It was not, of course, a proper thing to do. But then I have never pretended, nor ever will pretend, that Emily was a proper child. Books are not written about proper children. They would be so dull nobody would read them.
She lighted her candle, put on her stockings and a heavy coat, got out another half-filled Jimmy-book, and began to write by the single, uncertain candle which made a pale oasis of light in the shadows of the room. In that oasis Emily wrote, her black head bent over her book, as the hours of night crept away and the other occupants of New Moon slumbered soundly; she grew chill and cramped, but she was quite unconscious of it. Her eyes burned — her cheeks glowed — words came like troops of obedient genii to the call of her pen. When at last her candle went out with a splutter and a hiss in its little pool of melted tallow, she came back to reality with a sigh and a shiver. It was two, by the clock, and she was very tired and very cold; but she had finished her story and it was the best she had ever written. She crept into her cold nest with a sense of completion and victory, born of the working out of her creative impulse, and fell asleep to the lullaby of the waning storm.
Salad Days
This book is not going to be wholly, or even mainly, made up of extracts from Emily’s diary; but, by way of linking up matters unimportant enough for a chapter in themselves, and yet necessary for a proper understanding of her personality and environment, I am going to include some more of them. Besides, when one has material ready to hand, why not use it? Emily’s “diary,” with all its youthful crudities and italics, really gives a better interpretation of her and of her imaginative and introspective mind, in that, her fourteenth spring, than any biographer, however sympathetic, could do. So let us take another peep into the yellowed pages of that old “Jimmy-book,” written long ago in the “look-out” of New Moon.
********
“February 15, 19 —
“I have decided that I will write down, in this journal, every day, all my good deeds and all my bad ones. I got the idea out of a book, and it appeals to me. I mean to be as honest about it as I can. It will be easy, of course, to write down the good deeds, but not so easy to record the bad ones.
“I did only one bad thing to-day — only one thing I think bad, that is. I was impertinent to Aunt Elizabeth. She thought I took too long washing the dishes. I didn’t suppose there was any hurry and I was composing a story called The Secret of the Mill. Aunt Elizabeth looked at me and then at the clock, and said in her most disagreeable way,
“‘Is the snail your sister, Emily?’
“‘No! Snails are no relation to me,’ I said haughtily.
“It was not what I said, but the way I said it that was impertinent. And I meant it to be. I was very angry — sarcastic speeches always aggravate me. Afterwards I was very sorry that I had been in a temper — but I was sorry because it was foolish and undignified, not because it was wicked. So I suppose that was not true repentance.
“As for my good deeds, I did two to-day. I saved two little lives. Saucy Sal had caught a poor snowbird and I took it from her. It flew off quite briskly, and I am sure it felt wonderfully happy. Later on I went down to the cellar cupboard and found a mouse caught in a trap by its foot. The poor thing lay there, almost exhausted from struggling, with such a look in its black eyes. I couldn’t endure it so I set it free, and it managed to get away quite smartly in spite of its foot. I do not feel sure about this deed. I know it was a good one from the mouse’s point of view, but what about Aunt Elizabeth’s?
“This evening Aunt Laura and Aunt Elizabeth read and burned a boxful of old letters. They read them aloud and commented on them, while I sat in a corner and knitted my stockings. The letters were very interesting and I learned a great deal about the Murrays I had never known before. I feel that it is quite wonderful to belong to a family like this. No wonder the Blair Water folks call us ‘the Chosen People’ — though they don’t mean it as a compliment. I feel that I must live up to the traditions of my family.
“I had a long letter from Dean Priest to-day. He is spending the winter in Algiers. He says he is coming home in April and is going to take rooms with his sister, Mrs. Fred Evans, for the summer. I am so glad. It will be splendid to have him in Blair Water all summer. Nobody ever talks to me as Dean does. He is the nicest and most interesting old person I know. Aunt Elizabeth says he is selfish, as all the Priests are. But then she does not like the Priests. And she always calls him Jarback, which somehow sets my teeth on edge. One of Dean’s shoulders is a little higher than the other, but that is not his fault. I told Aunt Elizabeth once that I wished she would not call my friend that, but she only said,
“‘I did not nickname your friend, Emily. His own clan have always called him Jarback. The Priests are not noted for delicacy!”
“Teddy had a letter from Dean, too, and a book — The Lives of Great Artists — Michael Angelo, Raphael, Velasquez, Rembrandt, Titian. He says he dare not let his mother see him reading it — she would burn it. I am sure if Teddy could only have his chance he would be as great an artist as any of them.
********
“February 18, 19 —
“I had a lovely time with myself this evening, after school, walking on the brook road in Lofty John’s bush. The sun was low and creamy and the snow so white and the shadows so slender and blue. I think there is nothing so beautiful as tree shadows. And when I came out into the garden my own shadow looked so funny — so long that it stretched right across the garden. I immediately made a poem of which two lines were,
“If we were as tall as our shadows
How tall our shadows would be.
“I think there is a good deal of philosophy in that.
“To-night I wrote a story and Aunt Elizabeth knew what I was doing and was very much annoyed. She scolded me for wasting time. But it wasn’t wasted time. I grew in it — I know I did. And there was something about some of the sentences I liked. ‘I am afraid of the grey wood’ — that pleased me very much. And—’white and stately she walked the dark wood like a moonbeam.’ I think that is rather fine. Yet Mr. Carpenter tells me that whenever I think a thing especially fine I am to cut it out. But oh, I can’t cut that out — not yet, at least. The strange part is that about three months after Mr. Carpenter tells me to cut a thing out I come round to his point of view and feel ashamed of it. Mr. Carpenter was quite merciless over my essay to-day. Nothing about it suited him.
“‘Three alas’s in one paragraph, Emily. One would have been too many in this year of grace!’ ‘More irresistible — Emily, for heaven’s sake, write English! That is unpardonable.’
“It was, too. I saw it for myself and I felt shame going all over me from head to foot like a red wave. Then, after Mr. Carpenter had blue-pencilled almost every sentence and sneered at all my fine phrases and found fault with most of my constructions and told me I was too fond of putting ‘cleverisms’ into everything I wrote, he flung my exercise book down, tore at his hair and said,
“‘You write! Jade, get a spoon and learn to cook!’
“Then he strode off, muttering maledictions ‘not loud but deep.’ I picked up my poor essay and didn’t feel very badly. I can cook already, and I have learned a thing or two about Mr. Carpenter. The better my essays are the more he rages over them. This one must have been quite good. But it makes him so angry and impatient to see where I might have made it still better and didn’t — through carelessness or laziness or indifference — as he thinks. And he can’t tolerate a person who could do better and doesn’t. And he wouldn’t bother with me at all if he didn’t think I may amount to something by and by.
“Aunt Elizabeth does not approve of Mr. Johnson. She thinks his theology is not sound. He said in his sermon last Sunday that there was some good in Buddhism.
“‘He will be saying that there is some good in Popery next,’ said Aunt Elizabeth indignantly at the dinner-table.
“There may be some good in Buddhism. I must ask Dean about it when he comes home.
&nbs
p; ********
“March 2, 19 —
“We were all at a funeral to-day — old Mrs. Sarah Paul. I have always liked going to funerals. When I said that, Aunt Elizabeth looked shocked and Aunt Laura said, ‘Oh, Emily dear!’ I rather like to shock Aunt Elizabeth, but I never feel comfortable if I worry Aunt Laura — she’s such a darling — so I explained — or tried to. It is sometimes very hard to explain things to Aunt Elizabeth.
“‘Funerals are interesting,’ I said. ‘And humorous, too.’
“I think I only made matters worse by saying that. And yet Aunt Elizabeth knew as well as I did that it was funny to see some of those relatives of Mrs. Paul, who have fought with and hated her for years — she wasn’t amiable, if she is dead! — sitting there, holding their handkerchiefs to their faces and pretending to cry. I knew quite well what each and every one was thinking in his heart. Jake Paul was wondering if the old harridan had by any chance left him anything in her will — and Alice Paul, who knew she wouldn’t get anything, was hoping Jake Paul wouldn’t either. That would satisfy her. And Mrs. Charles Paul was wondering how soon it would be decent to do the house over the way she had always wanted it and Mrs. Paul hadn’t. And Aunty Min was worrying for fear there wouldn’t be enough baked meats for such a mob of fourth cousins that they’d never expected and didn’t want, and Lisette Paul was counting the people and feeling vexed because there wasn’t as large an attendance as there was at Mrs. Henry Lister’s funeral last week. When I told Aunt Laura this, she said gravely,
“‘All this may be true, Emily’ — (she knew it was!)—’but somehow it doesn’t seem quite right for so young a girl as you, to — to — to be able to see these things, in short.’
“However, I can’t help seeing them. Darling Aunt Laura is always so sorry for people that she can’t see their humorous side. But I saw other things too. I saw that little Zack Fritz, whom Mrs. Paul adopted and was very kind to, was almost broken-hearted, and I saw that Martha Paul was feeling sorry and ashamed to think of her bitter old quarrel with Mrs. Paul — and I saw that Mrs. Paul’s face, that looked so discontented and thwarted in life, looked peaceful and majestic and even beautiful — as if Death had satisfied her at last.
“Yes, funerals are interesting.
********
“March 5, 19 —
“It is snowing a little to-night. I love to see the snow coming down in slanting lines against the dark trees.
“I think I did a good deed to-day. Jason Merrowby was here helping Cousin Jimmy saw wood — and I saw him sneak into the pighouse, and take a swig from a whisky bottle. But I did not say one word about it to anyone — that is my good deed.
“Perhaps I ought to tell Aunt Elizabeth, but if I did she would never have him again, and he needs all the work he can get, for his poor wife’s and children’s sakes. I find it is not always easy to be sure whether your deeds are good or bad.
********
“March 20, 19 —
“Yesterday Aunt Elizabeth was very angry because I would not write an ‘obituary poem’ for old Peter DeGeer who died last week. Mrs. DeGeer came here and asked me to do it. I wouldn’t — I felt very indignant at such a request. I felt it would be a desecration of my art to do such a thing — though of course I didn’t say that to Mrs. DeGeer. For one thing it would have hurt her feelings, and for another she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what I meant. Even Aunt Elizabeth hadn’t when I told her my reasons for refusing, after Mrs. DeGeer had gone.
“‘You are always writing yards of trash that nobody wants,’ she said. ‘I think you might write something that is wanted. It would have pleased poor old Mary DeGeer. “Desecration of your art” indeed. If you must talk, Emily, why not talk sense?’
“I proceeded to talk sense.
“‘Aunt Elizabeth,’ I said seriously, ‘how could I write that obituary poem for her? I couldn’t write an untruthful one to please anybody. And you know yourself that nothing good and truthful could be said about old Peter DeGeer!’
“Aunt Elizabeth did know it, and it posed her, but she was all the more displeased with me for that. She vexed me so much that I came up to my room and wrote an ‘obituary poem’ about Peter, just for my own satisfaction. It is certainly great fun to write a truthful obituary of some one you don’t like. Not that I disliked Peter DeGeer; I just despised him as everybody did. But Aunt Elizabeth had annoyed me, and when I am annoyed I can write very sarcastically. And again I felt that Something was writing through me — but a very different Something from the usual one — a malicious, mocking Something that enjoyed making fun of poor, lazy, shiftless, lying, silly, hypocritical, old Peter DeGeer. Ideas — words — rhymes — all seemed to drop into place while that Something chuckled.
“I thought the poem was so clever that I couldn’t resist the temptation to take it to school to-day and show it to Mr Carpenter. I thought he would enjoy it — and I think he did, too, in a way, but after he had read it he laid it down and looked at me.
“‘I suppose there is a pleasure in satirizing a failure,’ he said. ‘Poor old Peter was a failure — and he is dead — and His Maker may be merciful to him, but his fellow creatures will not. When I am dead, Emily, will you write like this about me? You have the power — oh, yes, it’s all here — this is very clever. You can paint the weakness and foolishness and wickedness of a character in a way that is positively uncanny, in a girl of your age. But — is it worth while, Emily?’
“‘No — no,’ I said. I was so ashamed and sorry that I wanted to get away and cry. It was terrible to think Mr. Carpenter imagined I would ever write so about him, after all he has done for me.
“‘It isn’t,’ said Mr. Carpenter. ‘There is a place for satire — there are gangrenes that can only be burned out — but leave the burning to the great geniuses. It’s better to heal than hurt. We failures know that.’
“‘Oh, Mr. Carpenter!’ I began. I wanted to say he wasn’t a failure — I wanted to say a hundred things — but he wouldn’t let me.
“‘There — there, we won’t talk of it, Emily. When I am dead say, “He was a failure, and none knew it more truly or felt it more bitterly than himself.” Be merciful to the failures, Emily. Satirize wickedness if you must — but pity weakness.’
“He stalked off then, and called school in. I’ve felt wretched ever since and I won’t sleep to-night. But here and now I record this vow, most solemnly, in my diary, My pen shall heal, not hurt. And I write it in italics, Early Victorian or not, because I am tremendously in earnest.
“I didn’t tear that poem up, though — I couldn’t — it really was too good to destroy. I put it away in my literary cupboard to read over once in a while for my own enjoyment, but I will never show it to anybody.
“Oh, how I wish I hadn’t hurt Mr. Carpenter!
********
“April 1, 19 —
“Something I heard a visitor in Blair Water say today annoyed me very much. Mr. and Mrs. Alec Sawyer, who live in Charlottetown, were in the post office when I was there. Mrs. Sawyer is very handsome and fashionable and condescending. I heard her say to her husband, ‘How do the natives of this sleepy place continue to live here year in and year out? I should go mad. Nothing ever happens here.’
“I would dearly have liked to tell her a few things about Blair Water. I could have been sarcastic with a vengeance. But, of course, New Moon people do not make scenes in public. So I contented myself with bowing very coldly when she spoke to me and sweeping past her. I heard Mr. Sawyer say, ‘Who is that girl?’ and Mrs. Sawyer said, ‘She must be that Starr puss — she has the Murray trick of holding her head, all right.’
“The idea of saying ‘nothing ever happens here’! Why, things are happening right along — thrilling things. I think life here is extremely wonderful. We have always so much to laugh and cry and talk about.
“Look at all the things that have happened in Blair Water in just the last three weeks — comedy and tragedy all mixed up together. James Baxte
r has suddenly stopped speaking to his wife and nobody knows why. She doesn’t, poor soul, and she is breaking her heart about it. Old Adam Gillian, who hated pretence of any sort, died two weeks ago and his last words were, ‘See that there isn’t any howling and sniffling at my funeral.’ So nobody howled or sniffled. Nobody wanted to, and since he had forbidden it nobody pretended to. There never was such a cheerful funeral in Blair Water. I’ve seen weddings that were more melancholy — Ella Brice’s, for instance. What cast a cloud over hers was that she forgot to put on her white slippers when she dressed, and went down to the parlour in a pair of old, faded, bedroom shoes with holes in the toes. Really, people couldn’t have talked more about it if she had gone down without anything on. Poor Ella cried all through the wedding-supper about it.
“Old Robert Scobie and his half-sister have quarrelled, after living together for thirty years without a fuss, although she is said to be a very aggravating woman. Nothing she did or said ever provoked Robert into an outburst, but it seems that there was just one doughnut left from supper one evening recently, and Robert is very fond of doughnuts. He put it away in the pantry for a bedtime snack, and when he went to get it he found that Matilda had eaten it. He went into a terrible rage, pulled her nose, called her a she-deviless, and ordered her out of his house. She has gone to live with her sister at Derry Pond, and Robert is going to bach it. Neither of them will ever forgive the other, Scobie-like, and neither will ever be happy or contented again.
“George Lake was walking home from Derry Pond one moonlit evening two weeks ago, and all at once he saw another very black shadow going along beside his, on the moonlit snow.
“And there was nothing to cast that shadow.
He rushed to the nearest house, nearly dead with fright, and they say he will never be the same man again.
“This is the most dramatic thing that has happened. It makes me shiver as I write of it. Of course George must have been mistaken. But he is a truthful man, and he doesn’t drink. I don’t know what to think of it.
The Complete Works of L M Montgomery Page 252