Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti

by Christina Rossetti

  Yea, the end of all is very near us;

  Yea, the Judge is at the door.

  Let us pray now, while we may;

  It will be too late to pray

  When the quick and dead shall all

  Rise at the last trumpet-call.

  II

  WHEN Thursday arrived Agnes and Mary were indisposed with colds; so Mrs. Foster insisted on her daughter’s making their excuses to Mrs. Strawdy. In a dismal frame of mind, Maude, assisted by her sympathizing cousins, performed her slight preliminary toilet.

  “You have no notion of the utter dreariness of this kind of invitation: I counted on your helping me through the evening, and now you fail me. Thank you, Mary; I shall not waste eau de Cologne on my handkerchief.

  Good-night, both, mind you go to bed early, and get up quite well, tomorrow. Good-night.”

  The weather was foggy and raw as Maude stepped into the street; and proved anything but soothing to a temper already fretted; so by the time that she had arrived at her destination, removed her walking-things, saluted her hostess, and apologised for her cousins, her countenance had assumed an expression neither pleased nor pleasing.

  “Let me present my nieces to you, my dear,” said Mrs. Strawdy, taking her young friend by the hand and leading her towards the fire: “This is Miss Mowbray; or, as you must call her, Annie; that is Caroline, and that Sophy. They have heard so much of you that any farther introduction is needless here Maude bowed rather stiffly:” but as we are early people you will excuse our commencing with tea, after which we shall have leisure for amusement.”

  There was something so genuinely kind and simple in Mrs. Strawdy’s manner, that even Maude felt mollified, and resolved on doing her best not only towards suppressing all appearance of yawns, but also towards bearing her part in the conversation.

  “My cousins will regret their indisposition more than ever, when they learn of how much pleasure it has deprived them,” said she, civilly addressing Miss Mowbray.

  A polite bend, smile, and murmur formed the sole response, and once more a subject had to be started.

  “Have you been very gay lately? I begin to acquire the reputation of an invalid, and so my privacy is respected.”

  Annie coloured, and looked excessively embarrassed; at last she answered in a low, hesitating voice: “We go out extremely little, partly because we never dance.”

  tc Nor I, either; it really is too fatiguing; yet a ball-room is no bad place for a mere spectator. Perhaps, though, you prefer the theatre?”

  “We never go to the play,” rejoined Miss Mowbray looking more and more uncomfortable.

  Maude ran on: “Oh, I beg your pardon, you do not approve of such entertainments. I never go, but only for want of some one to take me.” Then addressing Mrs. Mowbray: “I think you know my aunt, Mrs. Clifton?”

  “I visited her years ago with your mamma,” was the answer: “when you were quite a little child. I hope she continues in good health. Pray remember me to her and to Mr. Clifton when you write.”

  “With pleasure. She has a large family now, eight children.”

  “That is indeed a large family,” rejoined Mrs. Strawdy, intent meanwhile on dissecting a cake with mathematical precision. “You must try a piece; it is Sophy’s own manufacture.”

  Despairing of success in this quarter, Maude now directed her attention to Caroline, whose voice she had not heard once in the course of the evening.

  “I hope you will favour us with some music after tea; in fact, I can ‘take no denial. You look too blooming to plead a cold, and I feel certain you will not refuse to indulge my love for sweet sounds. Of your ability to do so, I have heard elsewhere.”

  “I shall be most happy, only you must favour us in return.”

  “I will do my best,” answered Maude somewhat encouraged; “but my own performances are very poor. Are you fond of German songs? they form my chief resource.”

  “Yes, I like them much.”

  Baffled in this quarter also, Miss Foster wanted courage to attack Sophy, whose countenance promised more cake than conversation. The meal seemed endless; she fidgetted under the table with her fingers; pushed about a stool on the noiselessly soft carpet until it came in contact with some one’s foot; and at last fairly deprived Caroline of her third cup of coffee, by opening the piano and claiming the fulfillment of her promise.

  The young lady complied with obliging readiness. She sang some simple airs, mostly religious, not indeed with much expression, but in a voice clear and warbling as a bird’s. Maude felt consoled for all the contrarieties of the day; and was bargaining for one more song before taking Caroline’s place at the instrument when the door opened to admit Mrs. and Miss Savage; who, having only just reached town, and hearing from Mrs. Foster that her daughter was at the house of a mutual friend, resolved on begging the hospitality of Mrs. Strawdy, and renewing their acquaintance.

  Poor Maude’s misfortunes now came thick and fast. Seated between Miss Savage and Sophia Mowbray she was attacked on either hand with questions concerning her verses. In the first place, did she continue to write? Yes. A flood of ecstatic compliments followed this admission; she was so young, so much admired, and, poor thing, looked so delicate. It was quite affecting to think of her lying awake at night meditating those sweet verses — (“I sleep like a top,” Maude put in dryly) — which so delighted her friends, and would so charm the public, if only Miss Foster could be induced to publish. At last the bystanders were called upon to intercede for a recitation.

  Maude coloured with displeasure; a hasty answer was rising to her lips when the absurdity of her position flashed across her mind so forcibly that, almost unable to check a laugh in the midst of her annoyance, she put her handkerchief to her mouth. Miss Savage, impressed with a notion that her request was about to be complied with, raised her hand, imploring silence, and settled herself in a listening attitude.

  “You will excuse me,” Maude at ‘last said very coldly. “I could not think of monopolising every one’s attention. Indeed you are extremely good, but you must excuse me.” And here Mrs. Savage interposed, desiring her daughter not to tease Miss Foster; and Mrs. Strawdy seconded her friend’s arguments by a hint that supper would make its appearance in a few minutes.

  Finally the maid announced that Miss Foster was fetched; and Maude, shortening her adieus and turning a deaf ear to Annie’s suggestion that their acquaintance should not terminate with the first meeting, returned home dissatisfied with her circumstances, her friends, and herself.

  III

  IT was Christmas Eve. All day long Maude and her cousins were hard at work putting up holly and mistletoe in wreaths, festoons, or bunches, wherever the arrangement of the rooms admitted of such embellishment. The picture-frames were hidden behind foliage and bright berries; the birdcages were stuck as full of green as though it had been summer. A fine sprig of holly was set apart as a centre-bit for the pudding of next day: scratched hands and injured gowns were disregarded: hour after hour the noisy bustle raged until Mrs. Foster, hunted from place to place by her yOung relatives, heard, with inward satisfaction, that the decorations were completed.

  After tea Mary set the backgammon board in array and challenged her aunt to their customary evening game: Maude, complaining of a headache, and promising either to wrap herself in a warm shawl or to go to bed, went to her room: and Agnes, listening to the rattle of the dice, at last came to the conclusion that her presence was not needed downstairs, and resolved to visit the upper regions. Thinking that her cousin was lying down tired and might have fallen asleep, she forebore knocking, but opened the door softly and peeped in.

  Maude was seated at a table, surrounded by the old chaos of stationery; before her lay the locking manuscript book, into which she had just copied something. That day she had appeared more than usually animated, and now supporting her forehead upon her hand, her eyes cast down till the long lashes nearly rested upon her cheeks, she looked pale, languid, almost in pain. She did not
move, but let her visitor come close to her without speaking. Agnes thought she was crying.

  “Dear Maude, you have overtired yourself. Indeed, for all our sakes, you should be more careful”: here Agnes passed her arm affectionately round her friend’s neck: “I hoped to find you fast asleep, and instead of this you have been writing in the cold. Still, I did not come to lecture; and am even ready to show my forgiving disposition by reading your new poem: may I?”

  Maude glanced quickly up at her cousin’s kind face, then answered: “Yes, if you like” ; and Agnes read as follows:

  Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith,

  All things are vanity. The eye and ear

  Cannot be filled with what they see and hear:

  Like early dew, or like the sudden breath

  Of wind, or like the grass that withereth,

  Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear.

  So little joy hath he, so little cheer,

  Till all things end in the long dust of death.

  To-day is still the same as yesterday,

  To-morrow also even as one of them;

  And there is nothing new under the sun.

  Until the ancient race of time be run,

  The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem;

  And morning shall be cold and twilight grey.

  This sonnet was followed by another, written like a postscript.

  I listen to the holy antheming

  That riseth in thy walls continually,

  What while the organ pealeth solemnly

  And white-robed men and boys standup to sing.

  I ask my heart with a sad questioning:

  “What lov’st thou here?” and my heart answers me:

  “Within the shadows of this sanctuary

  To watch and pray is a most blessed thing.”

  To watch and pray, false heart? it is not so:

  Vanity enters with thee, and thy love

  Soars not to heaven, but grovelleth below.

  Vanity keepeth guard, lest good should reach

  Thy hardness; not the echoes from above

  Can rule thy stubborn feelings or can teach —

  “Was this composed after going to St. Andrew’s?”

  “No; I wrote it just now, but I was thinking of St. Andrew’s. It is horrible to feel such a hypocrite as I do.”

  “Oh! Maude, I only wish I were as sensible of my faults as you are of yours. But a hypocrite you are not: don’t you see that every line of these sonnets attests your sincerity?”

  “You will stay to Communion to-morrow?” asked Maude after a short silence, and without replying to her cousin’s speech; even these few words seemed to cost her an effort.

  “Of course I shall: why, it is Christmas day: — at least I trust to do so. Mary and I have been thinking how nice it will be for us all to receive together: so I want you to promise that you will pray for us at the altar, as I shall for you. Will you?”

  “I shall not receive to-morrow,” answered Maude; then hurrying on as if to prevent the other from remonstrating: “No: at least I will not profane holy things; I will not add this to all the rest. J have gone over and over again, thinking I should come right in time, and I do not come right: I will go no more.”

  Agnes turned quite pale: “Stop,” she said, interrupting her cousin: “Stop; you cannot mean — you do not know what you are saying. You will go no more? Only think, if the struggle is so hard now, what it will be when you reject all help.”

  “I do not struggle.”

  “You are ill to-night,” rejoined Agnes very gently, “you are tired and over-excited. Take my advice, dear; say your prayers and get to bed. But do not be very long; if there is anything you miss and will tell me of, I will say it in your stead. Do n’t think me unfeeling. I was once on the very point of acting as you propose. I was perfectly-wretched: harassed and discouraged on all sides. But then it struck me — you won’t be angry? — that it was so ungrateful to follow my own fancies, instead of at least endeavouring to do God’s will; and so foolish, too; for if our safety is not in obedience, where is it?”

  Maude shook her head: “Your case is different. Whatever your faults may be (not that I perceive any), you are trying to correct them; your own conscience tells you that. But I am not trying. No one will say that I cannot avoid putting myself forward and displaying my verses. Agnes, you must admit so much.”

  Deep-rooted, indeed, was that vanity which made Maude take pleasure on such an occasion in proving the force of arguments directed against herself. Still Agnes would not yield, but resolutely did battle for the truth.

  “If hitherto it has been so, let it be so no more. It is not too late:

  besides, think for one moment what will be the end of this. We must all die: what if you keep to your resolution, and do as you have said, and receive the Blessed Sacrament no more?” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Maude’s answer came in a subdued tone: “I do not mean never to communicate again. You remember Mr. Paulson told us last Sunday that sickness and suffering are sent for our correction. I suffer very much. Perhaps a time will come when these will have done their work on me also; when I shall be purified indeed and weaned from the world. Who knows? the lost have been found, the dead quickened.” She paused as if in thought; then continued: “You partake of the Blessed Sacrament in peace, Agnes, for you are good; and Mary, for she is harmless: but your conduct cannot serve to direct mine, because I am neither the one nor the other. Some day I may be fit again to approach the Holy Altar, but till then I will at least refrain from dishonouring it.”

  Agnes felt almost indignant. “Maude, how can you talk so? this is not reverence. You cannot mean that for the present you will indulge vanity and display; that you will court admiration and applause; that you will take your fill of pleasure until sickness, or it may be death, strips you of temptation and sin together. Forgive me; I am sure you never meant this: yet what else does a deliberate resolution to put off doing right come to? — and if you are determined at once to do your best, why deprive yourself of the appointed means of grace? Dear Maude, think better of it” ; and Agnes knelt beside her cousin, and laid her head against her bosom.

  But still Maude, with a sort of desperate wilfulness, kept saying: “It is of no use; I cannot go tomorrow; it is of no use.” She hid her face, leaning upon the table and weeping bitterly; while Agnes, almost discouraged, quitted the room.

  Maude, once more alone, sat for some time just as her cousin left her. Gradually the thick, low sobs became more rare; she was beginning to feel sleepy. At last she roused herself with an effort and commenced undressing; then it struck her that her prayers had still to be said. The idea of beginning them frightened her; yet she could not settle to sleep without saying something. Strange prayers they must have been, offered with a divided heart and a reproachful conscience. Still they were said at length; and Maude lay down harassed, wretched, remorseful, everything but penitent. She was nearly asleep, nearly unconscious of her troubles, when the first strokes of midnight sounded.

  Immediately a party of Christmas waits and carollers burst forth with their glad music. The first part was sung in full chorus:

  “Thank God, thank God, we do believe,

  Thank God that this is Christmas Eve.

  Even as we kneel upon this day,

  Even so the ancient legends say,

  Nearly two thousand years ago

  The stalled ox knelt, and even so

  The ass knelt, full of praise, which they.

  Could not repress, while we can pray.

  Thank God, thank God, for Christ was born

  Ages ago, as on this morn.

  In the snow-season undefiled

  Christ came to earth a Little Child:

  He put His ancient Glory by

  To live for us and then to die.”

  Then half the voices sang the following stanza:

  “How shall we thank God? how shall we

  Thank Him and pra
ise Him worthily?

  What will He have Who loved us thus?

  What presents will He take from us?

  Will He take Gold? or precious heap

  Of gems? or shall we rather steep

  The air with incense? or bring myrrh?

  What man will be our messenger

  To go to Him and ask His Will?

  Which having learned, we will fulfil,

  Though He choose all we most prefer:

  What man will be our messenger?”

  This was answered by the other half:

  “Thank God, thank God, the Man is found,

  Sure-footed, knowing well the ground.

  He knows the road, for this the way He travelled once, as on this day.

  He is our Messenger; beside,

  He is our Door and Path and Guide;

  He also is our Offering;

  He is the Gift. That we must bring —

  Finally all the singers joined in the conclusion:

  “Let us kneel down with one accord

  And render thanks unto the Lord.

  For unto us a Child is born

  Upon this happy Christmas morn;

  For unto us a Son is given,

  First-born of God and Heir of Heaven.”

  As the echoes died away, Maude fell asleep.

  Part III

  I

  Agnes Clifton to Maude Foster.

  12th June, 18 — .

  My Dear Maude, —

  MAMMA has written to my aunt that Mary’s marriage is fixed for the 4th of next month: but as I fear we cannot expect you both so many days before the time, I also write, hoping that you at least will come without delay. At any rate, I shall be at the station to-morrow afternoon with a chaise for your luggage, so pray take pity on my desolate condition, and avail yourself of the three-o’clock train. A.s we are both bridesmaids - elect, I thought it would be very nice for us to be dressed alike, so have procured double quantity of everything; thus you will perceive no pretence remains for your lingering in smoky London.