‘Oh, Mrs. Grey,’ she said, earnestly, ‘he may have been right or wrong, I can’t tell; but it’s not for me to sit in judgment on him who loved Christ and spent himself to save souls. J led him into sin, but he led me to repentance: if I’m patient, he showed me first the way; and if I’m humble, he prayed without ceasing that I might become so.’
‘God forbid,’ replied Mrs. Grey, tenderly, ‘that either you or myself should sit in judgment on any man, least of all on one who loved our blessed Lord, and laboured to do Him service. This I know’ — and the wife coloured — ‘your husband taught my husband a living lesson of boldness, self-denial, and trampling false shame underfoot. Often when I see him earnest in the pulpit, or zealous in his schools, or energetic amongst his poor, I remember John Lane, and thank God for his example. Do not let us dwell on the worn, suffering body, at rest now in its dust; let us lift our minds towards the free soul, resting, we both hope, in Paradise. Oh, dear Sarah, if he now sees that there was a more excellent way than he himself trod, can you imagine he would grudge you the knowledge of it? Would he not rather say, “Be very jealous for the unity of Christ’s fold, even whilst you open a wide heart of love to all who love the Lord Jesus?” It is not my part to exhort you; only recollect, if ever you allow my husband to teach you anything which you need to learn, he will but be repaying to you some part of all he owes John Lane.’
From that day forward one great barrier between the widow and the Church was removed: she no longer fancied that Church people were criticising and branding her dead John; she no longer felt as if, by continuing a Methodist, she stood by one whose excellences were unappreciated, and whose errors, if such she admitted them to have been, were triumphantly condemned. Often before this, when she sat at work listening to the earnest, simple words in which Mrs. Grey expounded parable or miracle to Jane, and drew out its lesson of mercy or warning, — sometimes dwelling on the holiness without which no man shall see the Lord, sometimes on the yearning Divine compassion which sought and saved that which was lost, sometimes on the many mansions, sometimes on the one fold under one Shepherd, — conscience had spoken; now at length she listened to its voice only to answer, ‘Speak, Lord; for Thy servant heareth.’
‘Line upon line, precept upon precept; here a little, and there a little:’ so the message was revealed to her as she was able to receive it. First she opened to her tried friend the curate’s wife, stating her difficulties, willing, if it might be, to have them removed; next she took courage, spoke to Mr. Grey himself, and found in him a patient listener, a faithful guide, and one who felt and professed deep obligation to John Lane.
Back from meeting-house to church, through church up to the blessed Sacrament of the Altar, the grace of God led her.
Another five years of patient progress passed away; let us take a parting glance at Sarah Lane.
Sarah Lane still? Yes, though faithful John Archer tried once and again to win a kind answer. She continues to wear black for her dear husband’s sake, and at least once in the year journeys up to London to see and tend his grave. Though she cannot preach on the highways, his example stirs her up to energy in the Sunday-school, and tenderness in visiting sufferers. Many a time has she stinted her own meal to feed the hungry; many a time has she curtailed her night’s rest to nurse the sick. She teaches Jane her business, calls her her right hand and little forewoman, yet feels perhaps a secret preference for Harry, so like his grandfather.
Though very diligent at her work, and frequently in the season hurried by her employers, she is seldom absent from the Wednesday and Friday morning service, held alternately at St. Clement’s and All Saints’ Churches. Sunday she strictly and thankfully observes; partaking, whenever an opportunity offers, of the comfortable Sacrament of Christ’s Body and Blood.
Certainly now neither the prettiest nor the merriest woman in Hastings, but I truly believe this widow is one of the happiest: having chosen that good part which shall not be taken from her; thankful that her idol was removed for a season, if so she might receive him for ever; able to say at last, ‘Whom have I in heaven but Thee? and there is none upon earth that I desire in comparison of Thee. Amen. Even so, come, Lord Jesus.’
THE END.
MAUDE: A STORY FOR GIRLS
Composed of prose and verse, this novella was written when Rossetti was nineteen years old, although it was not published until several years after her death. The work is autobiographical in nature, exploring a heroine’s struggle to resist the notion that modesty, virtue and domesticity comprise the fundamental duties of women. In Maude’s struggles we can appreciate Rossetti’s own endeavors to express an independent authorial voice, in spite of the gender prejudices of the time. Maude also reveals the author’s anxieties about literary achievement within the confines of Victorian values and family restrictions.
The first edition
CONTENTS
Prefatory Note
Part I
I
II
III
Part II
I
II
III
Part III
I
II
III
Prefatory Note
THIS “Tale for Girls” (as I should be disposed to call it) was written out by Christina Rossetti, with her usual excessive neatness of caligraphy, in 1850. I suppose it may have been composed in that year, or a year or two earlier. In 1850, up to the 5th December, she was nineteen years of age. Of the rather numerous poems interspersed in the tale, all save two have, I think, been published ere now. They were all written without any intention of inserting them in any tale — except only the first two in the trio buuts-rimés sonnets. The MS. of the tale presents a few slight revisions, made at some much later date — perhaps about 1870, or 1875.
I daresay that Christina may, towards 1850, have offered the tale here or there for publication, but have no particular recollection as to that point. In now at last publishing it, I am not under any misapprehension regarding the degree of merit which it possesses. I allow it to be in all senses a juvenile performance; but I think it is agreeably written, and not without touches of genuine perception and discernment. Most of the poems I rate high. The literary reputation of Christina Rossetti is now sufficiently established to make what she wrote interesting to many persons — if not for the writing’s own sake, then for the writer’s. As such, I feel no qualms in giving publicity to Maude.
It appears to me that my sister’s main object in delineating Maude was to exhibit what she regarded as defects in her own character, and in her attitude towards her social circle and her religious obligations. Maude’s constantly weak health is also susceptible of a personal reference, no doubt intentional: even so minor a point as her designing the pattern of a sofa-pillow might apply to Christina herself. Maude is made the subject of many unfavourable comments, from herself and from her strict-minded authoress. The worst harm she appears to have done is, that when she had written a good poem, she felt it to be good. She was also guilty of the grave sin of preferring to forego the receiving of the eucharist when she supposed herself to be unworthy of it; and further, of attending the musical services at St. Andrew’s Church (Wells Street, Oxford Street), instead of invariably frequenting her parish church. If some readers opine that all this shows Christina Rossetti’s mind to have been at that date overburdened with conscientious scruples of an extreme and even a wire-drawn kind, I share their opinion. One can trace in this tale that she was already an adherent of the advanced High Church party in the Anglican communion, including conventual sisterhoods. So far as my own views of right and wrong go, I cannot see that the much-reprehended Maude commits a single serious fault from title-page to finis.
I fancy that Agnes and Mary Clifton may be, to some extent, limned from two young ladies, Alicia and Priscilla Townsend, whom my sister knew and liked in those years. The whole family emigrated — perhaps a year or two prior to 1850 — to Canterbury Settlement, New Zealand. Some s
urnames introduced into the tale — such as Hunt, Deverall, and Potter — were highly familiar in our household. Towards the close is a sentence, “The locked book she never opened, but had it placed in Maude’s coffin”; which is curious, as an unconscious pre-figurement of a well-known and much-discussed incident in the life of Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
With these few remarks I commit Maude to the reader. For its prose the “indulgent reader” (as our greatgrandfathers used to phrase it) may be in requisition; for its verse the “discreet” reader will suffice.
W. M. ROSSETTI.
LONDON, November, 1896.
Maude
Part I
I
“A PENNY for your thoughts,” said Mrs. Foster, one bright July morning, as she entered the sitting-room, with a bunch of roses in her hand, and an open letter: “A penny for your thoughts,” said she, addressing her daughter, who, surrounded by a chaos of stationery, was slipping out of sight some scrawled paper. This observation remaining unanswered, the mother, only too much accustomed to inattention, continued; “Here is a note from your Aunt Letty; she wants us to go and pass a few days with them. You know, Tuesday is Mary’s birthday, so they mean to have some young people, and cannot dispense with your company.”
“Do you think of going?” said Maude at last, having locked her writing-book.
“Yes, dear; even a short stay in the country may do you good, you have looked so pale lately. Don’t you feel quite well? tell me.”
“Oh yes; there is not much the matter, only I am tired and have a headache. Indeed there is nothing at all the matter; besides, the country may work wonders.”
Half satisfied, half uneasy, Mrs. Foster asked a few more questions, to have them all answered in the same style: vain questions, put to one who, without telling lies, was determined not to tell the truth.
When once more alone, Maude resumed the occupation which her mother’s entrance had interrupted. Her writing-book was neither commonplace-book, album, scrap-book, nor diary; it was a compound of all these, and contained original compositions not intended for the public eye, pet extracts, extraordinary little sketches, and occasional tracts of journal. This choice collection she now proceeded to enrich with the following sonnet:
Yes, I too could face death and never shrink:
But it is harder to bear hated life;
To strive with hands and knees weary of strife;
To drag the heavy chain whose every link
Galls to the bone; to stand upon the brink
Of the deep grave, nor drowse, though it be rife
With sleep; to hold with steady hand the knife,
Nor strike home: this is courage, as I think.
Surely to suffer is more than to do:
To do is quickly done; to suffer is
Longer and fuller of heart-sicknesses;
Each day’s experience testifies of this:
Good deeds are many, but good lives are few;
Thousands taste the full cup; who drains the lees?
having done which she yawned, leaned back in her chair, and wondered how she should fill the time till dinner.
Maude Foster was just fifteen. Small, though not positively short, she might easily be overlooked, but would not easily be forgotten. Her figure was slight and well-made, but appeared almost high-shouldered through a habitual shrugging stoop. Her features were regular and pleasing; as a child she had been very pretty, and might have continued so but for a fixed paleness, and an expression, not exactly of pain, but languid and preoccupied to a painful degree. Yet even now if at any time she became thoroughly aroused and interested, her sleepy eyes would light up with wonderful brilliancy, her cheeks glow with warm colour, her manner become animated, and drawing herself up to her full height, she would look more beautiful than ever she did as a child. So Mrs. Foster said, and so unhappily Maude knew. She also knew that people thought her clever, and that her little copies of verses were handed about and admired. Touching these same verses, it was the amazement of every one what could make her poetry so broken-hearted, as was mostly the case. Some pronounced that she wrote very foolishly about things she could not possibly understand; some wondered if she really had any secret source of uneasiness; while some simply set her down as affected. Perhaps there was a degree of truth in all these opinions. But I have said enough: the following pages will enable my readers to form their own estimate of Maude’s character. Meanwhile let me transport them to another sitting-room; but this time it will be in the country, with a delightful garden look-out.
Mary Clifton was arranging her mother’s special nosegay when that lady entered.
“Here, my dear, I will finish doing the flowers. It is time for you to go and meet your aunt and cousin; indeed, if you do not make haste, you will be too late.”
“Thank you, mamma; the flowers are nearly done”; and Mary ran out of the room.
Before long she and her sister were hurrying beneath a burning sun towards the railway station. Through having delayed their start to the very last moment, neither had found time to lay hands on a parasol; but this was little heeded by two healthy girls, full of life and spirits, and longing moreover to spy out their friends. Mary wanted one day of fifteen; Agnes was almost a year older: both were well-grown and well-made, with fair hair, blue eyes, and fresh complexions. So far they were alike: what differences existed in other respects remains to be seen.
“How do you do, aunt? How do you do, Maude?” cried Mary, making a sudden dart forward as she discovered our friends, who, having left the station, had already made some progress along the dusty road. Then relinquishing her aunt to Agnes, she seized upon her cousin, and was soon deep in the description of all the pleasures planned for the auspicious morrow.
“We are to do what we like in the morning: I mean, nothing particular is arranged; so I shall initiate you into all the mysteries of the place; all the cats, dogs, rabbits, pigeons, etc.; above all I must introduce you to a pig, a special protégé of mine: that is, if you are inclined, for you look wretchedly pale; are n’t you well, dear?”
“Oh yes, quite well, and you must show me everything. But what are we to do afterwards?”
“Oh! afterwards we are to be intensely grand. All our young friends are coming and we are to play at round games (you were always clever at round games), and I expect to have great fun. Besides, I have stipulated for unlimited strawberries and cream; also, sundry tarts are in course of preparation. By the way, I count on your introducing some new games among us benighted rustics; you who come from dissipated London.”
“I fear I know nothing new, but will do my best. At any rate I can preside at your toilet and assist in making you irresistible.”
Mary coloured and laughed; then thought no more of the pretty speech, which sounded as if carefully prepared by her polite cousin. The two made a strong contrast: one was occupied by a thousand shifting thoughts of herself, her friends, her plans, what she must do, what she would do; the other, whatever might employ her tongue, and to a certain extent her mind, had always an undercurrent of thought intent upon herself.
Arrived at the house, greetings were duly and cordially performed; also an introduction to a new and very fat baby, who received Maude’s advances with a howl of intense dismay. The first day of a visit is often no very lively affair; so perhaps all parties heard the clock announce bedtime without much regret,
II
THE young people were assembled in Mary’s room, deep in the mysteries of the toilet.
“Here is your wreath, Maude; you must wear it for my sake, and forgive a surreptitious sprig of bay which I have introduced,” said Agnes, adjusting the last white rose, and looking affectionately at her sister and cousin.
Maude was arranging Mary’s long fair hair with good-natured anxiety to display it to the utmost advantage. “One more spray of fuchsia; I was always sure fuchsia would make a beautiful head-dress. There; now you are perfection: only look; look Agnes. Oh, I beg your pardon; thank you; my wrea
th is very nice, only I have not earned the bay.” Still she did not remove it; and when placed on her hair it well became the really intellectual character of her face. Her dress was entirely white; simple and elegant. Neither she nor Agnes would wear ornaments, but left them to Mary, in whose honour the entertainment was given, and who in all other respects was arrayed like her sister.
In the drawing-room Mary proceeded to set in order the presents received that morning; a handsomely bound Bible from her father, and a small prayer-book with cross and clasp from her mother; a bracelet of Maude’s hair from her aunt; a cornelian heart from Agnes, and a pocket-bonbonnière from her cousin, besides pretty trifles from her little brothers. In the midst of arrangements and re-arrangements, the servant entered with a large bunch of lilies from the village school-children, and the announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Savage were just arrived with their six daughters.
Gradually the guests assembled, young and old, pretty and plain; all alike seemingly bent on enjoying themselves; some with gifts, and all with cordial greetings for Mary; for she was a general favourite. There was slim Rosanna Hunt, her scarf arranged with artful negligence to hide a slight protrusion of one shoulder; and sweet Magdalen Ellis habited as usual in quiet colours. Then came Jane and Alice Deverall, twins so much alike that few besides their parents knew them apart with any certainty; and their fair brother Alexis, who, had he been a girl, would have increased the confusion. There was little Ellen Potter, with a round rosy face like an apple, looking as natural and good-humoured as if, instead of a grand French governess, she had had her own parents with her like most of the other children; and then came three rather haughty-looking Miss Stantons; and pale Hannah Lindley, the orphan; and Harriet Eyre, a thought too showy in her dress.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 97