The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  Of daring, in her beauty flaunting nude,

  Eager to drain life’s wine unto the lees.

  So she shall tempt and touch and try and taste,

  And in the wrestle of the world shall lose

  Her dimpled prettiness, her petals bruise;

  But moulding ever to a truer type

  She shall return to man, no more abased—

  His counterpart, a woman, rounded, ripe.

  (1899)

  Julius Vogel, from Anno Domini 2000; or, Woman’s Destiny

  Our scene opens in Melbourne, in the year 2000—a few years prior to the date at which we are writing. The Federal Parliament was sitting there that year. The Emperor occupied his magnificent palace on the banks of the Yarra, above Melbourne, which city and its suburbs possessed a population of nearly two millions.

  In a large and handsome room in the Federal buildings, a young woman of about twenty-three years of age was seated. She was born in New Zealand. She entered the local parliament before she was twenty. At twenty-two she was elected to the Federal Parliament, and she had now become Under-Secretary of State for Home Affairs. From her earliest youth she had never failed in any intellectual exercise. Her intelligence was considered phenomenal. Her name was Hilda Richmond Fitzherbert. She was descended from families which for upwards of a century produced distinguished statesmen—a word, it should be mentioned, which includes both sexes. She was fair to look at in both face and figure. Dark violet eyes, brown hair flecked with a golden tinge, clearly cut features, and a glorious complexion made up a face artistically perfect; but these charms were what the observer least noticed. The expression of the face was by far its chief attraction, and words fail to do justice to it. There was about it a luminous intelligence, a purity, and a pathos that seemed to belong to another world. No trace of passion yet stamped it. If the love given to all humanity ever became a love devoted to one person, the expression of the features might descend from the spiritual to the passionate. Even then to human gaze it might become more fascinating. But that test had not come. As she rose from her chair you saw that she was well formed, though slight in figure and of full height. She went to an instrument at a side-table, and spoke to it, the materials for some half-dozen letters referring to groups of papers that lay on the table. When she concluded, she summoned a secretary, who removed the papers and the phonogram on which her voice had been impressed. These letters were reproduced, and brought to her for signature. Copies attached to the several papers were initialled. Meanwhile she paced up and down the room in evident deep distraction. At length she summoned a messenger, and asked him to tell the Countess of Middlesex that she wished to see her. In a few minutes Lady Middlesex entered the room. She was about thirty years of age, of middle height, and pleasing appearance, though a close observer might imagine he saw something sinister in the expression of her countenance. After a somewhat ceremonious greeting, Miss Fitzherbert commenced: ‘I have carefully considered what passed at our last interview. It is difficult to separate our official and unofficial relations. I am still at a loss to determine whether you have spoken to me as the Assistant Under-Secretary to the Under-Secretary or as woman to woman.’

  Lady Middlesex quickly rejoined, ‘Will you let me speak to you as woman to woman, and forget for a moment our official relations?’

  ‘Can you doubt it?’ replied Miss Fitzherbert. ‘But remember that our wishes are not always under our control, and that, though I may not desire to remember to your prejudice what you say, I may not be able to free myself from recollection.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Lady Middlesex, with scarcely veiled irony, ‘the world says Miss Fitzherbert does not know what prejudice means!’

  The slightest possible movement of impatience was all the rejoinder vouchsafed to this speech.

  Lady Middlesex continued, ‘I spoke to you as strongly as I dared, as strongly as my position permitted, about my brother Reginald—Lord Reginald Paramatta. He suffers under a sense of injury. He is miserable. He feels that it is to you that he owes his removal to a distant station. He loves you, and does not know if he may venture to tell you so.’

  ‘No woman,’ replied Miss Fitzherbert, ‘is warranted in regarding with anger the love of a good man; but you know, or ought to know, that my life is consecrated to objects that are inconsistent with my entertaining the love you speak of.’

  ‘But,’ said Lady Middlesex, ‘can you be sure that it always will be so?’

  ‘We can be sure of nothing.’

  ‘Nay,’ replied Lady Middlesex, ‘do not generalise. Let me at least enjoy the liberty you have accorded me. If you did not feel that there were possibilities for Reginald in conflict with your indifference, why should you trouble yourself with his removal?’

  ‘I have not admitted that I am concerned in his removal.’

  ‘You know you are; you cannot deny it.’

  Miss Fitzherbert was dismayed at the position into which she had allowed herself to be forced. She must either state what truth forbade or admit that to some extent Lord Reginald had obtained a hold on her thoughts.

  ‘Other men,’ pursued Lady Middlesex, with remorseless directness, ‘have aspired as Reginald does; and you have known how to dispose of their aspirations without such a course as that of which my brother has been the object.’

  ‘I have understood,’ said Miss Fitzherbert, ‘that Lord Reginald is promoted to an important position, one that ought to be intensely gratifying to so comparatively young a man.’

  ‘My brother has only one wish, and you are its centre. He desires only one position.’

  ‘I did not infer, Lady Middlesex,’ said Miss Fitzherbert, with some haughtiness, ‘that you designed to use the permission you asked of me to become a suitor on your brother’s behalf.’

  ‘Why else should I have asked such permission?’ replied Lady Middlesex, with equal haughtiness. Then, with a sudden change of mood and manner, ‘Miss Fitzherbert, forgive me. My brother is all in all to me. My husband and my only child are dead. My brother is all that is left to me to remind me of a once happy home. Do not, I pray, I entreat you, embitter his life. Ask yourself—forgive me for saying so—if ambition rather than consecration to a special career may not influence you; and if your conscience replies affirmatively, remember the time will come to you, as it has come to other women, when success, the applause of the crowd, and a knowledge of great deeds effected will prove a poor consolation for the want of one single human being on whom to lavish a woman’s love. Most faculties become smaller by disuse, but it is not so with the affections; they revenge themselves on those who have dared to disbelieve in their force.’

  ‘You assume,’ said Miss Fitzherbert, ‘that I love your brother.’

  ‘Is it not so?’

  ‘No! a thousand times no!’

  ‘You feel that you might love him. That is the dawn of love.’

  ‘Listen, Lady Middlesex. That dawn has not opened to me. I will not deny, I have felt a prepossession in favour of your brother; but I have the strongest conviction that my life will be better and happier because of my refusing to give way to it. For me there is no love of the kind. In lonely maidenhood I will live and die. If my choice is unwise, I will be the sufferer; and I have surely the right to make it. My lady, our interview is at an end.’

  Lady Middlesex rose and bowed her adieu, but another thought seemed to occur to her. ‘You will,’ she said, ‘at least see my brother before he goes. Indeed, otherwise I doubt his leaving. He told me this morning that he would resign.’

  Miss Fitzherbert after a moment’s thought replied, ‘I will see your brother. Bid him call on me in two hours’ time. Good-bye.’

  As she was left alone a look of agony came over her face. ‘Am I wise?’ she said.

  ‘That subtle woman knew how to wound me. She is right. I could love; I could adore the man I loved. Will all the triumphs of the world and the sense of the good I do to others console me during the years to come for the sunshine of lov
e to which every woman has a claim? Yes, I do not deny the claim, high as my conception is of a woman’s destiny.’ After a few moments’ pause, she started up indignantly. ‘Am I then,’ she ejaculated half aloud, ‘that detestable thing a woman with a mission, and does the sense of that mission restrain me from yielding to my inclination?’ Again she paused, and then resumed, ‘No, it is not so. I have too easily accepted Lady Middlesex’s insinuation. I am neither ambitious nor philanthropic to excess. It is a powerful instinct that speaks to me about Lord Reginald. To a certain extent I am drawn to him, but I doubt him, and it is that which restrains me. I am more disposed to be frightened of than to love him. Why do I doubt him? Some strong impulse teaches me to do so. What do I doubt? I doubt his loving me with a love that will endure, I doubt our proving congenial companions, and—why may I not say it to myself?—I doubt his character. I question his sincerity. The happiness of a few months might be followed by a life of misery. I must be no weak fool to allow myself to be persuaded.’

  Hilda Fitzherbert was a thoroughly good, true-hearted, and lovable girl. Clever, well informed, and cultivated to the utmost, she had no disposition to prudery or priggishness. She was rather inclined to under- than over-value herself. Lady Middlesex’s clever insinuations had caused her for the moment to doubt her own conduct; but reflection returned in time, and once more she became conscious that she felt for Lord Reginald no more attachment than any woman might entertain for a handsome, accomplished man who persistently displayed his admiration. She was well aware that under ordinary circumstances such feelings as she had, might develop into strong love if there were no reverse to the picture; but in this case conviction—call it, if you will, an instinct—persuaded her there was an opposite side. She felt that Lord Reginald was playing a part; that, if his true character stood revealed to her, an unfathomable abyss would yawn between them.

  Her reflections were disturbed by the entrance of a lady of very distinguished mien. She might indeed look distinguished, for the Right Honourable Mrs Hardinge was not only Prime Minister of the Empire of Britain, but the most powerful and foremost statesman in the world. In her youth she had been a lovely girl; and even now, though not less than forty years of age, she was a beautiful—it might be more correct to say, a grand—woman. A tall, dignified, and stately figure was set off by a face of which every feature was artistically correct and capable of much variety of expression; and over that expression she held entire command. She had, if she wished it, an arch and winning manner, such as no one but a cultivated Irishwoman possesses; the purest Irish blood ran through her veins. She could say ‘No’ in a manner that more delighted the person whose request she was refusing than would ‘Yes’ from other lips. An adept in all the arts of conversation, she could elicit information from the most inscrutable statesmen, who under her influence would fancy she was more confidential to them than they to her. By indomitable strength she had fought down an early inclination to impulsiveness. The appearance still remained, but no statesman was more slow to form opinions and less prone to change them. She could, if necessary, in case of emergency, act with lightning rapidity; but she had schooled herself to so act only in cases of extreme need. She had a warm heart, and in the private relations of life no one was better liked.

  Hilda Fitzherbert worshipped her; and Mrs Hardinge, childless and with few relations, loved and admired the girl with a strength and tenacity that made their official relations singularly pleasant.

  ‘My dear Hilda,’ she said, ‘why do you look so disturbed, and how is it you are idle? It is rare to find you unoccupied.’

  Hilda, almost in tears, responded, ‘Dear Mrs Hardinge, tell me, do tell me, what do you really think of Lord Reginald Paramatta?’

  If Mrs Hardinge felt any surprise at the extraordinary abruptness of the question, she did not permit it to be visible.

  ‘My dear, the less you think of him the better. I will tell you how I read his character. He is unstable and insincere, capable of any exertion to attain the object on which he has set his mind; the moment he has gained it the victory becomes distasteful to him. I have offered him the command of our London forces to please you, but I tell you frankly I did so with reluctance. Nor would I have promoted him to the post but that it has long ceased to possess more than traditional importance. Those chartered sybarites the Londoners can receive little harm from Lord Reginald, and the time has long passed for him to receive any good. Such as it is, his character is moulded; and professionally he is no doubt an accomplished officer and brave soldier. Besides that, he possesses more than the ordinary abilities of a man.’

  Hilda looked her thanks, but said no more than ‘Your opinion does not surprise me, and it tallies with my own judgment.’

  ‘Dear girl, do not try to dispute that judgment. And now to affairs of much importance. I have come from the Emperor, and I see great difficulties in store for us.’

  Probably Hilda had never felt so grateful to Mrs Hardinge as she did now for the few words in which she had expressed so much, with such fine tact. An appearance of sympathy or surprise would have deeply wounded the girl.

  ‘Dear mamma,’ she said—as sometimes in private in moments of affection she was used to do—‘does his Highness still show a disinclination to the settlement to which he has almost agreed?’

  ‘He shows the most marked disinclination, for he told me with strong emotion that he felt he would be sacrificing the convictions of his race.’

  The position of the Emperor was indeed a difficult one. A young, high-spirited, generous, and brave man, he was asked by his Cabinet to take a step which in his heart he abhorred. A short explanation is necessary to make the case clear. When the Imperial Constitution of Britain was promulgated, women were beginning to acquire more power; but no one thought of suggesting that the preferential succession to the direct heirs male should be withdrawn.

  Meanwhile women advanced, and in all other classes of life they gained perfect equality with regard to the laws of succession and other matters, but the custom still remained by which the eldest daughter of the Emperor could be excluded in favour of the eldest son. Some negotiations had proceeded concerning the marriage of the Emperor to the daughter of the lady who enjoyed the position of President of the United States, an intense advocate of woman’s equality. She was disposed, if not determined, to make it a condition of the marriage that the eldest child, whether son or daughter, should succeed. The Emperor’s Cabinet had the same view, and it was one widely held throughout the Empire. But there were strong opinions on the other side. The increasing number of women elected by popular suffrage to all representative positions and the power which women invariably possessed in the Cabinet aroused the jealous anger of men. True, the feeling was not in the ascendant, and other disabilities of women were removed; but in this particular case, the last, it may be said, of women’s disabilities, a separate feeling had to be taken into account. The ultra-Conservatives throughout the Empire, including both men and women, were superstitiously tenacious of upholding the Constitution in its integrity and averse to its being changed in the smallest particular. They felt that everything important to the Empire depended upon the irrevocable nature of the Constitution, and that the smallest change might be succeeded by the most organic alterations. The merits of the question mattered nothing in their opinion in comparison with the principle which they held it was a matter of life and death not to disturb.

  It was now proposed to introduce a Bill to enable the Emperor to declare that the succession should be to the eldest child. The Cabinet were strongly in favour of it, and to a great extent their existence as a Government depended on it. The Emperor was well disposed to his present advisers, but, it was no secret, was strongly averse to this one proposal. The comtemplated match was an affair of State policy rather than of inclination. He had seldom met his intended bride, and was not prepossessed with her. She was good-looking and a fine girl; but she had unmistakably red hair, an adornment not to his taste. Besides, she was
excessively firm in her opinions as to the superiority of women over men; and he strongly suspected she would be for ever striving to rule not only the household, but the Empire.

  It is difficult to fathom the motives of the human mind, difficult not to others, but to the persons themselves concerned. The Emperor thought that his opposition to placing the succession on an equality between male and female was purely one of loyalty to his ancestors and to the traditions of the Empire. But who could say that he did not see in a refusal to pass the necessary Act a means of escaping the distasteful nuptials? Mrs Hardinge had come from a long interview with him, and it was evident that she greatly doubted his continued support. She resumed, ‘His Highness seems very seriously to oppose the measure, and indeed quite ready to give up his intended marriage. I wonder,’ she said, looking keenly at Hilda, ‘whether he has seen any girl he prefers.’

  The utter unconsciousness with which Hilda heard this veiled surmise appeared to satisfy Mrs Hardinge; and she continued, ‘Tell me, dear, what do you think?’

  ‘I am hardly in a position to judge. Does the Emperor give no reasons for his opposition?’

  ‘Yes, he has plenty of reasons; but his strongest appears to be that whoever is ruler of the Empire should be able to lead its armies.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Miss Fitzherbert, ‘that he had some good reason.’

  ‘Do you consider this a good reason?’ inquired Mrs Hardinge sharply.

  ‘From his point of view, yes; from ours, no,’ said Hilda gently, but promptly.

  ‘Then you do not think that we should retreat from our position even if retreat were possible?’

  ‘No,’ replied Hilda. ‘Far better to leave office than to make a concession of which we do not approve in order to retain it.’

  (1889)

  Jessie Mackay, ‘The Charge at Parihaka’

  Yet a league, yet a league

  Yet a league onward,

  Straight to the Maori Pah