Lucy Montgomery - Emily Climbs

"'Suppose we leave my mother out of the question... she's dead,' I said. 'The point is, Aunt Ruth, do you believe me or do you not?'

"'I don't believe it was as bad as the report,' Aunt Ruth said reluctantly. 'But you have got yourself talked about. Of course, you must expect that, as long as you run with Ilse Burnley and off- scourings of the gutter like Perry Miller. Andrew wanted you to go for a walk in the park last Friday evening and you refused... I heard you. That would have been too respectable, of course.'

"'Exactly,' I said. 'That was the very reason. There's no fun in anything that's too respectable.'

"'Impertinence, Miss, is not wit,' said Aunt Ruth.

"I didn't mean to be impertinent, but it does annoy me to have Andrew flung in my teeth like that. Andrew is going to be one of my problems. Dean thinks it's great fun... HE knows what is in the wind as well as I do. He is always teasing me about my red-headed young man... my r.h.y.m. for short.

"'He's almost a rhyme,' said Dean.

"'But never a poem,' said I.

"Certainly poor, good, dear Andrew is the stodgiest of prose. Yet I'd like him well enough if the whole Murray clan weren't literally throwing him at my head. They want to get me safely engaged before I'm old enough to elope, and who so safe as Andrew Murray?

"Oh, as Dean says, nobody is free... never, except just for a few brief moments now and then, when the flash comes, or when, as on my haystack night, the soul slips over into eternity for a little space. All the rest of our years we are slaves to something... traditions... conventions... ambitions... RELATIONS. And sometimes, as tonight, I think that last is the hardest bondage of all.

"New Moon, "December 3, 19...

"I am here in my own dear room, with a fire in my little fireplace by the grace of Aunt Elizabeth. An open fire is always lovely, but it is ten times lovelier on a stormy night. I watched the storm from my window until darkness fell. There is a singular charm in snow coming gently down in slanting lines against dark trees. I wrote a description of it in my Jimmy-book as I watched. A wind has come up since and now my room is full of the soft forlorn sigh of snow, driving through Lofty John's spruce wood. It is one of the loveliest sounds in the world. Some sounds ARE so exquisite... far more exquisite than anything SEEN. Daff's purr there on my rug, for instance... and the snap and crackle of the fire... and the squeaks and scrambles of mice that are having a jamboree behind the wainscot. I love to be alone in my room like this. I like to think even the mice are having a good time. And I get so much pleasure out of all my little belongings. They have a meaning for me they have for no one else. I have never for one moment felt at home in my room at Aunt Ruth's, but as soon as I come HERE I enter into my kingdom. I love to read here... dream here... sit by the window and shape some airy fancy into verse.

"I've been reading one of Father's books to-night. I always feel so beautifully near to Father when I read his books... as if I might suddenly look over my shoulder and see him. And so often I come across his pencilled notes on the margin and they seem like a message from him. The book I'm reading to-night is a wonderful one... wonderful in plot and conception... wonderful in its grasp of motives and passions. As I read it I feel humbled and insignificant... which is good for me. I say to myself, 'You poor, pitiful, little creature, did you ever imagine YOU could write? If so, your delusion is now stripped away from you for ever and you behold yourself in your naked paltriness.' But I shall recover from this state of mind... and believe again that I CAN write a little... and go on cheerfully producing sketches and poems until I can do better. In another year and a half my promise to Aunt Elizabeth will be out and I can write stories again. Meanwhile... patience! To be sure, I get a bit weary at times of saying 'patience and perseverance.' It is hard not to see all at once the results of those estimable virtues. Sometimes I feel that I want to tear around and be as impatient as I like. But not to-night. To-night I feel as contented as a cat on a rug. I would purr if I knew how.

"December 9, 19...

"This was Andrew-night. He came, all beautifully groomed up, as usual. Of course, I like a boy who gets himself up well, but Andrew really carries it too far. He always seems as if he had just been starched and ironed and was afraid to move or laugh for fear he'd crack. When I come to think of it, I've never heard Andrew give a hearty laugh yet. And I KNOW he never hunted pirate gold when he was a boy. But he's good and sensible and tidy, and his nails are always clean, and the bank manager thinks a great deal of him. And he likes cats... in their place! Oh, I don't deserve such a cousin!"

"January 5, 19...

"Holidays are over. I had a beautiful two weeks at old white- hooded New Moon. The day before Christmas I had FIVE ACCEPTANCES. I wonder I didn't go crazy. Three of them were from magazines who don't pay anything, but subscriptions, for contributions. But the others were accompanied by CHEQUES... one for two dollars for a poem and one for ten dollars for my Sands of Time, which has been taken at last... my first story acceptance. Aunt Elizabeth looked at the cheques and said wonderingly:

"'Do you suppose the bank will really pay you MONEY for those?'

"She could hardly believe it, even after Cousin Jimmy took them to Shrewsbury and cashed them.

"Of course, the money goes to my Shrewsbury expenses. But I had no end of fun planning how I would have spent it if I had been free to spend.

"Perry is on the High School team who will debate with the Queen's Academy boys in February. Good for Perry... it's a great honour to be chosen on that team. The debate is a yearly occurrence and Queen's has won for three years. Ilse offered to coach Perry on the elocution of his speech and she is taking no end of trouble with him... especially in preventing him from saying 'DEVILOPMENT' when he means 'development.' It's awfully good of her, for she really doesn't like him. I do hope Shrewsbury will win.

"We have The Idylls of the King in English class this term. I like some things in them, but I detest Tennyson's Arthur. If I had been Guinevere I'd have boxed his ears... but I wouldn't have been unfaithful to him for Lancelot, who was just as odious in a different way. As for Geraint, if I had been Enid I'd have BITTEN him. These 'patient Griseldas' deserve all they get. Lady Enid, if you had been a Murray of New Moon you would have kept your husband in better order and he would have liked you all the better for it.

"I read a story to-night. It ended unhappily. I was wretched until I had invented a happy ending for it. I shall always end MY stories happily. I don't care whether it's 'true to life' or not. It's true to life as it SHOULD BE and that's a better truth than the other.

"Speaking of books. I read an old one of Aunt Ruth's the other day... The Children of the Abbey. The heroine fainted in every chapter and cried quarts if any one looked at her. But as for the trials and persecutions she underwent, in spite of her delicate frame, their name was Legion and no fair maiden of these degenerate days could survive half of them... not even the newest of new women. I laughed over the book until I amazed Aunt Ruth, who thought it a very sad volume. It is the only novel in Aunt Ruth's house. One of her beaux gave it to her when she was young. It seems impossible to think that Aunt Ruth ever had beaux. Uncle Dutton seems an unreality, and even his picture on the crepe-draped easel in the parlour cannot convince me of his existence.

"January 21, 19...