A+Castaway


 * Women Through Time | Anthology of Poems **

From **A Castaway** Augusta Webster (1837 – 1894)

Poor little diary, with its simple thoughts, its good resolves, its "Studied French an hour," "Read Modern History," "Trimmed up my grey hat," "Darned stockings," "Tatted," "Practised my new song," "Went to the daily service," "Took Bess soup," "Went out to tea." Poor simple diary! and did I write it? Was I this good girl, this budding colourless young rose of home? did I so live content in such a life, seeing no larger scope, nor asking it, than this small constant round -- old clothes to mend, new clothes to make, then go and say my prayers, or carry soup, or take a little walk and pick the ragged-robins in the hedge? Then for ambition, (was there ever life that could forego that?) to improve my mind and know French better and sing harder songs; for gaiety, to go, in my best white well washed and starched and freshened with new bows, and take tea out to meet the clergyman. No wishes and no cares, almost no hopes, only the young girl's hazed and golden dreams that veil the Future from her.

So long since: and now it seems a jest to talk of me as if I could be one with her, of me  who am ...... me.

And what is that? My looking-glass answers it passably; a woman sure, no fiend, no slimy thing out of the pools, a woman with a ripe and smiling lip that has no venom in its touch I think, with a white brow on which there is no brand; a woman none dare call not beautiful, not womanly in every woman's grace.

Aye let me feed upon my beauty thus, be glad in it like painters when they see at last the face they dreamed but could not find look from their canvass on them, triumph in it, the dearest thing I have. Why, 'tis my all, let me make much of it: is it not this, this beauty, my own curse at once and tool to snare men's souls -- (I know what the good say of beauty in such creatures) -- is it not this that makes me feel myself a woman still, some little pride, some little --

Here's a jest! what word will fit the sense but modesty? A wanton I but modest!

Modest, true; I'm not drunk in the streets, ply not for hire at infamous corners with my likenesses of the humbler kind; yes, modesty's my word -- 'twould shape my mouth well too, I think I'll try: "Sir, Mr What-you-will, Lord Who-knows-what, my present lover or my next to come,  value me at my worth, fill your purse full,  for I am modest; yes, and honour me  as though your schoolgirl sister or your wife  could let her skirts brush mine or talk of me;  for I am modest."

Well, I flout myself: but yet, but yet --

Fie, poor fantastic fool, why do I play the hypocrite alone, who am no hypocrite with others by? where should be my "But yet"? I am that thing called half a dozen dainty names, and none dainty enough to serve the turn and hide the one coarse English worst that lurks beneath: just that, no worse, no better.

And, for me, I say let no one be above her trade; I own my kindredship with any drab who sells herself as I, although she crouch in fetid garrets and I have a home all velvet and marqueterie and pastilles, although she hide her skeleton in rags and I set fashions and wear cobweb lace: the difference lies but in my choicer ware, that I sell beauty and she ugliness; our traffic's one -- I'm no sweet slaver-tongue to gloze upon it and explain myself a sort of fractious angel misconceived -- our traffic's one: I own it. And what then? I know of worse that are called honourable. Our lawyers, who, with noble eloquence and virtuous outbursts, lie to hang a man, or lie to save him, which way goes the fee: our preachers, gloating on your future hell for not believing what they doubt themselves: our doctors, who sort poisons out by chance, and wonder how they'll answer, and grow rich: our journalists, whose business is to fib and juggle truths and falsehoods to and fro: our tradesmen, who must keep unspotted names and cheat the least like stealing that they can: our -- all of them, the virtuous worthy men who feed on the world's follies, vices, wants, and do their businesses of lies and shams honestly, reputably, while the world claps hands and cries "good luck," which of their trades, their honourable trades, barefaced like mine, all secrets brazened out, would shew more white?

And whom do I hurt more than they? as much? The wives? Poor fools, what do I take from them worth crying for or keeping? If they knew what their fine husbands look like seen by eyes that may perceive there are more men than one! But, if they can, let them just take the pains to keep them: 'tis not such a mighty task to pin an idiot to your apron-string; and wives have an advantage over us, (the good and blind ones have), the smile or pout leaves them no secret nausea at odd times. Oh they could keep their husbands if they cared, but 'tis an easier life to let them go, and whimper at it for morality.

Oh! those shrill carping virtues, safely housed from reach of even a smile that should put red on a decorous cheek, who rail at us with such a spiteful scorn and rancourousness, (which maybe is half envy at the heart), and boast themselves so measurelessly good and us so measurelessly unlike them, what is their wondrous merit that they stay in comfortable homes whence not a soul has ever thought of tempting them, and wear no kisses but a husband's upon lips there is no other man desires to kiss -- refrain in fact from sin impossible? How dare they hate us so? what have they done, what borne, to prove them other than we are? What right have they to scorn us -- glass-case saints, Dianas under lock and key -- what right more than the well-fed helpless barn-door fowl to scorn the larcenous wild-birds?

Pshaw, let be! Scorn or no scorn, what matter for their scorn? I have outfaced my own -- that's harder work. Aye let their virtuous malice dribble on -- mock snowstorms on the stage -- I'm proof long since: I have looked coolly on my what and why, and I accept myself.