Will you believe that “this” was just to the end of the fifth chapter?
But I don’t think some of the favourable reviewers could have read the book very carefully either. A very flattering review started off as follows: “The scene of this charming story is laid in Victoria Island near Nova Scotia. So far away, we may doubt the existence of Victoria Island but the geographies assure us of the reality of Nova Scotia. But it does not matter whether there is a Victoria Island or not; all that matters is that this is the most delightful book, etc.”
What do you make of that?
The Bookman has Anne listed as one of the six “best sellers” in ten different cities. This seems to me rather like something I’ve dreamed. I can’t really believe it.
I finished typewriting my new book the first of November and sent it to Boston the middle of the month. Haven’t heard from their readers yet but don’t suppose they’ll reject it exactly. It’s not as good as Anne but not so much worse as to be turned down I think.
Typewriting it almost finished me. I’d have hired it done but I knew nobody could ever make the MS. out, with its innumerable alterations, interlineations and complex notes to be inserted in scores of places. But you don’t know how wretchedly tired I was when I finished. I’ll never consent to be so hurried again. “What shall it profit a woman if she gain a big royalty and lose her own soul!”—getting in place of it a horrible sort of “aching void” that doesn’t care enough about anything to take the trouble of it?
I suppose your threshing experiences of which you wrote so graphically are over now. (I’ve dropped the notebook and taken up your letter.) It must be very hard work—but at least it seems to give you a good appetite—which is what writing stories at high pressure doesn’t. I haven’t tasted anything that tasted good for two months. I eat by way of disagreeable duty. However, in the morning, judging by appearances now I’ll have to go out and shovel snow and that honest toil will probably make me honestly hungry. “We’ve all got troubles of our own.” David Harum says “a reasonable amount of fleas is good for a dog—keeps him from brooding on being a dog.” The trouble is, we all think we have an unreasonable amount of fleas—and who is to judge?
I’m so deathly tired I’m going to stop writing for tonight though it isn’t very late yet. I’ll finish tomorrow night if possible.
* * *
Wednesday, Dec. 23.
I hope this isn’t going to last all winter—more storm and bitter frost. I did shovel snow as predicted—there’s no one we can get to do this for us—but it’s all drifted back again. No mail still—and I’m ready to tear out my hair in handfuls!
Really, this has been a hard day. I haven’t felt very well and am “tireder” than ever tonight. But I shall try to finish this letter—nay, I will finish it, even if I just have to “stop short.”
Yes, I want to see you settle down to some congenial work as soon as possible. Shake off as many of your metaphorical fleas as possible, resolve to “grin and bear” the unshakeable ones, and “hoe in.” Nothing but steady, persistent labour will win in literature. “Dogged does it.” Why not try your hand on some essays on prairie life—the inwardness and outwardness of it, treating the subject delicately, analytically, intimately, exhaustively, and try your luck with William Briggs. Ten or twelve would make a book. Write on the prairie in all its aspects—by day, by night, in winter and summer, etc., etc., etc. Make each essay about three or four thousand words long and put all the airy fancy and thought into it that you can. Call the whole book The Northern Silence and write a title essay on that subject. Don’t be in a hurry—write just when you feel in the mood for it.
* * *
Eight O’clock.
Here it is two hours later. A Christmas caller came in bringing a duck and a box of candy. (Write an essay on “Christmas on the Prairie” for your book!) It’s really very hard to give good advice under such circumstances. But I was about through anyhow. Really, I’m in earnest. I think you could do it all right. There are many sentences and ideas in your various letters which could be worked admirably into such a series and if you decide to try it I’ll copy them out and send them to you.
I must close now, for another caller has come and I do not expect to have any more spare time till after Xmas. I am enclosing the proof of the review that appeared in National. You may keep it. Also, as soon as I can get an envelope to fit it I’ll send you a souvenir copy of my “Island Hymn,” with music.
The best wishes of the season to you,
Yours very cordially,
L. M. Montgomery.
P.S. Have you heard lately from Miriam? L.M.M.
Cavendish, P.E.I.,
Sunday Evening,
March 28, 1909.
My dear Mr. Weber:
Three weeks ago I took your letter out of the box where I keep unanswered epistles and said, “I’ll write Mr. W. tonight.” Yet here it is three weeks later. Somehow, I never could get sufficient time all at once and I can’t write a decent letter in shreds and patches. I’m writing all this not as an apology. But merely as a statement of fact.
I can’t find the entry in my notebook where I wrote you last so I’ll begin at “this” end of it and work backward crab fashion till I come to it. This will probably result in a rather heterogeneous epistle but “needs must, etc.”
Beginning with today then, it has really been doleful in the extreme. It has been pouring rain all day and this coming on a lot of recent March snow has made fearful slush, slump and mud. The world hereabouts is so ugly that it hurts me to look on it. One can hardly believe that in a few weeks it will be all bridling and smiling in wedding finery of pink and green. God hasten the time, say I, for I long for dry ground for woodland rambles and shore reveries.
I’ve just stumbled by accident on the entry I couldn’t find, so will just begin where I left off last time.
The New Year opened sadly for me with the sudden and unexpected death of my favourite aunt. Aunt Mary was a sort of second mother to me—a sweet, fine, brave, plucky little woman who had lived a more truly heroic life than many of the heroes and heroines of history. She had a very dissipated husband and all the care of providing for and educating her family of six fell on her. She did it so triumphantly that every one of them is today occupying an honourable social station and a prosperous financial condition. Then, her work done and tired out, she died—“after life’s fitful fever she sleeps well.” If she could have but lived ten years to enjoy the ease and pleasure her children were so eager to give her!
I felt her death bitterly; but these things can’t be written about!
I have not been especially well this winter. Yet I hate to complain when there is so much worse suffering everywhere. I’ve been very nervous and at times somewhat morbid. The doctor says my nervous system is run down and requires a course of raw eggs and cod liver oil. I find I’m improving under such regimen and this last month I’ve been much better, though I still get very tired far too easily and quickly.
Signed the agreement for my new book the other day, on the same terms as before. It is to be called Anne of Avonlea—the publishers’ christening. I wanted it The Later Adventures of Anne. It is not to be out before next fall. They write me that Anne is still selling as well as ever and they do not wish to give her a rival as long as that continues.
I had such a funny letter from a man the other day who had read my book. He seems rather an illiterate person but his letter was passable till it came to the postscript. “I am a married man so you will understand that my motive in writing to you is only friendship.” There’s a thoughtful man for you! He is not