Hello, Dear Friends!
Just popping in to share something I randomly thought about today... one of the funniest chapters Lucy Maud Montgomery ever wrote. I laughed myself to tears over this and had to read it about five times in a row... I suppose it works pretty well out of context, so read it as a short story and enjoy!!
Emily's Quest
Chapter Seventeen
The Murray clan had a really terrible time in the summer that followed Emily's twenty-second birthday. Neither Teddy nor Ilse came home that summer. Ilse was touring in the West and Teddy betook himself into some northern hinterland with an Indian treaty party to make illustrations for a serial. But Emily had so many beaus that Blair Water gossip was in as bad a plight as the centipede who couldn't tell which foot came after which. So many beaus and not one of them such as the connection could approve of.
There was handsome, dashing Jack Bannister, the Derry Pond Don Juan--"a picturesque scoundrel," as Dr. Burnley called him. Certainly Jack was untrammelled by any moral code. But who knew what effect his silver tongue and good looks might have on temperamental Emily? It worried the Murrays for three weeks and then it appeared that Emily had some sense, after all. Jack Bannister faded out of the picture.
"Emily should never have even spoken to him," said Uncle Oliver indignantly. "Why, they say he keeps a diary and writes down all his love affairs in it and what the girls said to him."
"Don't worry. He won't write down what I said to him," said Emily, when Aunt Laura reported this to her anxiously.
Harold Conway was another anxiety. A Shrewsbury man in his thirties, who looked like a poet gone to seed. With a shock of wavy dark auburn hair and brilliant brown eyes. Who "fiddled for a living."
Emily went to a concert and a play with him and the New Moon aunts had some sleepless nights. But when in Blair Water parlance Rod Dunbar "cut him out" things were even worse. The Dunbars were "nothing" when it came to religion. Rod's mother, to be sure, was a Presbyterian, but his father was a Methodist, his brother a Baptist and one sister a Christian Scientist. The other sister was a Theosophist, which was worse than all the rest because they had no idea what it was. In all this mixture what on earth was Rod? Certainly no match for an orthodox niece of New Moon.
"His great-uncle was a religious maniac," said Uncle Wallace gloomily. "He was kept chained in his bedroom for sixteen years. What has got into that girl? Is she idiot or demon?"
Yet the Dunbars were at least a respectable family; but what was to be said of Larry Dix--one of the "notorious Priest Pond Dixes"--whose father had once pastured his cows in the graveyard and whose uncle was more than suspected of having thrown a dead cat down a neighbour's well for spite? To be sure, Larry himself was doing well as a dentist and was such a deadly-serious, solemn-in-earnest young man that nothing much could be urged against him, if one could only swallow the fact that he was a Dix. Nevertheless, Aunt Elizabeth was much relieved when Emily turned him adrift.
"Such presumption," said Aunt Laura, meaning for a Dix to aspire to a Murray.
"It wasn't because of his presumption I packed him off," said Emily. "It was because of the way he made love. He made a thing ugly that should have been beautiful."
"I suppose you wouldn't have him because he didn't propose romantically," said Aunt Elizabeth contemptuously.
"No. I think my real reason was that I felt sure he was the kind of man who would give his wife a vacuum cleaner for a Christmas present," vowed Emily.
"She will not take anything seriously," said Aunt Elizabeth in despair.
"I think she is bewitched," said Uncle Wallace. "She hasn't had one decent beau this summer. She's so temperamental decent fellows are scared of her."
"She's getting a terrible reputation as a flirt," mourned Aunt Ruth. "It's no wonder nobody worth while will have anything to do with her.
"Always with some fantastic love-affair on hand," snapped Uncle Wallace. The clan felt that Uncle Wallace had, with unusual felicity, hit on the very word. Emily's "love-affairs" were never the conventional, decorous things Murray love-affairs should be. They were indeed fantastic.
II
But Emily always blessed her stars that none of the clan except Aunt Elizabeth ever knew anything about the most fantastic of them all. If they had they would have thought her temperamental with a vengeance.
It all came about in a simple, silly way. The editor of the Charlottetown Argus, a daily paper with some pretensions to literature, had selected from an old U. S. newspaper a certain uncopyrighted story of several chapters--A Royal Betrothal, by some unknown author, Mark Greaves, for reprinting in the special edition of The Argus, devoted to "boosting" the claims of Prince Edward Island as a summer resort. His staff was small and the compositors had been setting up the type for the special edition at odd moments for a month and had it all ready except the concluding chapter of A Royal Betrothal. This chapter had disappeared and could not be found. The editor was furious, but that did not help matters any. He could not at that late hour find another story which would exactly fill the space, nor was there time to set it up if he could. The special edition must go to press in an hour. What was to be done?
At this moment Emily wandered in. She and Mr. Wilson were good friends and she always called when in town.
"You're a godsend," said Mr. Wilson. "Will you do me a favour?" He tossed the torn and dirty chapters of A Royal Betrothal over to her. "For heaven's sake, get to work and write a concluding chapter to that yarn. I'll give you half an hour. They can set it up in another half-hour. And we'll have the darn thing out on time."
Emily glanced hastily over the story. As far as it went there was no hint of what "Mark Greaves" intended as a denouement.
"Have you any idea how it ended?" she asked.
"No, never read it," groaned Mr. Wilson. "Just picked it for its length."
"Well, I'll do my best, though I'm not accustomed to write with flippant levity of kings and queens," agreed Emily. "This Mark Greaves, whoever he is, seems to be very much at home with royalty."
"I'll bet he never even saw one," snorted Mr. Wilson.
In the half-hour allotted to her Emily produced a quite respectable concluding chapter with a solution of the mystery which was really ingenious. Mr. Wilson snatched it with an air of relief handed it to a compositor, and bowed Emily out with thanks.
"I wonder if any of the readers will notice where the seam comes in," reflected Emily amusedly. "And I wonder if Mark Greaves will ever see it and if so what he will think."
It did not seem in the least likely she would ever know and she dismissed the matter from her mind. Consequently when, one afternoon two weeks later, Cousin Jimmy ushered a stranger into the sitting-room where Emily was arranging roses in Aunt Elizabeth's rock-crystal goblet with its ruby base--a treasured heirloom of New Moon--Emily did not connect him with A Royal Betrothal, though she had a distinct impression that the caller was an exceedingly irate man.
Cousin Jimmy discreetly withdrew and Aunt Laura, who had come in to place a glass dish full of strawberry preserves on the table to cool, withdrew also, wondering a little who Emily's odd-looking caller could be. Emily herself wondered. She remained standing by the table, a slim, gracious thing in her pale-green gown, shining like a star in the shadowy, old-fashioned room.
"Won't you sit down?" she questioned with all the aloof courtesy of New Moon. But the newcomer did not move. He simply stood before her staring at her. And again Emily felt that, while he had been quite furious when he came in, he was not in the least angry now.
He must have been born, of course, because he was there--but it was incredible, she thought, he could ever have been a baby. He wore audacious clothes and a monocle, screwed into one of his eyes--eyes that seemed absurdly like little black currants with black eyebrows that made right-angled triangles above them. He had a mane of black hair reaching to his shoulders, an immensely long chin and a marble-white face. In a picture Emily thought he would have looked rather handsome and romantic. But here in the New Moon sitting-room he looked merely weird.
"Lyrical creature," he said, gazing at her.
Emily wondered if he were by any chance an escaped lunatic.
"You do not commit the crime of ugliness," he continued fervently. "This is a wonderful moment--very wonderful. 'Tis a pity we must spoil it by talking. Eyes of purple-grey, sprinkled with gold. Eyes that I have looked for all my life. Sweet eyes, in which I drowned myself eons ago."
"Who are you?" said Emily crisply, now entirely convinced that he was quite mad. He laid his hand on his heart and bowed.
"Mark Greaves--Mark D. Greaves--Mark Delage Greaves."
Mark Greaves! Emily had a confused idea that she ought to know the name. It sounded curiously familiar.
"Is it possible you do not recognize my name! Verily this is fame. Even in this remote corner of the world I should have supposed--"
"Oh," cried Emily, light suddenly breaking on her. "I--I remember now. You wrote A Royal Betrothal."
"The story you so unfeelingly murdered--yes."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Emily interrupted. "Of course you would think it unpardonable. It was this way--you see--"
He stopped her by a wave of a very long, very white hand.
"No matter. No matter. It does not interest me at all now. I admit I was very angry when I came here. I am stopping at the Derry Pond Hotel of The Dunes--ah, what a name--poetry--mystery--romance--and I saw the special edition of The Argus this morning. I was angry--had I not a right to be?--and yet more sad than angry. My story was barbarously mutilated. A happy ending. Horrible. My ending was sorrowful and artistic. A happy ending can never be artistic. I hastened to the den of The Argus. I dissembled my anger--I discovered who was responsible. I came here--to denounce--to upbraid. I remain to worship."
Emily simply did not know what to say. New Moon traditions held no precedent for this.
"You do not understand me. You are puzzled--your bewilderment becomes you. Again I say a wonderful moment. To come enraged--and behold divinity. To realize as soon as I saw you that you were meant for me and me alone."
Emily wished somebody would come in. This was getting nightmarish.
"It is absurd to talk so," she said shortly. "We are strangers--"
"We are not strangers," he interrupted. "We have loved in some other life, of course. And our love was a violent, gorgeous thing--a love of eternity. I recognized you as soon as I entered. As soon as you have recovered from your sweet surprise you will realize this, too. When can you marry me?"
To be asked by a man to marry him five minutes after the first moment you have laid eyes on him is an experience more stimulating than pleasant. Emily was annoyed.
"Don't talk nonsense, please," she said curtly. "I am not going to marry you at any time."
"Not marry me? But you must! I have never before asked a woman to marry me. I am the famous Mark Greaves. I am rich. I have the charm and romance of my French mother and the common-sense of my Scotch father. With the French side of me I feel and acknowledge your beauty and mystery. With the Scotch side of me I bow in homage to your reserve and dignity. You are ideal--adorable. Many women have loved me but I loved them not. I enter this room a free man. I go out a captive. Enchanting captivity! Adorable captor! I kneel before you in spirit."
Emily was horribly afraid he would kneel before her in the flesh. He looked quite capable of it. And suppose Aunt Elizabeth should come in.
"Please go away," she said desperately. "I'm--I'm very busy and I can't stop talking to you any longer. I'm sorry about the story--if you would let me explain--"
"I have said it does not matter about the story. Though you must learn never to write happy endings--never. I will teach you. I will teach you the beauty and artistry of sorrow and incompleteness. Ah, what a pupil you will be! What bliss to teach such a pupil! I kiss your hand."
He made a step nearer as if to seize upon it. Emily stepped backward in alarm.
"You must be crazy," she exclaimed.
"Do I look crazy?" demanded Mr. Greaves.
"You do," retorted Emily flatly and cruelly.
"Perhaps I do--probably I do. Crazy--intoxicated with wine of the rose. All lovers are mad. Divine madness! Oh, beautiful, unkissed lips!"
Emily drew herself up. This absurd interview must end. She was by now thoroughly angry.
"Mr. Greaves," she said--and such was the power of the Murray look that Mr. Greaves realized she meant exactly what she said. "I shan't listen to any more of this nonsense. Since you won't let me explain about the matter of the story I bid you good-afternoon."
Mr. Greaves looked gravely at her for a moment. Then he said solemnly:
"A kiss? Or a kick? Which?"
Was he speaking metaphorically? But whether or no--
"A kick," said Emily disdainfully.
Mr. Greaves suddenly seized the crystal goblet and dashed it violently against the stove.
Emily uttered a faint shriek--partly of real terror--partly of dismay. Aunt Elizabeth's treasured goblet.
"That was merely a defence reaction," said Mr. Greaves, glaring at her. "I had to do that--or kill you. Ice-maiden! Chill vestal! Cold as your northern snows! Farewell."
He did not slam the door as he went out. He merely shut it gently and irrevocably, so that Emily might realize what she had lost. When she saw that he was really out of the garden and marching indignantly down the lane as if he were crushing something beneath his feet, she permitted herself the relief of a long breath--the first she had dared to draw since his entrance.
"I suppose," she said, half hysterically, "that I ought to be thankful he did not throw the dish of strawberry preserves at me."
Aunt Elizabeth came in.
"Emily, the rock-crystal goblet! Your Grandmother Murray's goblet! And you have broken it!"
"No, really. Aunty dear, I didn't. Mr. Greaves--Mr. Mark Delage Greaves did it. He threw it at the stove."
"Threw it at the stove!" Aunt Elizabeth was staggered. "Why did he throw it at the stove?"
"Because I wouldn't marry him," said Emily.
"Marry him! Did you ever see him before?"
"Never."
Aunt Elizabeth gathered up the fragments of the crystal goblet and went out quite speechless. There was--there must be--something wrong with a girl when a man proposed marriage to her at first meeting. And hurled heirloom goblets at inoffensive stoves.
oOo
Well, now that I've had my daily dose of Montgomery, I suppose it's back to shucking corn. Our garden is bursting at the seams...
Till Next Time,
Juliette
