by F. Anstey
Peter Merchant
October 2016
Peter Merchant is a Principal Lecturer in the School of Humanities at Canterbury Christ Church University. He is co-editor, with Catherine Waters, of a recent volume of essays on Charles Dickens, Dickens and the Imagined Child (Ashgate, 2015). His previous work on Anstey includes, for Victorian Secrets in 2011, an edition with full scholarly apparatus of Anstey’s best-known novel Vice Versâ.
NOTE ON THE TEXTS
The text used for The Statement of Stella Maberly is that of the first UK edition (1896), published without the name of the author. This edition contained a handful of minor misprints, which in line with Anstey’s obvious intentions are silently corrected here.
The rest of the material is transcribed from manuscripts held in the collection of the British Library, and I am grateful to the Library and its staff for the access which I have had to these. The catalogue numbers of the notebooks containing the relevant items are as follows:
for ‘The Statement of V.M. patient at Bethnal House Asylum, July: 19: 1886’, Additional MS 54278 (this notebook carries an index, prepared by Anstey himself, which abbreviates the title of the work as ‘Statement of V.M. a Lunatic’);
for ‘Violet Millar’s Tale’, the résumé of ‘The Statement of V.M.’ which was made in the winter of 1894-95, Additional MS 54283;
for the scenario ‘An Evil Spirit’, Additional MS 54308.
In each of these transcriptions, the numbers of the folio sheets on which successive portions of the text appear are indicated within square brackets. The first two of the three texts transcribed use reverse numbering although in the third the numbering is straightforward. Anstey would often number the manuscript pages of a story in a descending sequence, since he tended to flip his notebooks over and work inwards from the back as well as from the front; and he would sometimes skip pages, apparently leaving a space for some shorter piece on which he was simultaneously engaged. ‘The Statement of V.M.’ follows this pattern and therefore has a backward-directed page range, running from fo. (for folio) 127v to fo. 107r.
The technical presentation of the scenario has been tidied by the occasional restoration of a heading such as ‘Leader’ or an instruction such as ‘Fade into’ which Anstey forgot, although the less easily adjusted irregularities (as when he uses one of the scene numbers—58—twice over, or lifts the ‘Action’ up into the ‘Scene’) have been allowed to stand. Editing has otherwise been kept to a minimum, with all editorial interventions indicated within square or triangular brackets and italicized. So an editorial ‘[sic]’ denotes an error which Anstey apparently neither intended nor noticed. The parenthesized ‘(sic)’ which twice appears in ‘The Statement of V.M.’, on fos 126v and 116r, is different; these two insertions are Anstey’s own, designed to show that he is aware of spelling errors in the narrative he is purportedly copying (the narrator ends her ‘Statement’ with an apology for its ‘many mistakes & scratchings’).
Where there is something illegible in Anstey’s manuscript, ‘
In the transcribed text of ‘The Statement of V.M.’, Anstey’s deletions and overwritings, which often illuminate his thought process, are indicated with strikethroughs. Authorial deletions in the manuscript of ‘An Evil Spirit’ are similarly marked wherever a change of mind is or might be involved, rather than a simple slip of the pen. There are no authorial deletions in the résumé entitled ‘Violet Millar’s Tale’.
For a more detailed account of the texts contained in this edition, see Peter Merchant, “Thomas Anstey Guthrie’s Madness Shuffle: Steps toward a Nightmare Scenario,” Nineteenth-Century Theatre and Film 42 (2015): 146-163.
The Statement of Stella Maberly
PRELIMINARY NOTE
The manuscript of this book was placed in my hands with an express stipulation that I should not reveal the writer’s identity until, or unless I received authority to do so.
Should the narrative excite the interest and sympathy I anticipate for it, I may be permitted, later on, to disclose certain facts connected with its origin which the friends of ‘Stella Maberly’ think it advisable, for many reasons, to withhold for the present.
In any case, I consider her Statement strange and striking enough to attract attention for its own sake—or, naturally, I should not have undertaken to publish it under the circumstances.
T. FISHER UNWIN.
INTRODUCTION
I, Stella Maberly, have determined to make a full statement of all the circumstances in my life which led me to commit an act that, in itself, would seem a crime deserving of nothing but condemnation.
I shall write it rather for my own satisfaction than that of others, for there may come a time when, as has been the case before, my memory grows confused and I begin to wonder whether, after all, I may not have been mistaken, and, what is more dreadful still, to doubt whether I am not actually as guilty as I have been made to appear.
So, while my recollection is still vivid and clear, I am going to put everything down on paper as accurately and impartially as I can, so that if, in the future, these horrible doubts should again assail me, I shall be able, simply by reading this statement, to see exactly what I did and the reasons I had for doing it.
After I am gone I should like others to read it too. Probably very few will believe that what I am writing is the truth; but that will not matter to me then, and even already I have ceased to care very much what the world outside may think.
Still, it pleases me to fancy that, perhaps here and there, someone who knew me once will read this and believe that it is just possible that poor Stella Maberly was more to be pitied than blamed.
I shall begin my statement with some account of my childhood, not because it was eventful or interesting, but because, without it, much that followed would seem less intelligible and excusable.
I
I have no recollection of my mother, although she did not die until I was nearly four years old. She and my father separated shortly after I was born, and remained apart till her death. She was extremely beautiful, as I know from a portrait that exists of her, but cursed, I believe, with so violent a temper that it soon became impossible to live with her. Where or how she died I don’t know, for my father was always reserved on the subject, even when I was old enough to ask questions about her; but I can just remember the news coming that she was dead, and my nurse pulling down the nursery blinds and telling me I had lost my poor mamma and should have to wear black frocks.
I cried bitterly, not because I understood my loss in the least, but because I hated dark rooms and being dressed in black.
Within a year my father married again, and was much happier in his second marriage than I fear he could ever have been in his first. My stepmother was not unkind; I think she was prepared to treat me with as much affection as a child of her own, if I had responded at all to her advances. But she did not understand me; I was a difficult child to deal with, possessed as I was, at times, by twin demons of jealousy and sullenness, which made me resist all her endearments. Possibly I was encouraged in this antagonism by my own nurse, who was devoted to me, and resented, as such servants are apt to do, the fact that my importance was diminished by my father having taken a new wife, and by the second family that came in time.
Between my half-brothers and sisters and myself their mother never permitted herself to make distinctions, or, if she did, it was in my favour, for she treated my outbreaks of defiance with more leniency than she would probably have shown to them had they ever been capable of such rebellious rages as I f
lew into on little or no provocation, so violent that they left me, when their force was spent, weak and exhausted for hours afterwards.
Once I recall my father saying, half to himself, and with a suppressed groan, when, as a last resource, I had been brought before him for reproof, ‘God grant she may not grow up like her mother!’ which puzzled me, for my mother seemed to me, from her picture, very lovely. I know now that he was thinking of the want of self-control which had wrecked her happiness and his.
As I grew older, these outbursts became less violent, or rather took the form of sullen and prolonged silences, during which I rejected all overtures, and even went without food for hours and hours, to the distress and bewilderment of the younger children, who were too sweet-natured to comprehend an anger which lasted so long after its occasion.
And yet, in the very worst of these black moods of mine, my heart was secretly aching to own myself in the wrong and be forgiven and accept the love I knew was waiting for me—but I could not. I seemed to be in the grip of some paralysing force which would not relax by any effort of my own will, which made me hard and cruel in spite of my self.
With a temperament like this, it might have been expected that I should grow up a sickly, puny little creature, as unloved as I made myself unlovable—but it was not so. I had a physique too strong to be affected by my fits of passion and brooding; I was healthy and vigorous, fond of exercise and open air, with mental abilities that, when I chose to exert them, were rather above than below the average. And when my demons were not aroused I was a natural, bright, impulsively demonstrative child, who could both feel and attract affection.
My half-brothers and sisters adored me, and were my admiring little slaves as long as I chose to tyrannise over them; the servants would do more for me than for any of the other children; the governesses I had—though I made their lives so unendurable that not one of them could stand the strain for more than a few months—even they broke down when they had to leave, and confessed that they felt the parting as bitterly as if I had been the best of pupils. I daresay they went away thinking me harder and more heartless than ever, as I remained passive and dry-eyed throughout the leave-taking; they did not know—I took care that no one should know—that when my governess had driven away for ever I would steal up into a box room at the top of the house and set myself to recall every cruel and insulting speech of mine to her, and every instance of affection and forbearance she had shown me until my heart swelled with contrition and I found that I, too, could weep—when weeping was of no use.
And yet—in spite of all my good resolutions—I would be just as perverse and wilful and unmanageable to the next governess that undertook to instruct me as to her predecessor.
This state of things could not go on; I had wearied out any affection my stepmother ever felt for me, and she was afraid of the example my insubordination might set to her own children—or so she persuaded my father—and it was decided that I must be sent away to school.
The school that was chosen for me was a fashionable and expensive establishment at one of the best known seaside towns. It was excellently conducted; the principal was an able and cultivated woman, who took a real interest in the mental and moral training of every pupil. She was a firm disciplinarian, and for the first time I found myself under an authority which I could not defy with impunity. I took some pains to please her, and in time, though I often vexed and disappointed her, she came to feel a certain fondness for me.
My schoolfellows all belonged to the well-born and well-to-do class, and received me readily enough into their friendship; they were mostly pleasant, simple-minded girls, and there were few of them I actually disliked, though fewer still with whom I was really intimate.
Still, I was very far from unpopular; in fact, I soon found myself the unwilling object of a sort of cult. I had the kind of irregular beauty, the cleverness and audacity which girls admire in another, and I had, too, the crowning charm of uncertainty and caprice.
Up to a certain age girls are frequently great heroine worshippers, and whether they transfer their idolatry later to one of the opposite sex or not, it is always rather increased than checked by being trampled upon. They adored me none the less for being disdainful and imperious.
I am afraid I took a morbid pleasure in wounding or quarrelling with the friends I loved best for the mere emotional luxury of feeling miserable and alone and misunderstood, and I knew that they would always be only too delighted to be taken back into my favour.
Perhaps all this may sound like conceit or arrogance—but I shall let it stand. I am far enough from feeling even a retrospective vanity, and such attractions as I possess, or may have once possessed, have brought me small satisfaction, as will be seen before I reach the conclusion of my story.
I had one rival in the school who, curiously enough perhaps, was the only girl there for whom I felt anything like deep affection, and whom, characteristically, I treated with most unkindness. Her name was Evelyn Heseltine; she was an orphan and would, it was vaguely understood, be immensely wealthy when she came of age.
She was utterly unlike me in every respect; fair, with a delicate, spiritual beauty which corresponded to her gentle nature, incapable of an ill-natured speech or an ungenerous thought. It was a favourite device of my enemies—for I need scarcely say that I had enemies—to attempt to mortify me by declaring her to be by far the loveliest and cleverest girl in the school, but in this amiable design they failed, for even I could not be jealous of Evelyn, perhaps because I felt that my superiority was never seriously questioned.
I took the lead in all our amusements, in all our innocent scrapes or festivities; in our riding-school parties on the Downs it was I who was always given the most spirited mounts; in the class-rooms Evelyn had slightly the advantage, but she was naturally the more industrious, and, even at work, I could outshine her whenever I chose to take the trouble.
She was not strong enough to excel in sports or games; timid and sensitive, but with a disposition so sweet that it was next to impossible to provoke her into a quarrel or even a retort, which often exasperated me into making cruel experiments upon her powers of forbearance. She had too much character, nevertheless, to be charged with insipidity, though even her strongest supporters confessed that she wanted one thing to be absolutely perfect—a spice of the devil.
And, even when I was most cruel, I loved her; I felt instinctively that hers was a pure and noble influence, and I had the grace to be proud of her attachment to me, though, with my old self-tormenting impulse, I trifled with it until I was in danger of losing it altogether. But Evelyn always understood, and bore with and pitied me up to the very end.
I do not know how other women may regard their school days, but I look back upon mine as the happiest part of a life which, it is true, has not been either long or happy, and I was sorry rather than glad when they came to an end and I returned home, as I thought, for good.
For a while after I had ‘come out,’1 and was entitled to take my part in such social events as were provided by the rather dull Hampshire neighbourhood in which we lived, I found existence fairly enjoyable. People made much of me, and seemed glad to secure me for dinners and dances and garden-parties; my father was proud of my success, and indulged me in every wish; I had my train of admirers, more than one of whom did me the honour of proposing for my hand, but none of them touched my heart.
They were the ordinary, well-groomed, sport-loving young Englishmen, not by any means intellectual, and who, under the influence of sentiment, seemed more stupid than they really were. I found them only a degree less wearisome than I had the silliest of my schoolgirl worshippers, and treated them with much the same merciless ridicule, so that I soon earned a reputation in the county for heartlessness.
I do not think I was more heartless than any other girl who is critical and fastidious, and who has never met the man who answers at all to her secret ideal, but there seemed to me something at once absurd and irritating in the spectacle o
f a passion I had never cared to inspire, and could not return, and this prevented me from feeling or showing any sign of pity.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, I became aware that my popularity was declining. I found chilly greetings and hostile looks at several houses where I had once been eagerly welcomed. I was made to feel, by innumerable indications, slight but unmistakable, that I had given offence and was out of favour. This distressed me very little; I had soon tired of the neighbours around us and was glad of the excuse for indulging my growing distaste for society. So by degrees I gave up going out; lived almost entirely to myself, and took all my rides and walks alone, and in directions where I was least likely to meet acquaintances. This passion for solitude in a young woman of my age and position no doubt seemed unnatural, and formed a fruitful subject for local gossip—but to that I was perfectly indifferent.
However, it served to make my home-life almost unendurable, for my stepmother, as I had begun to see of late, was secretly jealous of the preference my father showed for me, and the change in my habits gave her a pretext for coming between us which she was not likely to neglect. I was forbidden to ride or walk without an escort, as though I had been a child, and my half-brothers and sisters were instructed to accompany me and act as spies, which I need not say destroyed any vestige of affection I felt towards them.
Now that he could no longer take any pride in my social successes, my father was easily influenced against me; he expressed strong disapproval of my solitary pursuits, and attempted to force me to go into society as I used to do, for he insisted that the slights and rebuffs which made the effort so impossible to me were exaggerated, if not purely fanciful—as if my powers of perception were not likely to be keener than his in matters which concerned me so closely.