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.
We talk'd together, Arundel and I,Of women's characters: the mystery
Of some strange lives; how noble yet how base,
How foul in heart and yet how fair of face
The selfsame woman may be; and again,
How often women, resolutely plain
Or ugly, the mere refuse of their kind
In outward aspect, have to the just mind
A beauty fairer than the passing guise
Of rosy lips and soft enchanting eyes.
Also, in classes lower than our own,
How many a working woman we had known,
How many a wench robust and rough with toil,
Whose harden'd fingers would but wound and soil
Your tender palms, Lord Fanny or Sir Plume,
And yet, to whom the mattock and the broom,
The sweat of labour, the mere black result
Of drudgery, become a kind of cult
That leaves these muscular maidens nobler far
Than the most feminine of ladies are.
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Rough servant girls, whom nothing can refine;
The black and rugged wenches of the mine;
The sunburnt damsels of the field or farm;
All, who by force of bulk and strength of arm
Can keep a bad man's insolence at bay,
And make him feel that they, and such as they,
Can hold their own unaided. Some, indeed,
Grave lusty lasses of laborious breed,
Have all their energies inform'd by love:
They spend their strength in serving one above
(Too far above) themselves. Such a mute maid,
Whose low condition nothing can degrade
Save vice, will use each large and sinewy limb
Of her coarse frame, in drudgery for him
Who owns her heart, and whose adored commands
Direct the efforts of her horny hands.
She makes herself his slave; not that he wills
She should do thus; but that her passion fills
The only channel it can hope to find.
She cannot help him with the equal mind
Of educated woman; but by this,
Her own rude work, she can be wholly his:
Her own rude labour will suffice to show
The strenuous love that makes her labour so;
And by its very baseness may express
Her deep devotion, and her happiness
In having such a sweetheart for her own.
“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
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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,
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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!’”
Such was the tale I heard from Arundel;
And with such warmth he told it, I might well
Think that the strange experience was his own.
Yet, he had always seem'd to live alone:
There was no mystery in his outward life;
No female serf, no unacknowledged wife,
Clad as a servant and kept out of view,
Disgraced his household; for his friends all knew
Each corner of his hospitable home.
Incredible, that such a man should come
To love a scullion-wench! And still more strange,
That the dull creature, with her narrow range
Of interests and emotions, caring not
For men or things outside her sordid lot,
Should yet be able thus to love again
A man like him; and, all untaught, attain
Such virtue, such serene self-sacrifice!
And with such warmth he told it, I might well
Think that the strange experience was his own.
Yet, he had always seem'd to live alone:
There was no mystery in his outward life;
No female serf, no unacknowledged wife,
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Disgraced his household; for his friends all knew
Each corner of his hospitable home.
Incredible, that such a man should come
To love a scullion-wench! And still more strange,
That the dull creature, with her narrow range
Of interests and emotions, caring not
For men or things outside her sordid lot,
Should yet be able thus to love again
A man like him; and, all untaught, attain
Such virtue, such serene self-sacrifice!
So thought I, ere I lifted up mine eyes
And look'd once more at Arundel; whose face,
All unabash'd, maintain'd the quiet grace
And self-possession of an earnest man
Ashamed of nothing. “Surely,” I began,
“Surely, a marriage such as you describe,
Where neither gives, and neither takes, the bribe
Of swift advancement to a higher grade,
Which one of them can offer, was not made
Where marriages should come from! 'Tis absurd,
And most absurd in him: who ever heard
Of men refined, yet stooping to adore
A girl whose duty is to scrub the floor,
And who enjoys such duties, and declines
To leave them at his bidding? He resigns
All that his life is worth, in loving her;
And she, poor drudge! would certainly prefer
A suitor like herself—a man whose hands
Are hard like hers, and whose coarse love expands
In rude caresses at her master's gate.
Why should blind Chance or more capricious Fate
Exalt her o'er her fellows, and condemn
One who is only fit to herd with them
To live in isolation and alone,
Despised by his folk, hated by her own;
Estranged from those whom still she counts as dear,
Yet not admitted to her husband's sphere?”
And look'd once more at Arundel; whose face,
All unabash'd, maintain'd the quiet grace
And self-possession of an earnest man
Ashamed of nothing. “Surely,” I began,
“Surely, a marriage such as you describe,
Where neither gives, and neither takes, the bribe
Of swift advancement to a higher grade,
Which one of them can offer, was not made
Where marriages should come from! 'Tis absurd,
And most absurd in him: who ever heard
Of men refined, yet stooping to adore
A girl whose duty is to scrub the floor,
And who enjoys such duties, and declines
To leave them at his bidding? He resigns
All that his life is worth, in loving her;
And she, poor drudge! would certainly prefer
A suitor like herself—a man whose hands
Are hard like hers, and whose coarse love expands
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Why should blind Chance or more capricious Fate
Exalt her o'er her fellows, and condemn
One who is only fit to herd with them
To live in isolation and alone,
Despised by his folk, hated by her own;
Estranged from those whom still she counts as dear,
Yet not admitted to her husband's sphere?”
“Ah! you admit,” said Arundel again,
“You do admit she has a husband, then!
Well, if she has, and is absorb'd in him,
Can she be lonely, sipping at its brim
From Love's full bowl, and seeing there within
Sorrow perhaps, but not a taint of sin?
And you forget her force of character:
What, is it nothing, that a maid like her,
So ignorant, so lowly, so obscure,
So utterly uncared for, and so poor,
Should feel as she did, and should carry out
Without regret or wavering or doubt,
Her strong resolve, to be the servant still,
And not the equal, of the man whose will
Had long become her own will, and whose love,
Pure as herself, had raised them both above
The very notion of equality?
Equality! why, neither he nor she
Thought of the thing: he worshipp'd her, I know;
He worshipp'd her because she was so low
And yet so lofty; she, robust in frame,
Rough-handed and red-arm'd; who felt no shame
Even in the basest toil, and no disgrace
When the fine features of her highbred face
Were all disguised with blackness and with sweat;
She, though so mere a labourer, had yet
Through some unknown ancestral blood, the gift
Of finer instincts, nobler traits, that lift
Her being toward the educated few.
She knew she had these treasures, but she knew
Scarce what they meant or what they tended to.
Within her mind they lay unused, unknown,
Unnoticed, unimproved; yet still, her own;
Waiting till he should see them at a glance,
Who had them also, by inheritance.
How could she know? To serve and to obey
The cook her master, through the livelong day,
Left her no time for thinking; and to her
Nature had given such strength, and such a stir
Of energy within, that all she did,
From the brisk scouring of a saucepan-lid
To that tremendous swilling of the yard,
Her weekly duty, seem'd to her not hard
But easy and delightful; her young soul,
Long train'd to look on labour as the goal
Of all that she was fit for, still could find
Delight in gaining credit, of a kind,
For menial tasks like these. But no one shared
Her higher instincts; not a creature cared
For her; though oft, attracted by her face,
The lordly butler left his lofty place
And brought his friends to see her, at the mouth
Of that dark den, all grimy and uncouth,
Wherein she lived and wrought. There through the door
He show'd her charms, and ran them gaily o'er
Even in her presence; for she dared not show
How much she felt the insult—being so low,
So much beneath him. For his private bliss,
He often tried to bargain for a kiss,
Spite of her humble protest; but he saw
With envious admiration and with awe,
At each attempt, this daughter of the farm
Uplift the terrors of her red right arm.
It was her sole defence; a needful one
For maids like her, who have no chaperon
Save their own virtue; and who walk alone,
Without a champion, and with scarce a friend.”
“You do admit she has a husband, then!
Well, if she has, and is absorb'd in him,
Can she be lonely, sipping at its brim
From Love's full bowl, and seeing there within
Sorrow perhaps, but not a taint of sin?
And you forget her force of character:
What, is it nothing, that a maid like her,
So ignorant, so lowly, so obscure,
So utterly uncared for, and so poor,
Should feel as she did, and should carry out
Without regret or wavering or doubt,
Her strong resolve, to be the servant still,
And not the equal, of the man whose will
Had long become her own will, and whose love,
Pure as herself, had raised them both above
The very notion of equality?
Equality! why, neither he nor she
Thought of the thing: he worshipp'd her, I know;
He worshipp'd her because she was so low
And yet so lofty; she, robust in frame,
Rough-handed and red-arm'd; who felt no shame
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When the fine features of her highbred face
Were all disguised with blackness and with sweat;
She, though so mere a labourer, had yet
Through some unknown ancestral blood, the gift
Of finer instincts, nobler traits, that lift
Her being toward the educated few.
She knew she had these treasures, but she knew
Scarce what they meant or what they tended to.
Within her mind they lay unused, unknown,
Unnoticed, unimproved; yet still, her own;
Waiting till he should see them at a glance,
Who had them also, by inheritance.
How could she know? To serve and to obey
The cook her master, through the livelong day,
Left her no time for thinking; and to her
Nature had given such strength, and such a stir
Of energy within, that all she did,
From the brisk scouring of a saucepan-lid
To that tremendous swilling of the yard,
Her weekly duty, seem'd to her not hard
But easy and delightful; her young soul,
Long train'd to look on labour as the goal
Of all that she was fit for, still could find
Delight in gaining credit, of a kind,
For menial tasks like these. But no one shared
Her higher instincts; not a creature cared
For her; though oft, attracted by her face,
The lordly butler left his lofty place
And brought his friends to see her, at the mouth
19
Wherein she lived and wrought. There through the door
He show'd her charms, and ran them gaily o'er
Even in her presence; for she dared not show
How much she felt the insult—being so low,
So much beneath him. For his private bliss,
He often tried to bargain for a kiss,
Spite of her humble protest; but he saw
With envious admiration and with awe,
At each attempt, this daughter of the farm
Uplift the terrors of her red right arm.
It was her sole defence; a needful one
For maids like her, who have no chaperon
Save their own virtue; and who walk alone,
Without a champion, and with scarce a friend.”
“But, Arundel,” said I, “what was the end
Of this romance? Did the stout serving-lass
Keep her resolve, and stay in her own class,
While her superior husband stay'd in his?
Was he content to leave her as she is—
As you have left her—drudging all unknown
Down in his kitchen, whilst he held his own
Among fair ladies on the tennis lawn?
Or did she come, reluctantly withdrawn
From servile tasks, and standing at his side
Arouse the indignation and the pride
Of all that fashionable loveliness
By her rough aspect, and her kitchen dress,
Her bare red arms, and many another sign
That she was one whom they must all decline
To visit or to recognise? ‘He dare
To bring that unaccustom'd creature there,
Who, though good-looking certainly and tall,
Was nothing but a menial, after all!’
Ah yes—I fancy I can see her stand
With that one ring upon her big brown hand,
While he, politely bending over it
As if she were a lady, in his fit
Of love, says most ungallantly, ‘I fear
You may be somewhat startled, ladies dear,
But what I tell you is exactly true:
This is the woman I prefer to you;
This is my wife—a servant!’”
Of this romance? Did the stout serving-lass
Keep her resolve, and stay in her own class,
While her superior husband stay'd in his?
Was he content to leave her as she is—
As you have left her—drudging all unknown
Down in his kitchen, whilst he held his own
Among fair ladies on the tennis lawn?
Or did she come, reluctantly withdrawn
From servile tasks, and standing at his side
Arouse the indignation and the pride
Of all that fashionable loveliness
By her rough aspect, and her kitchen dress,
Her bare red arms, and many another sign
20
To visit or to recognise? ‘He dare
To bring that unaccustom'd creature there,
Who, though good-looking certainly and tall,
Was nothing but a menial, after all!’
Ah yes—I fancy I can see her stand
With that one ring upon her big brown hand,
While he, politely bending over it
As if she were a lady, in his fit
Of love, says most ungallantly, ‘I fear
You may be somewhat startled, ladies dear,
But what I tell you is exactly true:
This is the woman I prefer to you;
This is my wife—a servant!’”
Arundel
Look'd up and smiled; as if he too could tell
How nearly I had happen'd on the truth;
But he replied, “Oh no, ingenuous youth!
The man I spoke of did not mar his life,
Nor do such despite to his low-born wife,
As to produce her that way. In a word,
I'll tell you what I happen to have heard
About his marriage, not so long ago.
Look'd up and smiled; as if he too could tell
How nearly I had happen'd on the truth;
But he replied, “Oh no, ingenuous youth!
The man I spoke of did not mar his life,
Nor do such despite to his low-born wife,
As to produce her that way. In a word,
I'll tell you what I happen to have heard
About his marriage, not so long ago.
He could not, dared not, let his own folk know,
So none of them were present: as for hers,
Her sisters and her brothers—labourers
And servants like herself—they all were there
In the old church at Hazelhurst, to share
In giving up the maiden whom they loved
To that one man whom she and they approved,
Though he was not of their sort; for they knew
He loved her purely, and his love was true.
It was a rustic wedding. What she wore
Confess'd her station, and proclaim'd once more
Her love for it. She wore no gloves, no veil,
No ornament, no flowers; but none could fail
To like her simple bonnet, her neat cloak,
Her plain stuff gown; and even gentlefolk
Might surely now admire her shapely hands,
Large as they were, since the disfiguring brands
Of daily labour had been scrubb'd away
For once, in honour of her wedding-day
And of that ring she soon would have to wear.
So none of them were present: as for hers,
Her sisters and her brothers—labourers
And servants like herself—they all were there
In the old church at Hazelhurst, to share
In giving up the maiden whom they loved
To that one man whom she and they approved,
21
He loved her purely, and his love was true.
It was a rustic wedding. What she wore
Confess'd her station, and proclaim'd once more
Her love for it. She wore no gloves, no veil,
No ornament, no flowers; but none could fail
To like her simple bonnet, her neat cloak,
Her plain stuff gown; and even gentlefolk
Might surely now admire her shapely hands,
Large as they were, since the disfiguring brands
Of daily labour had been scrubb'd away
For once, in honour of her wedding-day
And of that ring she soon would have to wear.
She look'd as charming and she look'd as rare
As on that other day at Hazelhurst
When he who now possess'd her, saw her first,
Walking alone, on homely errands bent;
Silent, yet in herself most eloquent—
And wonder'd much who such a girl might be.
She walk'd erect, with grace and dignity;
And yet she was a servant, he could see:
Her round and ruddy arms were wholly bare,
And she was drest as other servants are,
White-capp'd, white-apron'd; and the cotton print
That mask'd her queenly figure, gave no hint
That she could be a lady in disguise.
But yet, her rosy mouth and clear blue eyes
Had more of purpose, nobler character,
Than a mere peasant's: one might well infer
That some august progenitor in her
Had reappear'd; so delicate and fine
Her features were, so proudly aquiline.
As on that other day at Hazelhurst
When he who now possess'd her, saw her first,
Walking alone, on homely errands bent;
Silent, yet in herself most eloquent—
And wonder'd much who such a girl might be.
She walk'd erect, with grace and dignity;
And yet she was a servant, he could see:
Her round and ruddy arms were wholly bare,
And she was drest as other servants are,
White-capp'd, white-apron'd; and the cotton print
That mask'd her queenly figure, gave no hint
That she could be a lady in disguise.
But yet, her rosy mouth and clear blue eyes
Had more of purpose, nobler character,
Than a mere peasant's: one might well infer
That some august progenitor in her
22
Her features were, so proudly aquiline.
Ah, surely, she, now wedded to her love,
And he a man in rank at least above
Her birth and calling, would at last begin
To feel her new position, and take in
The sweetness of its leisure; and perceive
That she had reach'd the land of Make-believe,
And must be mistress of her lord's abode
And whirl with him along the broad high road
That leads to Fashion, to Society!
Yes, she will like the change, no doubt. Not she!
She wants no change; she hates the thought of change.
Her range is bounded by the kitchen-range,
And asks no wider tether. When he came
To seek his bride, he found her just the same
As yesterday; a waiting-maid stood there,
Ready to serve behind her husband's chair,
And hand the dishes, and uncork the wine!
‘What, is it thus,’ said he, ‘I am to dine
Upon our wedding-day? Why have you laid
One cover only? Are you still afraid
To sit beside me, now you are my wife,
Named by my name, and one with me for life?’
He open'd out his arms; and she came near,
And, clasp'd within them, whisper'd ‘Massa dear,
I dunna wish to be nought else, you know,
Nor what I was afore; I told you so:
Call me your bride, or call me what you will,
I only feel I are your servant still!’
And he a man in rank at least above
Her birth and calling, would at last begin
To feel her new position, and take in
The sweetness of its leisure; and perceive
That she had reach'd the land of Make-believe,
And must be mistress of her lord's abode
And whirl with him along the broad high road
That leads to Fashion, to Society!
Yes, she will like the change, no doubt. Not she!
She wants no change; she hates the thought of change.
Her range is bounded by the kitchen-range,
And asks no wider tether. When he came
To seek his bride, he found her just the same
As yesterday; a waiting-maid stood there,
Ready to serve behind her husband's chair,
And hand the dishes, and uncork the wine!
‘What, is it thus,’ said he, ‘I am to dine
Upon our wedding-day? Why have you laid
One cover only? Are you still afraid
To sit beside me, now you are my wife,
Named by my name, and one with me for life?’
He open'd out his arms; and she came near,
And, clasp'd within them, whisper'd ‘Massa dear,
I dunna wish to be nought else, you know,
Nor what I was afore; I told you so:
Call me your bride, or call me what you will,
I only feel I are your servant still!’
23
That day, they dined on little else than love.
And he, intent to soften or remove
Her dread of things that she had never known,
Intent to show that she was all his own,
And by her right of wedlock, now should be
If not a lady, yet as good as he,
Respected for her own sake and for his—
He, arm'd with many a soft persuasive kiss,
At last prevail'd; yet only half prevail'd.
She murmur'd, and she pleaded, and she quail'd,
At the bare thought of going out with him,
Drest up so smart, and forced to be so prim,
And kept away from all she loved to do
For him and for herself; and fearing too
That in her ignorance she might disgrace
The man she loved, and shame him to his face.
‘At least, yo' munna let 'em see my hands,’
Said she; ‘'cause them as sees 'em, understands
How you an' me is different, like afore.
Lend me your gloves, a pair as you have wore—
They'd do, when you ha' stretch'd 'em out a bit!’
And he, intent to soften or remove
Her dread of things that she had never known,
Intent to show that she was all his own,
And by her right of wedlock, now should be
If not a lady, yet as good as he,
Respected for her own sake and for his—
He, arm'd with many a soft persuasive kiss,
At last prevail'd; yet only half prevail'd.
She murmur'd, and she pleaded, and she quail'd,
At the bare thought of going out with him,
Drest up so smart, and forced to be so prim,
And kept away from all she loved to do
For him and for herself; and fearing too
That in her ignorance she might disgrace
The man she loved, and shame him to his face.
‘At least, yo' munna let 'em see my hands,’
Said she; ‘'cause them as sees 'em, understands
How you an' me is different, like afore.
Lend me your gloves, a pair as you have wore—
They'd do, when you ha' stretch'd 'em out a bit!’
Alas, poor soul! She never thought of it,
But gloves like his, so masculine in size,
Suited but ill the lady-like disguise
In which he had her clothed: such draperies
As, till that hour, she never had endured.
But, when she donn'd them, and was well assured
That this must be, she set herself at once
To play the clever wife, and not the dunce;
And do him credit, in her new attire,
Just as she did beside the kitchen fire.
But gloves like his, so masculine in size,
Suited but ill the lady-like disguise
In which he had her clothed: such draperies
As, till that hour, she never had endured.
But, when she donn'd them, and was well assured
That this must be, she set herself at once
To play the clever wife, and not the dunce;
24
Just as she did beside the kitchen fire.
They went abroad. Ah, what a change of scene
From that old cottage on the village green
Where she was born and bred! She wonder'd much
At all she saw; yet never lost that touch
Of native shrewdness, which could make her wise
To hide her wonder from the strangers' eyes.
But most she wonder'd at the things she heard:
‘I canna make out not a single word,’
She sadly said; ‘they dunna talk like us!
It's jabber, jabber, an' a deal o' fuss
As I can't tell. It inna likely, though,
As I could speak a-thatns! Do you know,
One day when you was out, I rung the bell
(I seem'd as I was ringin for mysel,
When I did that) an' straight away, there come
A servant, same as I look like at home;
An' then, I was in such a dreadful way—
I couldna tell her what I'd got to say!
Her stood an' stared at me, an' me at her:
At last I says, ‘My wench, your character
'S as good as mine, I reckon; you an' me
'Ud do for fellow-servants; but yo' see,
Us canna make each other out at all!
Inna that dreadful?’ Well, it's what I call
A mercy—but her understood me, then!
I know she did; for her spoke up again
A-sayin ‘Oui, Madame!’ an' them two words,
I know'd what they mean, long since, at my Lord's,
When I was scullion. Mossu Philibert,
He didna like to see me i' my dirt,
A-cleanin stewpans an' a-diggin coal;
He made me stop all day inside my hole,
While them things was a-doin. But I heerd
Folks passin by; an' though I was afeard,
I often got to see 'em, unbeknown—
High ladies of upstairs, as 'ud coom down
To see the kitchens, an' the cookin too.
Well, he spoke French, you know, the same as you
To these here foreigners; an' I made out,
A little bit, what it was all about:
‘Mon Dieu,’ he used to say; an' then ‘Mon âme,’
An' ‘Peste’; an' always, he said ‘Oui Madame,’
A-speakin to them ladies. So I seed
As that meant ‘Yes ma'am’; an' it do, indeed!
Nobody never call'd me Ma'am afore;
But that wench did say Ma'am, an' nothin more,
In her French talk; an' went away downstairs,
A-thinkin, maybe, what tremenjous airs
Us English servants has; drest up so prime,
An' you to go about with!’
From that old cottage on the village green
Where she was born and bred! She wonder'd much
At all she saw; yet never lost that touch
Of native shrewdness, which could make her wise
To hide her wonder from the strangers' eyes.
But most she wonder'd at the things she heard:
‘I canna make out not a single word,’
She sadly said; ‘they dunna talk like us!
It's jabber, jabber, an' a deal o' fuss
As I can't tell. It inna likely, though,
As I could speak a-thatns! Do you know,
One day when you was out, I rung the bell
(I seem'd as I was ringin for mysel,
When I did that) an' straight away, there come
A servant, same as I look like at home;
An' then, I was in such a dreadful way—
I couldna tell her what I'd got to say!
Her stood an' stared at me, an' me at her:
At last I says, ‘My wench, your character
'S as good as mine, I reckon; you an' me
'Ud do for fellow-servants; but yo' see,
Us canna make each other out at all!
Inna that dreadful?’ Well, it's what I call
A mercy—but her understood me, then!
I know she did; for her spoke up again
25
I know'd what they mean, long since, at my Lord's,
When I was scullion. Mossu Philibert,
He didna like to see me i' my dirt,
A-cleanin stewpans an' a-diggin coal;
He made me stop all day inside my hole,
While them things was a-doin. But I heerd
Folks passin by; an' though I was afeard,
I often got to see 'em, unbeknown—
High ladies of upstairs, as 'ud coom down
To see the kitchens, an' the cookin too.
Well, he spoke French, you know, the same as you
To these here foreigners; an' I made out,
A little bit, what it was all about:
‘Mon Dieu,’ he used to say; an' then ‘Mon âme,’
An' ‘Peste’; an' always, he said ‘Oui Madame,’
A-speakin to them ladies. So I seed
As that meant ‘Yes ma'am’; an' it do, indeed!
Nobody never call'd me Ma'am afore;
But that wench did say Ma'am, an' nothin more,
In her French talk; an' went away downstairs,
A-thinkin, maybe, what tremenjous airs
Us English servants has; drest up so prime,
An' you to go about with!’
Many a time,
Trials like this assail'd the peasant bride,
As she moved onward by her husband's side
Through lands so fair and scenes so beautiful,
That she, whose sympathies were fain and full
As Nature's own, with beauty, used to say
That things like them was far too good to stay
Outside of Heaven, and a deal too nice
For folks as hadna come to Paradise.
‘If I'd ha' known,’ said she, ‘how monstrous grand
Them mountains is, as welly seems to stand
Right up above the clouds; an' what a sight
O' runnin water, pourin down as white
An' full o' froth as suds o' washin day,
Bless yo', I reckon I'd ha' stopp'd away,
An' never let you 'tice me out to here!
For why, it grips me with a kind o' fear:
If you an' me, now, was at Bagworth Fair,
I shouldna mind; not as I wish nor care
For swings an' gingerbread; but one do feel
It's humanlike, an' homelier by a deal
Nor these great mountains is. Dear heart alive!
To think as folks can fret an' sweat an' thrive
An' live i' sin, in sight o' such as them—
The very walls o' New Jerusalem!’
Trials like this assail'd the peasant bride,
As she moved onward by her husband's side
Through lands so fair and scenes so beautiful,
That she, whose sympathies were fain and full
26
That things like them was far too good to stay
Outside of Heaven, and a deal too nice
For folks as hadna come to Paradise.
‘If I'd ha' known,’ said she, ‘how monstrous grand
Them mountains is, as welly seems to stand
Right up above the clouds; an' what a sight
O' runnin water, pourin down as white
An' full o' froth as suds o' washin day,
Bless yo', I reckon I'd ha' stopp'd away,
An' never let you 'tice me out to here!
For why, it grips me with a kind o' fear:
If you an' me, now, was at Bagworth Fair,
I shouldna mind; not as I wish nor care
For swings an' gingerbread; but one do feel
It's humanlike, an' homelier by a deal
Nor these great mountains is. Dear heart alive!
To think as folks can fret an' sweat an' thrive
An' live i' sin, in sight o' such as them—
The very walls o' New Jerusalem!’
How like you these her sentiments, my friend?
Said Arundel; do they not seem to lend
A spice of strange originality,
A special flavour that you rarely see,
To the mild honey of a bridal tour?”
Said Arundel; do they not seem to lend
A spice of strange originality,
A special flavour that you rarely see,
To the mild honey of a bridal tour?”
“No doubt,” I said; “but one is very sure
That either he converted her, and gave
A lady's tastes to this strange freeborn slave,
Or else she broke away from him, and went
Back to her cottage and her element—
The care of dishes and of kitchen floors.”
That either he converted her, and gave
A lady's tastes to this strange freeborn slave,
27
Back to her cottage and her element—
The care of dishes and of kitchen floors.”
“Are you so sure, that what the world adores,”
Said Arundel, “a lady ought to love?
Was not this rustic servant far above,
And not below, the level of her sex,
In feeling how the mighty Earth can vex
A gazing soul, oppressing it with awe
Unspeakable, in presence of that law
Which lifts such brute things high, and keeps them safe,
Whilst the quick human spirit, a mere waif
On grossest air, just sees them and is gone?
That is what Susan meant, when she put on
Her thoughtful mood; though phrases such as these
To her were strange as mountain mysteries.
Her phrase was clumsy, for her speech was rude:
But surely, she by Nature was endued
With finer sympathies and stronger sense
Than those who lounge in listless indolence
Through the gay Kursaal by some woodland lake,
Or those who climb the peaks for fashion's sake
Or fame's, and not for communing with God.
Said Arundel, “a lady ought to love?
Was not this rustic servant far above,
And not below, the level of her sex,
In feeling how the mighty Earth can vex
A gazing soul, oppressing it with awe
Unspeakable, in presence of that law
Which lifts such brute things high, and keeps them safe,
Whilst the quick human spirit, a mere waif
On grossest air, just sees them and is gone?
That is what Susan meant, when she put on
Her thoughtful mood; though phrases such as these
To her were strange as mountain mysteries.
Her phrase was clumsy, for her speech was rude:
But surely, she by Nature was endued
With finer sympathies and stronger sense
Than those who lounge in listless indolence
Through the gay Kursaal by some woodland lake,
Or those who climb the peaks for fashion's sake
Or fame's, and not for communing with God.
Rough were the paths that her stern youth had trod;
But now, her lover's presence, and the joy
Born of that joy, the freedom from annoy
And thwarting toil, had made her delicate
In act and manner; now, she walk'd elate,
With all her native dignity restored,
And all her beauty flashing, like a sword
Snatch'd from the sheath that hid it. Such a brand
Did execution, in that foreign land;
Men turn'd to look at her; and well-bred dames,
Who knew not of her story, and whose aims
Soar'd mountains-high above her lowly lot,
Admired the wench who understood them not,
And said, He truly would be blest for life,
Who had that noble woman for his wife.
Yes! But he kept her snugly at his side:
From him alone, she was not forced to hide
Her country talk, her large hardworking hands;
And, these once hid, his bride securely stands
A figure of the proudest, where the proud
Themselves are gather'd in a lordly crowd.
But now, her lover's presence, and the joy
Born of that joy, the freedom from annoy
And thwarting toil, had made her delicate
In act and manner; now, she walk'd elate,
With all her native dignity restored,
And all her beauty flashing, like a sword
28
Did execution, in that foreign land;
Men turn'd to look at her; and well-bred dames,
Who knew not of her story, and whose aims
Soar'd mountains-high above her lowly lot,
Admired the wench who understood them not,
And said, He truly would be blest for life,
Who had that noble woman for his wife.
Yes! But he kept her snugly at his side:
From him alone, she was not forced to hide
Her country talk, her large hardworking hands;
And, these once hid, his bride securely stands
A figure of the proudest, where the proud
Themselves are gather'd in a lordly crowd.
Far other crowds, too, held her in respect.
Once at some rural town, I recollect,
He left her at the station, all alone,
While he went forth to seek an inn. ‘My own,’
Said he, ‘if people come and speak to you,
You will not understand them, it is true;
But, just say this, whatever they may say—
J'attends mon mari.’ Ere he went away,
She, oft repeating, knew the words by heart;
And knew their meaning. She took up her part
Fearless, confiding in his safe return;
And, coming back, his glad eyes did discern
The lithe and stately stranger, standing there
Beside the baggage which was now her care.
But ranged in front of her as courtiers use,
Stood the stout facteur in his wellworn blouse,
The female clerk, the little Chef de Gare;
All looking up, and awed as children are
By some majestic fairy in a play.
Silent and pleased and wondering stood they:
The while that tall fair woman of the isles
Look'd down on them with sweet impartial smiles,
And said, ‘J'attends mon mari—here he is!’
Then, when he claim'd her with a grateful kiss,
They smiled and clapp'd their hands, with friendly voice
Crying ‘C'est lui—the husband of her choice!’”
Once at some rural town, I recollect,
He left her at the station, all alone,
While he went forth to seek an inn. ‘My own,’
Said he, ‘if people come and speak to you,
You will not understand them, it is true;
But, just say this, whatever they may say—
J'attends mon mari.’ Ere he went away,
She, oft repeating, knew the words by heart;
And knew their meaning. She took up her part
Fearless, confiding in his safe return;
And, coming back, his glad eyes did discern
The lithe and stately stranger, standing there
Beside the baggage which was now her care.
But ranged in front of her as courtiers use,
Stood the stout facteur in his wellworn blouse,
29
All looking up, and awed as children are
By some majestic fairy in a play.
Silent and pleased and wondering stood they:
The while that tall fair woman of the isles
Look'd down on them with sweet impartial smiles,
And said, ‘J'attends mon mari—here he is!’
Then, when he claim'd her with a grateful kiss,
They smiled and clapp'd their hands, with friendly voice
Crying ‘C'est lui—the husband of her choice!’”
“A pretty tale,” said I, “friend Arundel,
Prettily told! And I believe it well.
But, how did that majestic servant-maid,
So queenly, so superior to her grade,
And yet so fond of labour, and so fit
By birth and breeding, to indulge in it,
How did she like such novel scenes as these?
The admiration, the luxurious ease,
Which she enjoy'd with you—I mean, with him—
Did they convert her? Did her waist grow slim,
Her large hands smooth and more presentable,
And she herself more apt to sit at table
Among the ladies who admired her so?
Or did she (my alternative, you know)
Did she forsake all this, and run away
Back to her kitchen?”
Prettily told! And I believe it well.
But, how did that majestic servant-maid,
So queenly, so superior to her grade,
And yet so fond of labour, and so fit
By birth and breeding, to indulge in it,
How did she like such novel scenes as these?
The admiration, the luxurious ease,
Which she enjoy'd with you—I mean, with him—
Did they convert her? Did her waist grow slim,
Her large hands smooth and more presentable,
And she herself more apt to sit at table
Among the ladies who admired her so?
Or did she (my alternative, you know)
Did she forsake all this, and run away
Back to her kitchen?”
“I am glad to say,”
Said Arundel with something of reserve,
“That neither happen'd. She had strength and nerve
Of body and of soul, to stand the strain
Of her new life, so long as it was vain
To seek escape from that strange ladyhood:
But, being sensitive, she felt how rude
Her own upbringing was; and what a rent
The apparatus of accomplishment
Which she beheld, whatever way she went,
Would make, in such a nature as her own.
Oh, to be back in service, all alone,
With none to notice what she did or said,
Nor with what toil she won her daily bread,
Nor how uncouth her manners were at meals!
That is her feeling; and she also feels
That she had known no burden, all her life,
So hard as this—to be her husband's wife,
And not allow'd to be his servant too!
‘Dear heart alive, I dunno what to do!’
She said to him; ‘you know, I'd liefer stand
Behind your chair, an' change the plates, an' hand
What dishes you may want, an' call you Sir,
Same as I used to, nor to sit and purr
Like a tame cat, among these gentlefolk!
Bless you, I feel as if I'd got a yoke
Stuck always on my showthers, with it pails,
An' me afeard to spill 'em! Eh, what tales,
What a queer sight o' tales, I've got to tell
When I get back to Jim's! It's terrible
To think o' me among such clever talk,
An' such long words they welly seems to baulk
My wits, an' bash my senses to a maze;
Aye, an' such dainty airs an' mincin ways—
I never seed the like! No, master, no:
I arena fit for 'em,—an' that you know.’
Said Arundel with something of reserve,
“That neither happen'd. She had strength and nerve
30
Of her new life, so long as it was vain
To seek escape from that strange ladyhood:
But, being sensitive, she felt how rude
Her own upbringing was; and what a rent
The apparatus of accomplishment
Which she beheld, whatever way she went,
Would make, in such a nature as her own.
Oh, to be back in service, all alone,
With none to notice what she did or said,
Nor with what toil she won her daily bread,
Nor how uncouth her manners were at meals!
That is her feeling; and she also feels
That she had known no burden, all her life,
So hard as this—to be her husband's wife,
And not allow'd to be his servant too!
‘Dear heart alive, I dunno what to do!’
She said to him; ‘you know, I'd liefer stand
Behind your chair, an' change the plates, an' hand
What dishes you may want, an' call you Sir,
Same as I used to, nor to sit and purr
Like a tame cat, among these gentlefolk!
Bless you, I feel as if I'd got a yoke
Stuck always on my showthers, with it pails,
An' me afeard to spill 'em! Eh, what tales,
What a queer sight o' tales, I've got to tell
When I get back to Jim's! It's terrible
To think o' me among such clever talk,
An' such long words they welly seems to baulk
My wits, an' bash my senses to a maze;
31
I never seed the like! No, master, no:
I arena fit for 'em,—an' that you know.’
He smiled at her untutor'd vehemence—
Born of a soul that hated all pretence,
And had no guidance save its own plain sense;
He smiled, and said, ‘But we two are alone:
Love is our comrade, and our only one.
You see I always keep you from the taunts
Of such as in these fashionable haunts
Are curious, and would be revenged on you
For your superior beauty, if they knew
That you are not as they are. Truly, dear,
You need not feel anxiety nor fear,
For none of these who criticise and stare
Could once imagine what you really are,
Save that you are my wife.’ ‘Aye, that's the thing,’
Cried she, ‘as frets an' galls me like a sting:
I are your wife, so I mun sit, an' see
Them others do my work, instead o' me!
I munna do a single job for you—
Cleanin or cookin, what I like to do,
Nor waitin neither, easy though it is;
I'm good for nothin. Why, it's come to this—
You winna let me even clean your boots!—
You think to pluck my life up by the roots,
My life an' work an' all my livelihood,
What I ha' said I'd stick to it for good
An' be your servant always? Eh, my lad,
For all thee bist a gentleman, I'm glad
Thou canna do it, nohow. Dun yo' think
As I forget my scullery an' my sink,
An' wants to leave 'em an' be took away
An' rose to be a lady? Nay lad, nay!
What did that lady's maid once say to me,—
The proud un', as spoke French? Her said, says she,
‘You're only fit to live in scullery;
The sink's your toilet, Susan; stick to it—
You'll want no better!’ That was just her wit;
But it was true; an' so I says to her,
‘Yes Ma'am,’ I says; ‘an' that's what I prefer.’
An' so I always says to you, dear heart!
Bless you, I'm not afeard; I've got the start
Of every other servant, in this race:
Aye, I've got you, an' means to keep my place!’
Born of a soul that hated all pretence,
And had no guidance save its own plain sense;
He smiled, and said, ‘But we two are alone:
Love is our comrade, and our only one.
You see I always keep you from the taunts
Of such as in these fashionable haunts
Are curious, and would be revenged on you
For your superior beauty, if they knew
That you are not as they are. Truly, dear,
You need not feel anxiety nor fear,
For none of these who criticise and stare
Could once imagine what you really are,
Save that you are my wife.’ ‘Aye, that's the thing,’
Cried she, ‘as frets an' galls me like a sting:
I are your wife, so I mun sit, an' see
Them others do my work, instead o' me!
I munna do a single job for you—
Cleanin or cookin, what I like to do,
Nor waitin neither, easy though it is;
I'm good for nothin. Why, it's come to this—
You winna let me even clean your boots!—
You think to pluck my life up by the roots,
My life an' work an' all my livelihood,
What I ha' said I'd stick to it for good
An' be your servant always? Eh, my lad,
For all thee bist a gentleman, I'm glad
32
As I forget my scullery an' my sink,
An' wants to leave 'em an' be took away
An' rose to be a lady? Nay lad, nay!
What did that lady's maid once say to me,—
The proud un', as spoke French? Her said, says she,
‘You're only fit to live in scullery;
The sink's your toilet, Susan; stick to it—
You'll want no better!’ That was just her wit;
But it was true; an' so I says to her,
‘Yes Ma'am,’ I says; ‘an' that's what I prefer.’
An' so I always says to you, dear heart!
Bless you, I'm not afeard; I've got the start
Of every other servant, in this race:
Aye, I've got you, an' means to keep my place!’
Those were her words,” said Arundel; “and then—
And then—she kiss'd him, and went on again:
‘What, me,’ she said, ‘to think o' giving in
To such a set o' servants as I've sin
At every place we come to? Fid-fad chits,
What seems as they ha' welly lost their wits
A-gossippin wi' any fool they sees!
They canna scrub a floor on hands an' knees,
Nor clean a winder, nor wash out a steen,
Nor blacklead grates—for there's no grates to clean,
I' these outlandish countries wheer we be,
For all their fauseness an' their flummery.
Eh, I ha' watch'd them wenches now for long,
Doin their work, an' doin of it wrong;
An' me, as could ha' done it, traipsin here
As idle as a popinjay. Oh dear!
When will you think o' me, an' be that wise
To take me fairly out o' this disguise,
An' let me don my livery again—
Your livery, my Master—poor an' plain,
What I have always wore?’
And then—she kiss'd him, and went on again:
‘What, me,’ she said, ‘to think o' giving in
To such a set o' servants as I've sin
At every place we come to? Fid-fad chits,
What seems as they ha' welly lost their wits
A-gossippin wi' any fool they sees!
They canna scrub a floor on hands an' knees,
Nor clean a winder, nor wash out a steen,
Nor blacklead grates—for there's no grates to clean,
I' these outlandish countries wheer we be,
For all their fauseness an' their flummery.
Eh, I ha' watch'd them wenches now for long,
Doin their work, an' doin of it wrong;
An' me, as could ha' done it, traipsin here
33
When will you think o' me, an' be that wise
To take me fairly out o' this disguise,
An' let me don my livery again—
Your livery, my Master—poor an' plain,
What I have always wore?’
So she ran on,
Time after time; entreating to be gone
From those fair lands of indolence; resolved
That she at least would never be involved
In the gilt meshes of luxurious life.
He loved to listen to his ignorant wife
Thus setting forth in language apt though rude
The larger liberty of servitude;
He loved to hear her soft voice rise and fall,
While its clear tones in accents musical
Rang out for him and reproduced uncheck'd
Quaint phrases of her native dialect,
Quaint sayings of her own; he loved to see
The emphasis, the stout simplicity
Of action, that possess'd her and set free
Such sudden contrasts to her softer charms:
She flung abroad her big laborious arms;
Her warm lips quiver'd and her blue eyes flash'd;
And her strong hands, smitten together, clash'd
Like cymbals, with a hard metallic ring.—
Time after time; entreating to be gone
From those fair lands of indolence; resolved
That she at least would never be involved
In the gilt meshes of luxurious life.
He loved to listen to his ignorant wife
Thus setting forth in language apt though rude
The larger liberty of servitude;
He loved to hear her soft voice rise and fall,
While its clear tones in accents musical
Rang out for him and reproduced uncheck'd
Quaint phrases of her native dialect,
Quaint sayings of her own; he loved to see
The emphasis, the stout simplicity
Of action, that possess'd her and set free
Such sudden contrasts to her softer charms:
She flung abroad her big laborious arms;
Her warm lips quiver'd and her blue eyes flash'd;
And her strong hands, smitten together, clash'd
Like cymbals, with a hard metallic ring.—
A panther of the desert—a wild thing
Not civilised to any common mood—
A woman of God's making! If you could,
You would not pare this rugged shape divine
To the smooth form that we call feminine,
We, nursed in parlours and brought up on pap?
The large live creature, caught as in a trap
By strange privations, strange indulgences,—
All the strict usage of an etiquette
Such as she never dream'd of,—can she yet
Have patience with such novelties as these?
She asks no praise; she scorns to be at ease;
She asks not anything, save Love alone,
And that stern strenuous labour of her own
Which is the free expression of her love.
Sure, he were less than man, who would not move
To meet the wishes of a wife like this!
He owns her love and her: her every kiss,
And all her best endearments, are for him:
Nay, each apt effort of each hardy limb
Has his love for its motive. Shall he then
From fear of censure, or for praise of men,
Still strive to break this ardent nature in,
By rules she hates, and ways that seem like sin
To her robust untutor'd womanhood?
She is already beautiful and good:
And shall she risk the dangers of a class
That would despise her and think him an ass
For loving such as she is? Well he knows
Her love is like its perfume to the rose—
Part of herself: 'tis inexhaustible,
Boundless and fathomless; as deep as hell,
As high and pure as heaven. And her reward
Is, that he loves her though her hands are hard,
And that her treasure, in its earthen mould,
Shall be as highly honour'd, and shall hold
As fair a place, as if its vase were gold.
Not civilised to any common mood—
A woman of God's making! If you could,
34
To the smooth form that we call feminine,
We, nursed in parlours and brought up on pap?
The large live creature, caught as in a trap
By strange privations, strange indulgences,—
All the strict usage of an etiquette
Such as she never dream'd of,—can she yet
Have patience with such novelties as these?
She asks no praise; she scorns to be at ease;
She asks not anything, save Love alone,
And that stern strenuous labour of her own
Which is the free expression of her love.
Sure, he were less than man, who would not move
To meet the wishes of a wife like this!
He owns her love and her: her every kiss,
And all her best endearments, are for him:
Nay, each apt effort of each hardy limb
Has his love for its motive. Shall he then
From fear of censure, or for praise of men,
Still strive to break this ardent nature in,
By rules she hates, and ways that seem like sin
To her robust untutor'd womanhood?
She is already beautiful and good:
And shall she risk the dangers of a class
That would despise her and think him an ass
For loving such as she is? Well he knows
Her love is like its perfume to the rose—
Part of herself: 'tis inexhaustible,
Boundless and fathomless; as deep as hell,
As high and pure as heaven. And her reward
35
And that her treasure, in its earthen mould,
Shall be as highly honour'd, and shall hold
As fair a place, as if its vase were gold.
Thus then he ended this long argument:
Rising, he took her in his arms, and sent
Through all the pulses of her broad firm breast
A sense that she had conquer'd, and was blest.
‘Oh,’ she exclaim'd, with such a countenance
As when some maiden, eager for the dance,
Takes her first plunge in that enchanting whirl
(And this fond creature also was a girl)
‘Oh, what a blessed thing! You've set me free:
Thank Goodness, Master, I shall coom to be
Myself again at last, an' never more
Pretend to be a lady! I ha' bore
A deal o' fine folks' coompany, for you:
Eh, how I've suffer'd! For you know it's true
I hate pretending.’ Kisses plump and warm
Confirm'd that truth; then she upon his arm
Descended bravely to the table-d' hôte,
Not now confused or sad: her graceful throat
Throbb'd with the pleasure of a newborn hope—
The hope of finding exercise and scope
For her own talents, and becoming soon
No silken saunterer in a gay saloon,
But a good servant, working underground.
Rising, he took her in his arms, and sent
Through all the pulses of her broad firm breast
A sense that she had conquer'd, and was blest.
‘Oh,’ she exclaim'd, with such a countenance
As when some maiden, eager for the dance,
Takes her first plunge in that enchanting whirl
(And this fond creature also was a girl)
‘Oh, what a blessed thing! You've set me free:
Thank Goodness, Master, I shall coom to be
Myself again at last, an' never more
Pretend to be a lady! I ha' bore
A deal o' fine folks' coompany, for you:
Eh, how I've suffer'd! For you know it's true
I hate pretending.’ Kisses plump and warm
Confirm'd that truth; then she upon his arm
Descended bravely to the table-d' hôte,
Not now confused or sad: her graceful throat
Throbb'd with the pleasure of a newborn hope—
The hope of finding exercise and scope
For her own talents, and becoming soon
No silken saunterer in a gay saloon,
But a good servant, working underground.
Ere long, they left each foreign sight and sound,
And came to England; where upon the way
She show'd her husband, one eventful day,
Deep in the dim recesses of her box,
Her servant's clothes complete: aprons and frocks
And caps, and brushes too, and suchlike gear
As maids like her may want, for work or wear.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I brought 'em unbeknown;
For why, I thought you'd maybe chance to own
What I are really, in my proper dress:
But that would ha' bin too much happiness!’
36
She show'd her husband, one eventful day,
Deep in the dim recesses of her box,
Her servant's clothes complete: aprons and frocks
And caps, and brushes too, and suchlike gear
As maids like her may want, for work or wear.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I brought 'em unbeknown;
For why, I thought you'd maybe chance to own
What I are really, in my proper dress:
But that would ha' bin too much happiness!’
Ah surely now, such happiness may come:
Here in old England, speeding on toward home,
Fair Cinderella in the flying train
Doffs her gay garments, and appears again
In her own guise, a simple country maid.
‘Theer now!’ she cries, ‘I've done wi' this grand trade
An' all them ladies' things you bought for me:
An' gloves—I winna weer your gloves no more;
I are a servant, like I was afore.
Let me go on, an' take the luggage too;
Lord! I can heave it, what I used to do
When I was maid-of-all-work. Many a day,
You know yourself, when lodgers went away,
I had to heave their luggage to the fly.
They often give me shillins, on the sly,
For that, an' for to have a kiss o' me—
What they could never get, though; no—ye see,
Master, my kisses all was kept for thee.
Let me go on, then; you can stop behind
Till I ha' got things ready to your mind,
An' clean'd all up: gie me a day or two,
An' I shall make the places fit for you.’
Here in old England, speeding on toward home,
Fair Cinderella in the flying train
Doffs her gay garments, and appears again
In her own guise, a simple country maid.
‘Theer now!’ she cries, ‘I've done wi' this grand trade
An' all them ladies' things you bought for me:
An' gloves—I winna weer your gloves no more;
I are a servant, like I was afore.
Let me go on, an' take the luggage too;
Lord! I can heave it, what I used to do
When I was maid-of-all-work. Many a day,
You know yourself, when lodgers went away,
I had to heave their luggage to the fly.
They often give me shillins, on the sly,
For that, an' for to have a kiss o' me—
What they could never get, though; no—ye see,
Master, my kisses all was kept for thee.
Let me go on, then; you can stop behind
Till I ha' got things ready to your mind,
37
An' I shall make the places fit for you.’
So said, so done; and when her lord was gone,
The servant with the luggage went alone
Back to her place. But he, the banish'd spouse
Of such a wife whom common work could rouse
To larger energy and keener joy
Than all the Alps from Gothard to Savoy,
He, lingering sadly and unsatisfied,
Set forth ere long to join his stalwart bride;
And chiding much that tedious tardy road,
Regain'd at last the door of his abode.
'Twas open'd—surely by the blackest drudge
That ever crawl'd and clean'd in kitchen sludge!
Black was her face; and black her lusty arms;
A crust of soot and coaldust hid her charms,
If charms she had; and soak'd in liquid dirt
Appear'd her sacking apron, her coarse skirt,
And the rude bonnet that conceal'd her hair.
She was a loathly figure—fit to scare
The roughest sweetheart. With indignant stare
The master gazed at her: whence had she come,
So foul a servant, to disgrace his home?
The thing before him saw his stern surprise;
Dropp'd a meek curtsy, and with sparkling eyes
Whose beauty shone through even that dark disguise,
Look'd straight at his; and murmur'd ‘Oh my life,
This hideous creature is your own poor wife!’
‘My wife!’ said he; ‘Oh Susan, is it you?
I half suspected—yet I scarcely knew
Your fair blue eyes in such a face as this,
Nor the soft lips that I had hoped to kiss!’
‘Aye—but,’ she said, ‘you canna kiss 'em now;
You canna touch me; I'm a deal too low,
A deal too dirty, to be kiss'd by thee,
My master an' my husband! Look at me—
Inna my face as black as any sweep's?
An' these here spots o' whitewash, how they steeps
The black in white, an' makes me uglier!
Well—I ha' done it all o' purpose, Sir:
O' purpose for to show you what I are,
An' what I wish to be. Why, this is far
Far more delightful nor them ladies' rooms,
Wheer I had naught to do wi' pails an' brooms,
But sat as mum as any moniment,
An' couldna reekon what their talkin meant,
Nor come to have a notion o' their ways.
You've had your will wi' me, a many days,
An' now I've my will. Oh, my master dear,
I winna be a lady, never fear—
I will be this!’ In self-abasement sweet
Sudden she flung herself upon his feet,
Caressing them in Love's divine embrace:
Love, the more noble that it seem'd so base.
But he, transported with a passionate shame,
Raised her at once, and clasp'd her quivering frame
In faithful arms still stronger than her own.
Flesh of his flesh she was, bone of his bone:
And recklessly he kiss'd her, till her lips
Again grew ruddy from their black eclipse,
And the bright blushing roses of her cheeks
Peep'd out once more, in intermittent streaks
Glowing and glistening through their sable shroud
Like a red sunset 'neath a thunder-cloud.
Surprised, at first she suffer'd his embrace;
Then quick remembering her disfigured face
And all the sordid stains of her rude dress,
She thrust him off, affrighted at the stress
Of his untimely ardour, and exclaim'd,
‘Dear heart alive! My darling, I are shamed
An' bash'd, to think o' you a-doin this!
Yo've paid a pretty penny for your kiss—
Blackin yourself all over, I declare,
Welly as black as me!’ ‘How can I care,’
Said he, ‘for blackness, since you love me so?
But why should you degrade yourself so low,
And tell your love in such a servile way,
And be so dirty as you are to-day?’
‘Eh, lad!’ she said, ‘I'd be as rough as rough,
As low as low—theer's nothin seems enough
To tell you by—I'd be I carena what,
If ony I may show my love like that,
An' not i' your way, like I did abroad.
Why, I'll upho'd it, you ha' never know'd,
Nor never seed, nor never thought to see,
A wench as noggan an' as rough as me!
Well then—in service, when I clean'd the steps,
Or filled the scuttles an' the cinderskeps
Wi' coals I'd gather'd in my bare hard hands,
I used to think, What odds? He understands
An' likes it too, this dirty work o' mine;
He knows as all I do is just a sign
To show my love, an' what I are to him—
One as can serve him both wi' life an' limb,
But not with edication. Aye, that's it:
I are no good in parlours—not a bit.
Eh, what a difference! Would they smile an' bow,
Or reckon me to be a lady, now?
Or would they call me Ma'am, like them folks did
I' foreign countries, when my hands was hid
An' I was drest as fine as anything?
Not they—they'd shun me, like a burying
After a wedding: an' I tell you true,
It's me as mun be buried, an' not you.
Nay, never wince! I dunna want to die,
I ony want a buryin. An' for why?
Well—'cause I winna be your equal, then!
I mun be took away from gentlemen
An' ladies too; an' I mun have a home
Down i' your kitchen, wheer they canna come.’
The servant with the luggage went alone
Back to her place. But he, the banish'd spouse
Of such a wife whom common work could rouse
To larger energy and keener joy
Than all the Alps from Gothard to Savoy,
He, lingering sadly and unsatisfied,
Set forth ere long to join his stalwart bride;
And chiding much that tedious tardy road,
Regain'd at last the door of his abode.
'Twas open'd—surely by the blackest drudge
That ever crawl'd and clean'd in kitchen sludge!
Black was her face; and black her lusty arms;
A crust of soot and coaldust hid her charms,
If charms she had; and soak'd in liquid dirt
Appear'd her sacking apron, her coarse skirt,
And the rude bonnet that conceal'd her hair.
She was a loathly figure—fit to scare
The roughest sweetheart. With indignant stare
The master gazed at her: whence had she come,
So foul a servant, to disgrace his home?
The thing before him saw his stern surprise;
Dropp'd a meek curtsy, and with sparkling eyes
Whose beauty shone through even that dark disguise,
Look'd straight at his; and murmur'd ‘Oh my life,
This hideous creature is your own poor wife!’
‘My wife!’ said he; ‘Oh Susan, is it you?
I half suspected—yet I scarcely knew
38
Nor the soft lips that I had hoped to kiss!’
‘Aye—but,’ she said, ‘you canna kiss 'em now;
You canna touch me; I'm a deal too low,
A deal too dirty, to be kiss'd by thee,
My master an' my husband! Look at me—
Inna my face as black as any sweep's?
An' these here spots o' whitewash, how they steeps
The black in white, an' makes me uglier!
Well—I ha' done it all o' purpose, Sir:
O' purpose for to show you what I are,
An' what I wish to be. Why, this is far
Far more delightful nor them ladies' rooms,
Wheer I had naught to do wi' pails an' brooms,
But sat as mum as any moniment,
An' couldna reekon what their talkin meant,
Nor come to have a notion o' their ways.
You've had your will wi' me, a many days,
An' now I've my will. Oh, my master dear,
I winna be a lady, never fear—
I will be this!’ In self-abasement sweet
Sudden she flung herself upon his feet,
Caressing them in Love's divine embrace:
Love, the more noble that it seem'd so base.
But he, transported with a passionate shame,
Raised her at once, and clasp'd her quivering frame
In faithful arms still stronger than her own.
Flesh of his flesh she was, bone of his bone:
And recklessly he kiss'd her, till her lips
Again grew ruddy from their black eclipse,
39
Peep'd out once more, in intermittent streaks
Glowing and glistening through their sable shroud
Like a red sunset 'neath a thunder-cloud.
Surprised, at first she suffer'd his embrace;
Then quick remembering her disfigured face
And all the sordid stains of her rude dress,
She thrust him off, affrighted at the stress
Of his untimely ardour, and exclaim'd,
‘Dear heart alive! My darling, I are shamed
An' bash'd, to think o' you a-doin this!
Yo've paid a pretty penny for your kiss—
Blackin yourself all over, I declare,
Welly as black as me!’ ‘How can I care,’
Said he, ‘for blackness, since you love me so?
But why should you degrade yourself so low,
And tell your love in such a servile way,
And be so dirty as you are to-day?’
‘Eh, lad!’ she said, ‘I'd be as rough as rough,
As low as low—theer's nothin seems enough
To tell you by—I'd be I carena what,
If ony I may show my love like that,
An' not i' your way, like I did abroad.
Why, I'll upho'd it, you ha' never know'd,
Nor never seed, nor never thought to see,
A wench as noggan an' as rough as me!
Well then—in service, when I clean'd the steps,
Or filled the scuttles an' the cinderskeps
Wi' coals I'd gather'd in my bare hard hands,
I used to think, What odds? He understands
40
He knows as all I do is just a sign
To show my love, an' what I are to him—
One as can serve him both wi' life an' limb,
But not with edication. Aye, that's it:
I are no good in parlours—not a bit.
Eh, what a difference! Would they smile an' bow,
Or reckon me to be a lady, now?
Or would they call me Ma'am, like them folks did
I' foreign countries, when my hands was hid
An' I was drest as fine as anything?
Not they—they'd shun me, like a burying
After a wedding: an' I tell you true,
It's me as mun be buried, an' not you.
Nay, never wince! I dunna want to die,
I ony want a buryin. An' for why?
Well—'cause I winna be your equal, then!
I mun be took away from gentlemen
An' ladies too; an' I mun have a home
Down i' your kitchen, wheer they canna come.’
Thus saying, she drew up to its full height
Her stately figure; whose attractive might,
Black as she was, and meanly clad, and coarse,
Had still enough of beauty and of force
To charm the casual gazer: how much more
Him who so loved her, and whose name she bore!
He look'd at her: a Juno carved in coal,
With lustrous eyes and firm devoted soul;
Goddess within, beneficent and brave,
Yet outwardly a negress and a slave!
He look'd at her, but answer made he none.
She, his beloved and his only one,
So comely and so beautiful; who late
Hung proudly on his arm, a queenlike mate,
The envy of the women, the despair
Of men, who wonder'd at that lady fair
And turn'd admiring, as she pass'd them by—
She, once the cynosure of every eye—
Now sunk again to servitude and toil,
And so defiled, her merest touch must soil
The husband who embraced her! She was still
Comely as ever: 'twas her own strong will,
Her own pure act, that thus degraded her
Down to the level of a labourer.
Her stately figure; whose attractive might,
Black as she was, and meanly clad, and coarse,
Had still enough of beauty and of force
To charm the casual gazer: how much more
Him who so loved her, and whose name she bore!
He look'd at her: a Juno carved in coal,
With lustrous eyes and firm devoted soul;
Goddess within, beneficent and brave,
Yet outwardly a negress and a slave!
41
She, his beloved and his only one,
So comely and so beautiful; who late
Hung proudly on his arm, a queenlike mate,
The envy of the women, the despair
Of men, who wonder'd at that lady fair
And turn'd admiring, as she pass'd them by—
She, once the cynosure of every eye—
Now sunk again to servitude and toil,
And so defiled, her merest touch must soil
The husband who embraced her! She was still
Comely as ever: 'twas her own strong will,
Her own pure act, that thus degraded her
Down to the level of a labourer.
That was her own old level: She knew well
Its humble joys and duties; she could tell
The dear delight of labour, to an arm
As stout as hers, and the peculiar charm
To a meek spirit, of obscurity.
Who would be curious about such as she?
To live unpraised, unnoticed, and unknown,
And yet a life that was indeed her own;
With none to criticise, and none to care
How she was drest or how she hid her hair—
None, save the sweetheart who would never fail
To like her cap, her frock, her broom, her pail;
Because he loved her, and because by these
She acted out his favourite theories,—
That was the life she had resolved to live:
And oh, what freedom such a life could give
To the strong love that spends itself in deeds
And not in words! to which her lover's needs,
His lowest needs, his common daily wants,
Are just the food for which her nature pants—
The food of service and self-sacrifice.
Yes: such a love is folly to the wise,
And baseness to the dainty and the proud.
Its humble joys and duties; she could tell
The dear delight of labour, to an arm
As stout as hers, and the peculiar charm
To a meek spirit, of obscurity.
Who would be curious about such as she?
To live unpraised, unnoticed, and unknown,
And yet a life that was indeed her own;
With none to criticise, and none to care
How she was drest or how she hid her hair—
None, save the sweetheart who would never fail
To like her cap, her frock, her broom, her pail;
Because he loved her, and because by these
She acted out his favourite theories,—
That was the life she had resolved to live:
And oh, what freedom such a life could give
42
And not in words! to which her lover's needs,
His lowest needs, his common daily wants,
Are just the food for which her nature pants—
The food of service and self-sacrifice.
Yes: such a love is folly to the wise,
And baseness to the dainty and the proud.
These were his thoughts—and hers: not told aloud,
Not whisper'd even. He was too refined,
And she too simple, to express his mind
In terms of hers, or hers in terms of his.
Yet in a moment, with one single kiss,
The lofty bridegroom and the rough black bride
Standing together, yet apart how wide!
Found each the other's meaning, and confess'd
A kindred purpose in each other's breast.
‘I know what you're a-thinkin on,’ she said,
And turn'd from side to side her graceful head
As if to see herself; ‘when I'm got clean
(For now, I are too dirty to be seen)
Yo'll ring for me, an' us can talk of it.
So, let me goo downstairs, an' rest a bit,
An' tell my fellow-servants as you're here.
They know I've bin a-cleanin; but, oh dear!
To think as I should gie myself such airs
To meet my master on the best front stairs,
An' even take to answerin' the door—
Such a big fright as I are!’
Not whisper'd even. He was too refined,
And she too simple, to express his mind
In terms of hers, or hers in terms of his.
Yet in a moment, with one single kiss,
The lofty bridegroom and the rough black bride
Standing together, yet apart how wide!
Found each the other's meaning, and confess'd
A kindred purpose in each other's breast.
‘I know what you're a-thinkin on,’ she said,
And turn'd from side to side her graceful head
As if to see herself; ‘when I'm got clean
(For now, I are too dirty to be seen)
Yo'll ring for me, an' us can talk of it.
So, let me goo downstairs, an' rest a bit,
An' tell my fellow-servants as you're here.
They know I've bin a-cleanin; but, oh dear!
To think as I should gie myself such airs
To meet my master on the best front stairs,
An' even take to answerin' the door—
Such a big fright as I are!’
To the floor
She curtsy'd low, and smiled like any dame;
Then vanish'd toward the kitchen whence she came.”
43
Then vanish'd toward the kitchen whence she came.”
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.
44
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
45
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
46
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
47
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;
48
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.”
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
49
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,
50
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;
51
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.
52
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.
53
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
54
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,
55
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—
56
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;
57
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
62
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!”
63
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!”
B. F. November 1, 1892.
| Susan | |