,
And rise to be a lady? No, indeed!
They never should have room for such a creed,
For she would not be raised. Why should she be,
Why should she leave the work she loved, when he,
Her master and her lover, loved it too,
And liked to see her do it? He well knew
She did it now by custom, and for hire;
But, as she sat beside her kitchen fire,
She thought, How nice, to do it all for love!
Then, she need never have to go above
Into that life of his, remote and strange,
For which she would not willingly exchange
12
And all that gave her health and happiness
In the sweet service of the man she loved.
Could she have happiness, if once removed
From that familiar footing? Should she vie
With the young ladies of his family
In looks and manners, or attempt in vain
Things that to them came easily and plain,
By lifelong use? ‘I arena such a fool,’
She thought; ‘for when I left the Bluecoat School,
I know'd no more but just to read and write,
And do my sampler of a winter's night
When stockins was all mended. Bless your heart!
What, me, as never rode but in a cart,
An' trudged afoot to market wi' my load,
An' gather'd muck upon the hot high road,
An' work'd afield, an' welly fit to clem—
Me, to be even'd up wi' such as them
What sits i' parlours, an' is drest up fine,
An' has soft hands, not granner'd hands like mine?
Nay, that 'ud never do! Wife or no wife,
I are the master's servant, all my life.’
Such were her views; for this poor servant-maid
Had no ambition. Service was her trade;
And since she own'd no learning and no art
Wherewith to utter what was in her heart,
Or please him with accomplishments and wit,
She wisely kept her place, and built on it
The fabric of her future. All her days
She had been earning wages, aye and praise,
As a strong servant: now, the time was come
When this her strength could be employ'd at home,
For him she loved; so would he but approve
The strange unselfish methods of her love.
Even in others' houses, when she knelt
And scrubb'd on hands and knees, she always felt
As if she work'd for him: how many an hour
Of joy were hers, if she could scrub and scour
In his house, and have leave to keep it clean!
‘Dear heart!’ she cried, ‘I never need be seen,
Unless you ring for me to come upstairs;
I never want to give myself no airs,
Nor shame your fine folks wi' the sight o' me:
You do the talk afore your coompany,
An' me the work! I canna talk like you,
Nor do them fidfad things what ladies do.’
Had no ambition. Service was her trade;
And since she own'd no learning and no art
Wherewith to utter what was in her heart,
Or please him with accomplishments and wit,
She wisely kept her place, and built on it
The fabric of her future. All her days
She had been earning wages, aye and praise,
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When this her strength could be employ'd at home,
For him she loved; so would he but approve
The strange unselfish methods of her love.
Even in others' houses, when she knelt
And scrubb'd on hands and knees, she always felt
As if she work'd for him: how many an hour
Of joy were hers, if she could scrub and scour
In his house, and have leave to keep it clean!
‘Dear heart!’ she cried, ‘I never need be seen,
Unless you ring for me to come upstairs;
I never want to give myself no airs,
Nor shame your fine folks wi' the sight o' me:
You do the talk afore your coompany,
An' me the work! I canna talk like you,
Nor do them fidfad things what ladies do.’
He laugh'd; and with a lover's grasp embraced
The large proportions of her ample waist,
Saying ‘Why, Susan, have you then no taste
For what your betters value, and no wish
For some more graceful task than gutting fish
And cleaning pots and pans, and wringing out
The foul conditions of a kitchen clout?
How can you love me, and not care to rise?’
She answer'd—and her eloquent blue eyes
Were full of tears, as if they seem'd to mourn
His hopeless case—‘My love is not like yourn:
I are no lady, nor I couldna bear
To vex you with pretending as I were.
Lord, I should do it badly! And besides,
I hate pretence, an' everything as hides
My repitation an' my character.
I have my feelins, same as you have, Sir;
An' if I are a servant, well, you know
I always said you went a deal too low,
To make a wife out of a scullion-wench
As canna tell no music, nor no French,
Nor nothing, as you make a fuss about.
I always said, I was too big an' stout,
An' coarse, an' homely, to be mate wi' you,
As is a gentleman, an' looks it too.
But what! I have my character. My word!
I wouldna had you if you was a Lord,
To be my sweetheart, if you'd ever thought
As I was one o' them what could be bought
Wi' ladies' gewgaws, an' a lady's place,
To wed a man above her. It's disgrace,
That's what I call it, to be rose at all;
As if my loving was that weak an' small,
It couldna stand, but mun be cocker'd up
An' fed wi' spoon-meat, like a bulldog pup
Took from it mother. Eh, my love for you,
What you ha' had since when you ax'd me to,
My patience, it's a different sort to that!
Aye, it's my own sort; an' I'll tell ye what,
Master, just let your servant's love alone—
Yo'n got no call to mix it wi' your own.
Stick to your place, an' be my master, dear;
An' so I'll stick to mine: an' never fear,
Us two can live together, you an' me,—
One i' the room, an' one in scullery,
An' each adoin' what they're fit to do,—
Easy as owt. Why, I was made for you:
You hanna heerd me tell it, but it's true.
One day at Coatham's, when I'd clean'd the byre
And come indoors, right i' the kitchen-fire
I seed your face, plain as I see it now;
An' yet, I'd never sin yo' then, yo' know.
Well, next year after, when yo' catch'd me first
An' spoke to me, that time at Hazelhurst,
I know'd at onst, yo' was the very same—
Yo' was my sweetheart! Eh, I did feel shame
To think as I was not a equal, though;
I felt afear'd; I wouldna let it grow
To nothing settled, till at last I seed
Yo' meant no harm. Then, oh my love! indeed
I give myself for ever, in my mind,
To be your servant of all womankind,
An' be your wife an' all. That's what it is:
An' if yo' please Sir, yo' mun take a kiss,
To show as yo're agreed. Wife, servant, slave—
That's all the rising as I mean to have!’”
The large proportions of her ample waist,
Saying ‘Why, Susan, have you then no taste
For what your betters value, and no wish
For some more graceful task than gutting fish
And cleaning pots and pans, and wringing out
The foul conditions of a kitchen clout?
How can you love me, and not care to rise?’
She answer'd—and her eloquent blue eyes
Were full of tears, as if they seem'd to mourn
His hopeless case—‘My love is not like yourn:
I are no lady, nor I couldna bear
To vex you with pretending as I were.
Lord, I should do it badly! And besides,
14
My repitation an' my character.
I have my feelins, same as you have, Sir;
An' if I are a servant, well, you know
I always said you went a deal too low,
To make a wife out of a scullion-wench
As canna tell no music, nor no French,
Nor nothing, as you make a fuss about.
I always said, I was too big an' stout,
An' coarse, an' homely, to be mate wi' you,
As is a gentleman, an' looks it too.
But what! I have my character. My word!
I wouldna had you if you was a Lord,
To be my sweetheart, if you'd ever thought
As I was one o' them what could be bought
Wi' ladies' gewgaws, an' a lady's place,
To wed a man above her. It's disgrace,
That's what I call it, to be rose at all;
As if my loving was that weak an' small,
It couldna stand, but mun be cocker'd up
An' fed wi' spoon-meat, like a bulldog pup
Took from it mother. Eh, my love for you,
What you ha' had since when you ax'd me to,
My patience, it's a different sort to that!
Aye, it's my own sort; an' I'll tell ye what,
Master, just let your servant's love alone—
Yo'n got no call to mix it wi' your own.
Stick to your place, an' be my master, dear;
An' so I'll stick to mine: an' never fear,
Us two can live together, you an' me,—
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An' each adoin' what they're fit to do,—
Easy as owt. Why, I was made for you:
You hanna heerd me tell it, but it's true.
One day at Coatham's, when I'd clean'd the byre
And come indoors, right i' the kitchen-fire
I seed your face, plain as I see it now;
An' yet, I'd never sin yo' then, yo' know.
Well, next year after, when yo' catch'd me first
An' spoke to me, that time at Hazelhurst,
I know'd at onst, yo' was the very same—
Yo' was my sweetheart! Eh, I did feel shame
To think as I was not a equal, though;
I felt afear'd; I wouldna let it grow
To nothing settled, till at last I seed
Yo' meant no harm. Then, oh my love! indeed
I give myself for ever, in my mind,
To be your servant of all womankind,
An' be your wife an' all. That's what it is:
An' if yo' please Sir, yo' mun take a kiss,
To show as yo're agreed. Wife, servant, slave—
That's all the rising as I mean to have!’”
| Susan | |