Red as a Rose is She: A Novel — Key Ideas to Explore
Edition facts
Red as a Rose is She: A Novel — Key Ideas to Explore can be approached with a clearer sense of reading commitment from its source measurements: 142,242 words, 10 hr 19 min estimated reading time, and 13 detected text sections.
The text analysis averages about 19.1 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.
Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Love stories,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.
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How this score is calculated
- Description quality20 pts
- Title & short description10 pts
- Source metadata20 pts
- Text length15 pts
- Chapters / structure15 pts
- EPUB file integrity20 pts
Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.
Read the Text
Have you ever been to Wales? I do not ask this question of any one in particular; I merely address it to the universal British public, or, rather, to such member or members of the same as shall be wise enough to sit down and read the ensuing true and moving love story--true as the loves of wicked Abelard and Heloise, moving as those of good Paul and Virginia. Probably those wise ones will be very few; numerable by tens, or even units: they will, I may very safely aver, not form the bulk of the nation. However high may be my estimate of my own powers of narration, however amply Providence may have gifted me with self-appreciation, I may be sure of that, seeing that the only books I know of which enjoy so wide a circulation are the Prayer-book and Bradshaw. I am not going to instruct any one in religion or trains, so I may as well make up my mind to a more limited audience, while I pipe my simple lay (rather squeakily and out of tune, perhaps), and may think myself very lucky if that same kind, limited audience do not hiss me down before I have got through half a dozen staves of the dull old ditty.
Have you ever been to Wales? If you have ever visited the pretty, dirty, green spot where Pat and his brogue, where potatoes and absenteeism and head-centres flourish, _alias_ Ireland, you have no doubt passed through a part of it, rushing by, most likely, in the Irish mail; but in that case your eyes and nose and ears were all so very full of dust and cinders--you were so fully employed in blinking and coughing and enjoying the poetry of motion--as to be totally incapable of seeing, hearing, or smelling any of the beauties, agreeable noises, or good smells, which in happier circumstances might have offered themselves to your notice. Perhaps you are in the habit, every midsummer, of taking your half-dozen male and female olive shoots to have the roses restored to their twelve fat cheeks by blowy scrambles about the great frowning Orme's Head, or by excavations in the Rhyl Sands. Perhaps you have gone wedding-touring to Llanberis on the top of a heavy-laden coach, swinging unsafely round sharp corners, and nearly flinging your Angelina from your side on to the hard Welsh road below. Perhaps you have wept with Angelina at the spurious grave of the martyred Gelert, or eaten pink trout voraciously at Capel Curig, and found out what a startlingly good appetite Angelina had. But have you ever lived in the land of the Cymri? Have you ever seen how drunk the masculine Cymri can be on market days, or what grievous old hags the feminine Cymri become towards their thirtieth year? Have you ever, by bitter experience, discovered the truth of that couplet--
"Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief?"
I _have_ lived in Wales, so I speak with authority; and for my part I don't think that Taffy is much more given to the breaking of the eighth commandment than the _canaille_ of any other country. He is not a bright fellow, is not Taffy; happiest, I think, when rather tipsy, or when yelling psalms in his conventicle or schism-shop--for Taffy is addicted to schism; he will tell you plenty of lies, too, and will not season them with the salt of a racy, devil-me-care wit, as Pat would. But he is very civil-spoken, and rather harmless; seldomer, I think, than his cleverer neighbour over the border does he hanker feloniously after his neighbour's spoons, or hammer his wife's head with the domestic poker.
From its first sentence—'Have you ever been to Wales?'—Rhoda Broughton's novel establishes a narrator who directly addresses the reader, mixing self-deprecation ('rather squeakily and out of tune') with a claim to truth. The opening chapters move through a series of hypothetical travel vignettes, each building a sensory picture of Welsh landscapes: the dust of the Irish mail, the roses restored by scrambles on the Orme's Head, the pink trout at Capel Curig. This geographical specificity anchors the story, but the narrator's tone undercuts any pastoral ideal, noting the drunkenness of 'masculine Cymri' and the premature aging of 'feminine Cymri.' The structure thus alternates between inviting the reader into a setting and defamiliarizing it through ironic commentary.
The Narrator's Intrusive Voice
The narrator does not merely tell a story but constantly comments on its telling. In the first chapter, she predicts a 'limited audience' and compares her work to a 'dull old ditty,' a self-conscious framing that recurs throughout. This voice shifts register abruptly: from playful banter about Angelina's appetite to the stark, unadorned prose of the deathbed scene in Chapter XXI. There, the narrator withdraws, letting actions and dialogue carry the weight—'She rises and walks into the hall, and looks at his g…' The contrast suggests a deliberate structural choice: the narrator's presence fades when grief becomes unspeakable.
Recurring Images of Cold and Stillness
Coldness functions as a physical and emotional motif. In the deathbed passage, Esther kisses Jack's 'still cheek' and feels 'the unearthly awful cold of the contact between the dead and the living.' This cold 'strikes a chilly shrinking along her veins and limbs.' Earlier, the narrator describes the 'dust and cinders' of travel, and the 'heavy-laden coach' swinging around corners—movement that generates heat and discomfort. The stillness of the corpse contrasts with the bustle of servants bringing tea and the 'stream of visitors in the kitchen.' Broughton uses temperature to mark the boundary between life and death, and between the living's attempts to cope and the dead's final immobility.
Movement Between Public and Private Spaces
The novel's structure repeatedly moves characters from outdoor, communal settings to interior, solitary ones. The opening addresses the reader as part of a 'universal British public,' then narrows to the hypothetical 'you' traveling through Wales. The death scene shifts from the public hall—where Esther looks at Jack's gun—to the private bedroom, then back to the drawing-room where she sits 'with her hands folded in her lap.' Servants, neighbours, and Brandon circulate around her, but she remains isolated. This oscillation between social performance and personal grief is mirrored in the narrator's own shifts: she speaks to a crowd, then withdraws into the intimacy of a single consciousness.
The Unreliable Consolation of Ritual
Broughton scrutinizes the rituals that surround death without endorsing them. The servants bring 'incessant tea' as 'the necessary accompaniment of great grief'; Brandon keeps at bay the 'mothers and sisters' armed with 'bibles, hymnals, and Reflections for a Mourner.' Esther herself tries to 'be sorry' and 'try to weep,' but the narrative insists on her emotional numbness: she is 'soulless as the fair marble mask.' The quoted lines from a poem—'His lips are very mild and meek'—offer a literary consolation that the prose undercuts. The novel thus questions whether any external form can contain or express genuine loss, leaving Esther in a state of suspended animation.
Readers attentive to Broughton's craft will notice how the narrator's tone—by turns flippant and grave—shapes the emotional landscape. The Welsh setting is not mere backdrop but a character in its own right, its beauty and squalor mirroring the lovers' fortunes. The excerpts suggest a novel less concerned with plot than with the textures of feeling and the inadequacy of language to capture them. Approach the text as a study in contrasts: between movement and stillness, public and private, the comic and the tragic.
Reading the deathbed shift in Red as a Rose is She brought back a grey afternoon years ago, turning pages of "Ask Mamma"; or, The Richest Commoner In England — Edition Insights, where warmth inside a house felt fragile against the cold outside. That same quiet ache lingered—how a cheerful voice can stumble into sorrow without warning, and stay with you long after.
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