You asked me in your letter a question rather hard to answer. It was “Where do you feel most yourself, in the woods or up in Charlottetown?”
Well, I feel most like myself in both places—if you understand the contradiction. There are two distinct sides to my nature. When I go to the woods the dreamy, solitary side comes uppermost and I love the woods best. But when I mingle with other people quite another aspect rules me. I am very fond of society, sparkling conversation, the good human times of life. These tastes find indulgence in my city experiences and I feel just as much at home there as in the wilds. I can slip from one to the other as easily as I can slip from one garment into another.
But as to being only “two of me” as you ask—bless the man, there’s a hundred of me. (Association of ideas! Have you ever read Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde by Stevenson. It is well worth reading and enforces a strong lesson. If it ever comes your way read it.) Revenons aux moutons! Some of the “me’s” are good, some not. It’s better than being just two or three, I think—more exciting, more interesting. There are some people who are only one. They must find life as insufferable a bore as other people find them. By the way, have you ever read any scientific articles on the curious mental phenomena of “double personalities” or “double consciousness”? If you have, you will agree with me that they are very interesting and curious. But if you have not don’t ask me to explain about it for I could not do so. I mean, it would require more of a technical vocabulary than I have at command as well as a clearer grasp of the manifestations of this strange thing.
I’ve been re-reading Trilby today. It is a favourite of mine. Have you ever read it? If so please tell me what you think of it. Such a storm of controversy raged about it when it came out first, about seven years ago. I talked about it with two ministers in the same day. Both were men whose critical opinions were worthy of respect. One said he thought it one of the most charming little stories he had ever read, so touching and pathetic, and said he had given it to his daughter to read. The other condemned it utterly saying it was “the canonization of the scarlet letter.” For my own part I think it is a dear, delightful book, wherein some of my most beloved book-friends live. It ends up with some verses that I copied into my portfolio and read them every day. Here they are for you, if you don’t already know them.
“A little work—a little play
To keep us going—and so good day.
“A little warmth, a little light
Of love’s bestowing—and so good-night.
“A little fun to match the sorrow
Of each day’s growing and so good-morrow.
“A little trust that when we die
We reap our sowing and so good-bye.”
Don’t dare to say you don’t like them!!!
Tonight, coming home from a tramp over snowy hills I halted a moment to look over the orchard fence at my flower bed. Not that I could see much of it—it is heaped over with a snowdrift fifteen feet deep, gleaming in the twilight like a mausoleum of marble built over buried dreams. What are my tulips and daffodils and peonies doing down under it, I wonder—the dear things. My only consolation on some of those terribly stormy days this winter was to get out a flower catalogue and plan my next summer’s garden!!
By the way, what do you think I got in the mail today, sent me by a friend in Scotland? No less than a sprig of mountain tansy picked on the grave of the celebrated “Black Dwarf.” Wasn’t I proud? A whole Scottish “loch” wouldn’t have delighted me more.
I suppose you will wonder if I’m doing any writing at all just now. Oh yes, I peg away a couple hours every day, and have had the usual run of moderate successes. But I’ve made a discovery! Nothing less than a really truly Canadian affair that opens its eyes and says “papa” and “mamma.”
In January I had a letter from the editor of the “Sunday School Publications,” Confederation Life Bldg., Toronto, Can., saying that they published three papers for young people of varying ages and asking me for stories. I sent a short girls’ story—about 2500 words—and got five dollars for it. They pay regular rates and are especially anxious for Canadian contributions. They publish sketches and essays also. Write them for samples of the papers and try your luck with them. They are very good papers, much the type of Forward. I really didn’t think we had anything so up-to-date in Canada.
I got into another new mag, The National of Boston, lately, with a short story. It is to pay on publication. It is a good second-classer. Don’t know what its rates are.
The Sunday School Times, your pet, sent me $6 for a poem “The Choice” recently. Let me know if you see it when it comes out. If not I’ll send you a copy.
The C.E. World also took a poem and sent $4 for it. This is the first time I’ve got into it with poetry.
I made nearly $600 last year—$591.85 to be exact. Shan’t be content till I reach the thousand mark though.
I got a Lippincott today—the March no. Don’t know why they sent it. Thought at first it must be because my verses were in it but they weren’t. Do you see it regularly? If so please keep a lookout for them as I want to know when they appear. I have just started this sheet to say bi-bi on, because I’m out of “nerve.” So will just say it and stop.
Yours sincerely,
L. M. Montgomery.
P.S. I believe you asked me to go skating with you. Sorry, but I can’t skate. Never had a chance to learn somehow. Ta-ta all the same.
L.M.M.
P.S. No. 2. I received the Outlook you sent and enjoyed it very much. Thanks! Do you want it back? If so, I’ll return it. If you have the March Lippincott read “The Second Nocturne of St. Patrick” if you want a good laugh. I think I’ve discovered why the mag. was sent to me. There is a “Walnut” in it by a friend of mine—Lucy Lincoln Montgomery—and she probably sent it to me. Did I ever tell you about her?
L.M.M.
Cavendish, P.E.I.
Monday Evening,
May 8, 1905.
My dear Mr. W.:—
I’ve been painting and housecleaning all day and have expended so much grey matter in the process that I’m afraid I haven’t very much left for a letter. Nevertheless, I’ll “do my best” and, as used to be stated in the copybooks of childhood “angels can do no more.” Isn’t it rather nice to know that there is at least one particular in which we can all be angelic. By the way, what is your conception of an angel?
(Perhaps it is taking an unfair advantage of a fellow-creature to fire off such a question at you on the second page of a letter when in the nature of things you’d still be looking for introductory platitudes.)
I hope that some day the man or men who are responsible for my conception will be given over to my hands,