Mrs. Poyser “Has Her Say Out”
The next Saturday evening there was much excited discussion at the
Donnithorne Arms concerning an incident which had occurred that very
day—no less than a second appearance of the smart man in top-boots said
by some to be a mere farmer in treaty for the Chase Farm, by others to
be the future steward, but by Mr. Casson himself, the personal witness
to the stranger’s visit, pronounced contemptuously to be nothing better
than a bailiff, such as Satchell had been before him. No one had
thought of denying Mr. Casson’s testimony to the fact that he had seen
the stranger; nevertheless, he proffered various corroborating
circumstances.
“I see him myself,” he said; “I see him coming along by the Crab-tree
Meadow on a bald-faced hoss. I’d just been t’ hev a pint—it was half
after ten i’ the fore-noon, when I hev my pint as reg’lar as the
clock—and I says to Knowles, as druv up with his waggon, ‘You’ll get a
bit o’ barley to-day, Knowles,’ I says, ‘if you look about you’; and
then I went round by the rick-yard, and towart the Treddles’on road,
and just as I come up by the big ash-tree, I see the man i’ top-boots
coming along on a bald-faced hoss—I wish I may never stir if I didn’t.
And I stood still till he come up, and I says, ‘Good morning, sir,’ I
says, for I wanted to hear the turn of his tongue, as I might know
whether he was a this-country man; so I says, ‘Good morning, sir: it
’ll ’old hup for the barley this morning, I think. There’ll be a bit
got hin, if we’ve good luck.’ And he says, ‘Eh, ye may be raight,
there’s noo tallin’,’ he says, and I knowed by that”—here Mr. Casson
gave a wink—“as he didn’t come from a hundred mile off. I daresay he’d
think me a hodd talker, as you Loamshire folks allays does hany one as
talks the right language.”
“The right language!” said Bartle Massey, contemptuously. “You’re about
as near the right language as a pig’s squeaking is like a tune played
on a key-bugle.”
“Well, I don’t know,” answered Mr. Casson, with an angry smile. “I
should think a man as has lived among the gentry from a by, is likely
to know what’s the right language pretty nigh as well as a
schoolmaster.”
“Ay, ay, man,” said Bartle, with a tone of sarcastic consolation, “you
talk the right language for _you_. When Mike Holdsworth’s goat says
ba-a-a, it’s all right—it ’ud be unnatural for it to make any other
noise.”
The rest of the party being Loamshire men, Mr. Casson had the laugh
strongly against him, and wisely fell back on the previous question,
which, far from being exhausted in a single evening, was renewed in the
churchyard, before service, the next day, with the fresh interest
conferred on all news when there is a fresh person to hear it; and that
fresh hearer was Martin Poyser, who, as his wife said, “never went
boozin’ with that set at Casson’s, a-sittin’ soakin’ in drink, and
looking as wise as a lot o’ cod-fish wi’ red faces.”
It was probably owing to the conversation she had had with her husband
on their way from church concerning this problematic stranger that Mrs.
Poyser’s thoughts immediately reverted to him when, a day or two
afterwards, as she was standing at the house-door with her knitting, in
that eager leisure which came to her when the afternoon cleaning was
done, she saw the old squire enter the yard on his black pony, followed
by John the groom. She always cited it afterwards as a case of
prevision, which really had something more in it than her own
remarkable penetration, that the moment she set eyes on the squire she
said to herself, “I shouldna wonder if he’s come about that man as is
a-going to take the Chase Farm, wanting Poyser to do something for him
without pay. But Poyser’s a fool if he does.”
Something unwonted must clearly be in the wind, for the old squire’s
visits to his tenantry were rare; and though Mrs. Poyser had during the
last twelvemonth recited many imaginary speeches, meaning even more
than met the ear, which she was quite determined to make to him the
next time he appeared within the gates of the Hall Farm, the speeches
had always remained imaginary.
“Good-day, Mrs. Poyser,” said the old squire, peering at her with his
short-sighted eyes—a mode of looking at her which, as Mrs. Poyser
observed, “allays aggravated me: it was as if you was a insect, and he
was going to dab his finger-nail on you.”
However, she said, “Your servant, sir,” and curtsied with an air of
perfect deference as she advanced towards him: she was not the woman to
misbehave towards her betters, and fly in the face of the catechism,
without severe provocation.
“Is your husband at home, Mrs. Poyser?”
“Yes, sir; he’s only i’ the rick-yard. I’ll send for him in a minute,
if you’ll please to get down and step in.”
“Thank you; I will do so. I want to consult him about a little matter;
but you are quite as much concerned in it, if not more. I must have
your opinion too.”
“Hetty, run and tell your uncle to come in,” said Mrs. Poyser, as they
entered the house, and the old gentleman bowed low in answer to Hetty’s
curtsy; while Totty, conscious of a pinafore stained with gooseberry
jam, stood hiding her face against the clock and peeping round
furtively.
“What a fine old kitchen this is!” said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round
admiringly. He always spoke in the same deliberate, well-chiselled,
polite way, whether his words were sugary or venomous. “And you keep it
so exquisitely clean, Mrs. Poyser. I like these premises, do you know,
beyond any on the estate.”
“Well, sir, since you’re fond of ’em, I should be glad if you’d let a
bit o’ repairs be done to ’em, for the boarding’s i’ that state as
we’re like to be eaten up wi’ rats and mice; and the cellar, you may
stan’ up to your knees i’ water in’t, if you like to go down; but
perhaps you’d rather believe my words. Won’t you please to sit down,
sir?”
“Not yet; I must see your dairy. I have not seen it for years, and I
hear on all hands about your fine cheese and butter,” said the squire,
looking politely unconscious that there could be any question on which
he and Mrs. Poyser might happen to disagree. “I think I see the door
open, there. You must not be surprised if I cast a covetous eye on your
cream and butter. I don’t expect that Mrs. Satchell’s cream and butter
will bear comparison with yours.”
“I can’t say, sir, I’m sure. It’s seldom I see other folks’s butter,
though there’s some on it as one’s no need to see—the smell’s enough.”
“Ah, now this I like,” said Mr. Donnithorne, looking round at the damp
temple of cleanliness, but keeping near the door. “I’m sure I should
like my breakfast better if I knew the butter and cream came from this
dairy. Thank you, that really is a pleasant sight. Unfortunately, my
slight tendency to rheumatism makes me afraid of damp: I’ll sit down in
your comfortable kitchen. Ah, Poyser, how do you do? In the midst of
business, I see, as usual. I’ve been looking at your wife’s beautiful
dairy—the best manager in the parish, is she not?”
Mr. Poyser had just entered in shirt-sleeves and open waistcoat, with a
face a shade redder than usual, from the exertion of “pitching.” As he
stood, red, rotund, and radiant, before the small, wiry, cool old
gentleman, he looked like a prize apple by the side of a withered crab.
“Will you please to take this chair, sir?” he said, lifting his
father’s arm-chair forward a little: “you’ll find it easy.”
“No, thank you, I never sit in easy-chairs,” said the old gentleman,
seating himself on a small chair near the door. “Do you know, Mrs.
Poyser—sit down, pray, both of you—I’ve been far from contented, for
some time, with Mrs. Satchell’s dairy management. I think she has not a
good method, as you have.”
“Indeed, sir, I can’t speak to that,” said Mrs. Poyser in a hard voice,
rolling and unrolling her knitting and looking icily out of the window,
as she continued to stand opposite the squire. Poyser might sit down if
he liked, she thought; _she_ wasn’t going to sit down, as if she’d give
in to any such smooth-tongued palaver. Mr. Poyser, who looked and felt
the reverse of icy, did sit down in his three-cornered chair.
“And now, Poyser, as Satchell is laid up, I am intending to let the
Chase Farm to a respectable tenant. I’m tired of having a farm on my
own hands—nothing is made the best of in such cases, as you know. A
satisfactory bailiff is hard to find; and I think you and I, Poyser,
and your excellent wife here, can enter into a little arrangement in
consequence, which will be to our mutual advantage.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Poyser, with a good-natured blankness of imagination as
to the nature of the arrangement.
“If I’m called upon to speak, sir,” said Mrs. Poyser, after glancing at
her husband with pity at his softness, “you know better than me; but I
don’t see what the Chase Farm is t’ us—we’ve cumber enough wi’ our own
farm. Not but what I’m glad to hear o’ anybody respectable coming into
the parish; there’s some as ha’ been brought in as hasn’t been looked
on i’ that character.”
“You’re likely to find Mr. Thurle an excellent neighbour, I assure
you—such a one as you will feel glad to have accommodated by the little
plan I’m going to mention, especially as I hope you will find it as
much to your own advantage as his.”
“Indeed, sir, if it’s anything t’ our advantage, it’ll be the first
offer o’ the sort I’ve heared on. It’s them as take advantage that get
advantage i’ this world, _I_ think: folks have to wait long enough
afore it’s brought to ’em.”
“The fact is, Poyser,” said the squire, ignoring Mrs. Poyser’s theory
of worldly prosperity, “there is too much dairy land, and too little
plough land, on the Chase Farm to suit Thurle’s purpose—indeed, he will
only take the farm on condition of some change in it: his wife, it
appears, is not a clever dairy-woman, like yours. Now, the plan I’m
thinking of is to effect a little exchange. If you were to have the
Hollow Pastures, you might increase your dairy, which must be so
profitable under your wife’s management; and I should request you, Mrs.
Poyser, to supply my house with milk, cream, and butter at the market
prices. On the other hand, Poyser, you might let Thurle have the Lower
and Upper Ridges, which really, with our wet seasons, would be a good
riddance for you. There is much less risk in dairy land than corn
land.”
Mr. Poyser was leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, his head
on one side, and his mouth screwed up—apparently absorbed in making the
tips of his fingers meet so as to represent with perfect accuracy the
ribs of a ship. He was much too acute a man not to see through the
whole business, and to foresee perfectly what would be his wife’s view
of the subject; but he disliked giving unpleasant answers. Unless it
was on a point of farming practice, he would rather give up than have a
quarrel, any day; and, after all, it mattered more to his wife than to
him. So, after a few moments’ silence, he looked up at her and said
mildly, “What dost say?”
Mrs. Poyser had had her eyes fixed on her husband with cold severity
during his silence, but now she turned away her head with a toss,
looked icily at the opposite roof of the cow-shed, and spearing her
knitting together with the loose pin, held it firmly between her
clasped hands.
“Say? Why, I say you may do as you like about giving up any o’ your
corn-land afore your lease is up, which it won’t be for a year come
next Michaelmas, but I’ll not consent to take more dairy work into my
hands, either for love or money; and there’s nayther love nor money
here, as I can see, on’y other folks’s love o’ theirselves, and the
money as is to go into other folks’s pockets. I know there’s them as is
born t’ own the land, and them as is born to sweat on’t”—here Mrs.
Poyser paused to gasp a little—“and I know it’s christened folks’s duty
to submit to their betters as fur as flesh and blood ’ull bear it; but
I’ll not make a martyr o’ myself, and wear myself to skin and bone, and
worret myself as if I was a churn wi’ butter a-coming in’t, for no
landlord in England, not if he was King George himself.”
“No, no, my dear Mrs. Poyser, certainly not,” said the squire, still
confident in his own powers of persuasion, “you must not overwork
yourself; but don’t you think your work will rather be lessened than
increased in this way? There is so much milk required at the Abbey that
you will have little increase of cheese and butter making from the
addition to your dairy; and I believe selling the milk is the most
profitable way of disposing of dairy produce, is it not?”
“Aye, that’s true,” said Mr. Poyser, unable to repress an opinion on a
question of farming profits, and forgetting that it was not in this
case a purely abstract question.
“I daresay,” said Mrs. Poyser bitterly, turning her head half-way
towards her husband and looking at the vacant arm-chair—“I daresay it’s
true for men as sit i’ th’ chimney-corner and make believe as
everything’s cut wi’ ins an’ outs to fit int’ everything else. If you
could make a pudding wi’ thinking o’ the batter, it ’ud be easy getting
dinner. How do I know whether the milk ’ull be wanted constant? What’s
to make me sure as the house won’t be put o’ board wage afore we’re
many months older, and then I may have to lie awake o’ nights wi’
twenty gallons o’ milk on my mind—and Dingall ’ull take no more butter,
let alone paying for it; and we must fat pigs till we’re obliged to beg
the butcher on our knees to buy ’em, and lose half of ’em wi’ the
measles. And there’s the fetching and carrying, as ’ud be welly half a
day’s work for a man an’ hoss—_that’s_ to be took out o’ the profits, I
reckon? But there’s folks ’ud hold a sieve under the pump and expect to
carry away the water.”
“That difficulty—about the fetching and carrying—you will not have,
Mrs. Poyser,” said the squire, who thought that this entrance into
particulars indicated a distant inclination to compromise on Mrs.
Poyser’s part. “Bethell will do that regularly with the cart and pony.”
“Oh, sir, begging your pardon, I’ve never been used t’ having
gentlefolks’s servants coming about my back places, a-making love to
both the gells at once and keeping ’em with their hands on their hips
listening to all manner o’ gossip when they should be down on their
knees a-scouring. If we’re to go to ruin, it shanna be wi’ having our
back kitchen turned into a public.”
“Well, Poyser,” said the squire, shifting his tactics and looking as if
he thought Mrs. Poyser had suddenly withdrawn from the proceedings and
left the room, “you can turn the Hollows into feeding-land. I can
easily make another arrangement about supplying my house. And I shall
not forget your readiness to accommodate your landlord as well as a
neighbour. I know you will be glad to have your lease renewed for three
years, when the present one expires; otherwise, I daresay Thurle, who
is a man of some capital, would be glad to take both the farms, as they
could be worked so well together. But I don’t want to part with an old
tenant like you.”
To be thrust out of the discussion in this way would have been enough
to complete Mrs. Poyser’s exasperation, even without the final threat.
Her husband, really alarmed at the possibility of their leaving the old
place where he had been bred and born—for he believed the old squire
had small spite enough for anything—was beginning a mild remonstrance
explanatory of the inconvenience he should find in having to buy and
sell more stock, with, “Well, sir, I think as it’s rether hard...” when
Mrs. Poyser burst in with the desperate determination to have her say
out this once, though it were to rain notices to quit and the only
shelter were the work-house.
“Then, sir, if I may speak—as, for all I’m a woman, and there’s folks
as thinks a woman’s fool enough to stan’ by an’ look on while the men
sign her soul away, I’ve a right to speak, for I make one quarter o’
the rent, and save another quarter—I say, if Mr. Thurle’s so ready to
take farms under you, it’s a pity but what he should take this, and see
if he likes to live in a house wi’ all the plagues o’ Egypt in’t—wi’
the cellar full o’ water, and frogs and toads hoppin’ up the steps by
dozens—and the floors rotten, and the rats and mice gnawing every bit
o’ cheese, and runnin’ over our heads as we lie i’ bed till we expect
’em to eat us up alive—as it’s a mercy they hanna eat the children long
ago. I should like to see if there’s another tenant besides Poyser as
’ud put up wi’ never having a bit o’ repairs done till a place tumbles
down—and not then, on’y wi’ begging and praying and having to pay
half—and being strung up wi’ the rent as it’s much if he gets enough
out o’ the land to pay, for all he’s put his own money into the ground
beforehand. See if you’ll get a stranger to lead such a life here as
that: a maggot must be born i’ the rotten cheese to like it, I reckon.
You may run away from my words, sir,” continued Mrs. Poyser, following
the old squire beyond the door—for after the first moments of stunned
surprise he had got up, and, waving his hand towards her with a smile,
had walked out towards his pony. But it was impossible for him to get
away immediately, for John was walking the pony up and down the yard,
and was some distance from the causeway when his master beckoned.
“You may run away from my words, sir, and you may go spinnin’ underhand
ways o’ doing us a mischief, for you’ve got Old Harry to your friend,
though nobody else is, but I tell you for once as we’re not dumb
creatures to be abused and made money on by them as ha’ got the lash i’
their hands, for want o’ knowing how t’ undo the tackle. An’ if I’m th’
only one as speaks my mind, there’s plenty o’ the same way o’ thinking
i’ this parish and the next to ’t, for your name’s no better than a
brimstone match in everybody’s nose—if it isna two-three old folks as
you think o’ saving your soul by giving ’em a bit o’ flannel and a drop
o’ porridge. An’ you may be right i’ thinking it’ll take but little to
save your soul, for it’ll be the smallest savin’ y’ iver made, wi’ all
your scrapin’.”
There are occasions on which two servant-girls and a waggoner may be a
formidable audience, and as the squire rode away on his black pony,
even the gift of short-sightedness did not prevent him from being aware
that Molly and Nancy and Tim were grinning not far from him. Perhaps he
suspected that sour old John was grinning behind him—which was also the
fact. Meanwhile the bull-dog, the black-and-tan terrier, Alick’s
sheep-dog, and the gander hissing at a safe distance from the pony’s
heels carried out the idea of Mrs. Poyser’s solo in an impressive
quartet.
Mrs. Poyser, however, had no sooner seen the pony move off than she
turned round, gave the two hilarious damsels a look which drove them
into the back kitchen, and unspearing her knitting, began to knit again
with her usual rapidity as she re-entered the house.
“Thee’st done it now,” said Mr. Poyser, a little alarmed and uneasy,
but not without some triumphant amusement at his wife’s outbreak.
“Yes, I know I’ve done it,” said Mrs. Poyser; “but I’ve had my say out,
and I shall be th’ easier for’t all my life. There’s no pleasure i’
living if you’re to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mind
out by the sly, like a leaky barrel. I shan’t repent saying what I
think, if I live to be as old as th’ old squire; and there’s little
likelihood—for it seems as if them as aren’t wanted here are th’ only
folks as aren’t wanted i’ th’ other world.”
“But thee wutna like moving from th’ old place, this Michaelmas
twelvemonth,” said Mr. Poyser, “and going into a strange parish, where
thee know’st nobody. It’ll be hard upon us both, and upo’ Father too.”
“Eh, it’s no use worreting; there’s plenty o’ things may happen between
this and Michaelmas twelvemonth. The captain may be master afore then,
for what we know,” said Mrs. Poyser, inclined to take an unusually
hopeful view of an embarrassment which had been brought about by her
own merit and not by other people’s fault.
“_I’m_ none for worreting,” said Mr. Poyser, rising from his
three-cornered chair and walking slowly towards the door; “but I should
be loath to leave th’ old place, and the parish where I was bred and
born, and Father afore me. We should leave our roots behind us, I
doubt, and niver thrive again.”