by
Christina Rossetti

Christina Rossetti

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 in serting them in any tale — except only the first two in the trio bouts-rimes 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 surnames 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 prefigurement 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.

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. Do n’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 protege 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 wreath 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-bonbonniere 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.

Mary, all life and spirits, hastened to introduce the new-comers to Maude; who, perfectly unembarrassed, bowed and uttered little speeches with the manner of a practised woman of the world; while the genuine, unobstrusive courtesy of Agnes did more towards making their guests comfortable than the eager good nature of her sister, or the correct breeding of her cousin.

At length the preliminaries were all accomplished, every one having found a seat, or being otherwise satisfactorily disposed of. The elders of the party were grouped here and there talking and looking on: the very small children were accommodated in an adjoining apartment with a gigantic Noah’s ark: and the rest of the young people being at liberty to amuse themselves as fancy might prompt, a general appeal was made to Miss Foster for some game, novel, entertaining, and ingenious; or, as some of the more diffident hinted, easy.

“I really know nothing new,” said Maude: “you must have played at Proverbs, What’s my thought like? How do you like it? and Magic music: — or stay, there is one thing we can try: — bouts-rimes.”

“What?” asked Mary.

“Bouts-rimes: it is very easy. Someone gives rhymes, mamma can do that, and then every one fills them up as they think fit. A sonnet is the best form to select; but, if you wish, we could try eight, or even four lines.”

“But I am certain I could not make a couplet,” said Mary, laughing. “Of course you would get on capitally, and Agnes might manage very well, and Magdalen can do anything; but it is quite beyond me: do pray think of something more suited to my capacity.”

“Indeed I have nothing else to propose. This is very much better than mere common games; but if you will not try it, that ends the matter”: and Maude leaned back in her chair.

“I hope” — began Mary; but Agnes interposed:

“Suppose some of us attempt bouts-rimes, and you meanwhile can settle what we shall do afterwards. Who is ready to test her poetical powers? — What, no one? — Oh, Magdalen, pray join Maude and me.”

This proposal met with universal approbation, and the three girls retreated to a side table; Mary, who supplied the rhymes, exacting a promise that only one sonnet should be composed. Before the next game was fixed upon, the three following productions were submitted for judgment to the discerning public. The first was by Agnes.

Would that I were a turnip white,
Or raven black,
Or miserable hack
Dragging a cab from left to right;
Or would I were the showman of a sight,
Or weary donkey with a laden back,
Or racer in a sack,
Or freezing traveller on an Alpine height;
Or would I were straw-catching as I drown,
(A wretched landsman I, who cannot swim),
Or watching a lone vessel sink,
Rather than writing: I would change my pink
Gauze for a hideous yellow satin gown
With deep-cut scolloped edges and a rim.

“Indeed I had no idea of the sacrifice you were making,” observed Maude; you did it with such heroic equanimity. Might I, however, venture to hint that my sympathy with your sorrows would have been greater, had they been expressed in metre?”

“There’s gratitude for you,” cried Agnes gaily: “What have you to expect, Magdalen?” and she went on to read her friend’s sonnet:

I fancy the good fairies dressed in white,
Glancing like moonbeams through the shadows black;
Without much work to do for king or hack.
Training perhaps some twisted branch aright;
Or sweeping faded autumn leaves from sight,
To foster embryo life; or binding back
Stray tendrils; or in ample bean-pod sack
Bringing wild honey from the rocky height;
Or fishing for a fly lest it should drown;
Or teaching water-lily heads to swim,
Fearful that sudden rain might make them sink;
Or dyeing the pale rose a warmer pink;
Or wrapping lilies in their leafy gown,
Yet letting the white peep beyond the rim. —

“Well, Maude?”

“Well, Agnes; Miss Ellis is too kind to feel gratified at hearing that her verses make me tremble for my own: but such as they are, listen:

“Some ladies dress in muslin full and white,
Some gentlemen in cloth succinct and black;
Some patronise a dog-cart, some a hack,
Some think a painted clarence only right.
Youth is not always such a pleasing sight,
Witness a man with tassels on his back;
Or woman in a great-coat like a sack
Towering above her sex with horrid height.
If all the world were water fit to drown
There are some whom you would not teach to swim,
Rather enjoying if you saw them sink;
Certain old ladies dressed in girlish pink,
With roses and geraniums on their gowns: —
Go to the Basin, poke them o’er the rim.