University of Virginia Library

Cary Juliet.

The golden evening of a cool moist day
Had come to us, where on our lofty brow
We sat and rested, gazing far away
Over the level champaign and the glow
Of cottage windows lighted by the sun,
To those green hills of Arden. Victorine,
Louise, and Marie, and our fairest one,
Sweet Angélique, were there. Yet, had you seen
That group, your fancy had not call'd them fair:
A gang of labourers seated after toil.
Such did they seem, and such indeed they were;
But I, for whom stern labour cannot spoil
A woman's beauty, so she be but pure;
Whom blacken'd faces and work-harden'd hands
Offend not, be the owners only sure
Of self-respect and all that it commands—
I thought them comely still. Her coal-black cheeks,
Her coarse and manly garb, still left intact
That gracious girlish smile of Angélique's;
And Marie's clear blue eyes could still attract,
And the soft speech of ruddy-lipp'd Louise,
And stalwart Victorine's maturer charms.
Black were they all; but all were now at ease,
With half-closed eyelids and with folded arms,
Waiting, until th' expected signal-bell
Shall summon to her place upon the stage
Each skilful maid, whose sinewy grasp can well
Set free the loaded waggons from the cage.
Thus then we waited at the pit's rude mouth,
Silent, or gossiping of work and wage,
Of friends and neighbours: and the wind blew south,
And still we sat to windward of the shaft,
Clear of its smoke and fume. But presently
Our blue-eyed Marie stretch'd her arms, and laugh'd
To see Louise a-yawning; “Ah,” said she,
“If we was down among the ways again,
Thou wouldna need to yawn!” “I wish I was,”
Cried plump Louise. “Aye, lasses, I am fain
To win myself a bigger stint o' brass
Nor what they give up here.” “And so am I,”
Said Victorine. “If e'er I get a chance,
Oh, won't I wear the bretelles joyfully,
As once I did, and make my crampons dance
Along the fourfoot, with a load behind
As heavy as the best!” But Angélique,
Who had not work'd below, and in her mind
Dreaded the fearful darkness and the reek
Of that great shaft, descending under ground
To depths wherein she pictured to herself
A thousand horrors, both of sight and sound,
And pranks of many a goblin, many an elf—
Fair Angélique, half-shudder'd as they spoke:
She said, “I should be fear'd to work below;
I'd liefer bide, and do a double stroke
Wi' these here corves, and let the big wage go!
You're upright here, you dunna need to crawl,
And draw like beastes on the common road.”
The others laugh'd: “You'd easy do it all,”
Said they. “You trot along afore your load,
Wi' some one else behind; an' after that,
You just sit down, and rest an' sing a bit,
Until you're wanted.” “Aye, I got quite fat,”
Said plump Louise, “when I was in the pit;
It's warm and dry, too; and there comes no breeze,
Like this up here, nor rain to wet your things;
But in between, a wench can sit at ease
And maybe, some one by her while she sings!”
“And I remember,” quoth stout Victorine,
“One day our Gaffer brought a stranger down
To see the workings; he was rare an' clean,
And seem'd to be a Monsieur from the town.
He stared, to see us with our bretelles on,
Our breeches, and our singlets, and our caps;
‘And,’ says the Gaffer, ‘Monsieur will have done
The wisest thing, if he could lie, perhaps,
Within this charrette, and a maiden here
Shall draw him safely to the getting place.’
So Monsieur got inside it; but oh dear,
How awkwardly he managed! For the space
Was scarce enough to hold him, in my wain.
Then, Gaffer Louis told him to be sure
And guard his head, and give himself the pain
To keep it down, if he would ride secure
From the low roof and every sacking door;
And then he call'd me up, and harness'd me.
Well—I set off, a-wondering more and more
How light my load was, and how easily
I went, wi' that strange burden at my heels.
But when I'd draw'd him fairly to the end,
And the roof rose, I back'd against my wheels,
And loosed myself, and stood upright, to lend
A hand to Monsieur, for to help him out.
Eh, what a taking he was in, poor man!
He seem'd surprised, to see me just as stout
And fresh, as when I started; he began
Saying, ‘Ma fille, tu es un bon cheval!’
And slapp'd me on the shoulder. Well, I smiled;
‘Monsieur,’ says I, ‘je suis un animal
Tout à votre service.’ Then says he, ‘My child,
A ride like this is worth a franc at least:
Take it, and let me grasp thy hand again;
For thou art nobler than the noblest beast,
In being such a woman.’ Yes! and then
He clasp'd my hand; but oh, it made me start,
To feel how soft his slender fingers was,
And how unlike my own. I scarce had heart
To thank him for his money; and alas,
The Gaffer come, and so I daredna speak.”
The damsels titter'd, at this uncouth tale
Of female prowess; all, save Angélique;
Behind her mask of coal-dust, she grew pale,
And said she never never could have dared
To do a thing like that. Why not? said they;
It was her place; for Victorine was spared
From Gaffer Louis' gang: she must obey,
And do the work he gave her; and beside,
The Monsieur weigh'd but little, as she said.
But, as the stronger maidens vainly tried
To quell the weak one, lo, another maid
Above the sharp edge of our steep pit-brow
Appear'd against the sky: on that wide marge,
Like the full moon uprisen even now
Beyond the hills, as ruddy and as large,
She rose majestic, and she rose alone.
Her mighty figure and her manlike dress
Belied her sex; but she was quickly known,
And all my clear-eyed damsels answer'd, “Yes—
'Tis Cary Juliet; and the nightshift's on,
She comes to work the nightshift with the men.”
I started up; unwilling to be gone,
Yet eager to encounter there and then
A heroine like this. Magnificent
In form and feature, and in bulk and height
A tall man's equal, oh, how eloquent
Her aspect was, of that severe delight
In conscious power, which Labour always gives
To those who love it and who still are young!
Her face was like the mirror of two lives—
A woman's and a man's: the bards have sung
Faces less fair and not more feminine;
Yet the firm lips and blue wide-open eyes
Had all a young man's daring, as on mine
Her gaze was levell'd in a calm surprise.
She did not move nor falter, where she stood,
When I came near, admiring as I came
The simple grandeur of her attitude:
Her head erect, her broad and sinewy frame
Squared at the shoulders; and the full deep chest
Still panting from her climb; her massive arms,
Brown, muscular, but shapely as the best—
Engines of toil, yet worthy of her charms—
Poised in a lordly ease; on one warm hip
Her right wrist resting, while her left hand held
The tools wherewith she wrought in fellowship,
Her pickaxe, and her spade. Not uncompell'd
By her own bulk and stature and the scale
Of her large limbs, she stood with feet apart,
Colossus-like, upon the yielding shale.
Woe to the sculptor's or the limner's art
That should presume to make correctly known
A maid like this, and in her working guise!
She wore no kirtle, nor no woman's gown;
Breeches she wore, of manly make and size—
Coarse sacking breeches, sound and wholly clean:
And, from the knee, grey hosen, warm and whole,
Clipp'd her stout legs, until below were seen
Her ponderous boots, with iron on the sole
Shod like a horse's hoofs: with such a tread,
Laborious, loud, and heavy, did she move
Along the rough ways where she earn'd her bread
“Ah, how unlike the airy step of Love!”
Cries some one's folly, as he reads of this:
But I, who saw her face, can well declare
That she was worthy of Apollo's kiss—
So noble was her visage, and her hair
Phœbus' own hue, clear amber touch'd with gold.
Yea; the one token of her maidenhood,
Her only female garment, did enfold
Those sunbright tresses: 'twas a bonnet rude
Of coarse black stuff, the common country wear
Of collier girls like her. No taste refined,
No educated instinct, could make clear
Her beauty, with an emphasis design'd,
As she had made it by this homely chance:
So apt a foil her sable bonnet gave
To the fresh rose of her sweet countenance,
And to the hair, a parted golden wave,
That spann'd her brow. Yes, and her brow was white:
Her week of coaly toil was all to come;
And she meanwhile shone spotless, and as bright
As any lady who abides at home
In idleness and ease. About her neck
A scarlet kerchief hung in many a fold
O'er the full flannel, clean without a speck,
That wrapp'd her strenuous body from the cold.
With such a smock, a figure so robust
Look'd vaster still; and round her ample waist
A leathern belt encircled her, and truss'd,
(With iron buckle accurately placed,)
The smock and sacking breeches into one.
Not Aphrodite's cestus thrice renew'd
Could round the measure of that maiden zone;
And yet it was a maiden's. Nothing lewd,
No sign of aught unwomanly, appear'd
In her grave manner and her artless gaze:
I knew not yet, that she was one who cheer'd
A mother, with the earnings of long days,
Long nights, of labour; but I knew at once
That she was all a peasant lass should be.
He were a villain, or an arrant dunce,
Who in so grand a creature fail'd to see
The worth of Woman on a wider field
Than home and hearth can give. But now at length
I hail'd the maid, and summon'd her to yield
News of herself, and how her skill and strength
Wrought underground. “I know you then,” said I,
Using the freedom of a peasant's tongue,
“And you are Cary Juliet: certainly
You are a gallant maid, for one so young!”
She looked surprised, that I had come to know
Her humble name: perhaps I was indeed
The new Ingénieur, and had been below,
And read the list—for he no doubt could read:
But with a smile, as taking no offence
At those plain words, she answer'd (and her voice
Was soft and full and tremulous and tense
As any singer's), “Monsieur has the choice
Of many damsels, at this pit of ours;
And I am Cary Juliet of the Vale,
As Monsieur says—in all my working hours
At Monsieur's service.” “Then I will not fail
To claim your friendly service, maiden mine
Give me your hand.” She gave it readily;
Yet seemed to wonder that a man so fine
Compared with her, should care to touch or see
A working hand like hers. She did not know
That to his thought a working hand like hers
Deserves more honour than the jewell'd show
Of soft white fingers. Ah, it surely stirs
The blood of manhood with pathetic thrills
Of sympathy, to find a noble face
And such rude hands, together! That fulfils
The charm of contrast, when high outward grace
Is there, to balance all unseemly signs
Of toil, and show that toil is gracious too,
When Woman is the worker. Friend, your lines
Are cast in pleasant places; men like you
Would scorn to feel the hard and rugged grasp
Of Juliet's hand: if she presumed to press
Your languid palm, you would but stare and gasp,
Quintilian-like, at such a coarse caress
From such a queenly maiden of nineteen.
On the soft cushion of my sleeve, I laid
Her willing hand: 'twas wonderfully clean—
Clean as the hand of labour can be made
By effort; but dark lines indelible
Cross'd like a map the broad and callous palm,
Significant of coal. I mark'd them well,
And so did she; considerately calm,
She first survey'd her own impressive hand,
Then look'd at me, as one who understood
That I respected what I keenly scann'd.
But, as for me, in meditative mood
I thought of far Verona, and the praise
Of that Italian Juliet: not more fair,
But oh how different in her life and ways,
Her mould, her nature, and her outward air,
From this laborious maiden! My fair friend
Needed no vows to the inconstant moon,
Nor ever own'd the wherewithal to spend
On gloves to touch her cheek with, nor the boon
Of female service and surveillance dear.
True, she was wakeful at the noon of night—
But not for dalliance, not for love or fear:
Alone, unhonour'd, far from all delight,
She in perpetual darkness would be found
All swink'd and blacken'd by her honest toil,
Five hundred fathom deep beneath the ground.
“Ah, what a contrast, what a hideous foil
“To gentle Shakespeare's women!”—Not at all:
I would that Shakespeare's self had but been there,
To see that contrast, and to see how small
The loss in mere refinement, and how rare
The gain in strength of body and of soul,
In my poor Juliet, measured by his own.
But she, whose thoughts were now of cleaving coal
(A thing more useful and more widely known
Than Shakespeare or Verona) when she saw
How long I held her hand and studied it,
Look'd on me with a kind of puzzled awe:
And “Monsieur sees,” she said, “that in the pit
I have wrought long; my hand is big and hard,
For I have been a traineuse many a year;
But now, I am a sinker by the yard;
I and this other man, my comrade here,
Are in the nightshift gang.” I look'd about
And saw that other man: a creature he
Of far less lusty carriage, far less stout,
Nor yet so tall and vigorous, as she.
“Why, friend,” said I, “you scarcely are a mate
For Cary Juliet; she could knock you down,
Or crush you to a jelly with her weight!”
He growl'd—she laugh'd: the ruder sex, I own,
Are jealous of the fairer; but 'twas good
To see two labourers together thus,
And one, the maid, for all her womanhood
More manly than the man. “Inglorious,
Unfeminine distinction!” cries the crowd.
Ah well—you have not seen her: if you had,
In such a cause you would not speak so loud.
But while we thus discoursed, the good and bad
Of collier-life comparing, from behind
We heard the signal bell, and saw the cage
Shoot up in air, then settle to it's mind
Down to the brow upon the iron stage.
Juliet and I shook hands; and with her mate
She strode away in silence o'er the brow,
I following. Great was the noise, and great
Among that group of girls the bustle now,
Whom I had left so quiet: every lass
Was at her waggon, from the cage withdrawn
By her own hands; and swiftly did it pass
With iron wheels across that iron lawn,
Thrust by the strong arms of two sturdy maids
Right to the summit of the kecking place.
Louise helps Victorine, and Marie aids
Fair Angélique, in that exciting race,
Each well abreast of other. But meanwhile,
More calmly couraged, Cary Juliet stands
Beside the shaft; and with a lofty smile
Surveys their little labours. In her hands
She holds her can, her davy, and her tools:
And waits the Gaffer's orders to descend.
She thinks those four black maidens are but fools,
To work above ground; yet she is their friend—
As the large dog is friendly with the small.
For none of them, not even Victorine,
Strong as they are, is so robust and tall
As she is; and she knows it, as a queen
Knows that her ladies are but ladies still,
And she their sovereign. Now the time was come
To do her proper part: and with a skill
Not learnt in courts or any palace home,
She crept into the emptied cage, and sat
Among the other colliers, on her heels.
In such a place, one can but crouch and squat;
Yet in that posture Cary Juliet feels
As much herself, as regal and composed,
As if she sat upon a carbon throne
With those rude males to worship her. Enclosed
Within an iron cage, she sat alone
Coop'd up and prison'd with those other men,
Who were not female and who were not fair:
She was but one stout labourer; but then
She was the best—the only woman there.
Farewell, fair Cary Juliet! if indeed
We meet again, myself can well believe
That thou wilt be at leisure; having need
No more, to be a sinker in the pit
Nor yet a traineuse: some stout mate of thine
Strong as thyself, shall woo thee as most fit
To be his wife. To him thou shalt resign
Thy working tools; contented to abide
Within his home, a comrade rough but true,
And go through life unwearied, at his side,
With sons and daughters such as are thy due,
Majestic woman! As I go from hence,
I see the mother, in some future maid
Repeated with a charming difference:
And I too, haply, ere my own eyes fade,
May yet behold, if envious years allow,
Another lass in manly garb array'd—
Another Cary Juliet, on this brow.