Now for your letter:—
So you attended a meeting of the World’s Congress of Women! Do you know, I was actually asked to read a paper before that august assemblage in Toronto. I had no difficulty in refusing to do that; but I should have liked to attend the congress, if I could have got away. It would be a very broadening experience, I fancy.
As for the woman suffrage question, I feel very little interest in it. But I do believe that a woman with property of her own should have a voice in making the laws. Am I not as intelligent and capable of voting for my country’s good as the Frenchman who chops my wood for me, and who may be able to tell his right hand from his left, but cannot read or write?
So you wish “married women everywhere were real companions to their husbands.” So do I—as heartily as I wish that married men everywhere were real companions for their wives. You can’t, as Emerson says, cut this matter off with only one side. It has to have two. As for “spheres,” I believe anyone’s sphere—whether man or woman—is where they can be happiest and do the best work. The majority of women are happiest and best placed at home, just as the majority of men are in the world. But there are exceptions to both. Some women are born for a public career, just as some men are born to cook in a restaurant. Yes, they are! And each has a right to fulfil the purpose of their birth. Sex seems to me to enter very little into the question. There is no sex in mind, I do believe, and—“let each one find his own,” and her own, in business as well as matrimony.
Have you heard from Miriam lately? Does she ever mention me? Does she know about my books? Poor Miriam, I was reading over some of her hectic epistles the other day and enjoyed them as curious character studies. What sort of a husband has she got if he can’t keep her decently.
Yes, I advise you to specialize on English and languages as soon as you can. This is the age of specialization and I believe you could do excellent work along that line (I see the Bookman has tabooed the expression “along that line”—consigned it to its “inferno,” but it’s too too convenient to give up), and would probably enjoy teaching it. I do not think you need give up “following the gleam” because you are going back to teaching again. Thank God, we can always follow the gleam, no matter what we do. I’ve tried to follow it for many a weary year—how weary, no one knows but myself, for I’ve always tried to keep my personal worries and crosses to myself, not allowing their bitterness to overflow into others’ lives. But I’ve reached a bit of upland now and, looking back over the ascent, some things are made clear to me that have long puzzled me. But there’s lots of climbing to do yet. I must take a long breath and start anew. If I can only write my new book up to my conception of it, it will be away ahead of Anne from a literary point of view. But I know I shan’t be able to—
Did ever on painter’s canvas live
The power of his fancy’s dream?
Still, I’ll do my best and it will surely be a step in advance. Do you likewise take heart of grace and “follow knowledge like a sinking star” to the utmost bound of your endeavour. You know what Keats says—
He ne’er is crowned
With immortality who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead.
Follow your “airy voices” fearlessly and they’ll lead you to the heights.
The only thing I’ve written since May is a series of four articles on the words in the four seasons. I put a good deal of blood into them but don’t know whether they’re worth while after all. I don’t know either just what magazine they’ll do for. I enjoyed writing them so perhaps people will enjoy reading them. It’s a fairly good test.
I’ve done a lot of “gadding” this summer, and it was really a horrible waste of time because there was no pleasure in it. Had there been, I’d have considered it a very wise use of time. I had to go out to tea and attend garden parties galore and I was generally bored to death, especially when people thought themselves bound to say something about my book. They all say practically the same thing and I say the same thing in reply and I’m tired of it. Then I talked gossip and made poor jokes and altogether wished I were home in my den with a book or a pen. Not that I don’t enjoy real conversation. There is nothing I enjoy more. But it’s not once in a thousand times I get it and anything else is like brown sugar in the god’s nectar. “For every idle word ye speak ye shall give account in the day of judgment.” May the Lord have mercy on my soul! I have talked idle words by the million this summer.
By the way, what a vital thought that is—like so many other thoughts in that wonderful old Bible. “Idle words.” Not bad words, or bitter words, or wicked words! They have some strength and purpose and vitality in them that almost justifies them. But idle words,—words that desecrate the sacredness of language meant to convey heart and soul’s deepest meaning to heart and soul, debased coin of speech that discredits the image and superscription of the godhead inscribed on it; weak words, silly words, empty words, “sounding brass and tinkling cymbals”—yea, verily, ’tis of these we must give account, and who of us have not so sinned?
By the way, I had a good laugh today over a card that came to me addressed to “Miss Anne Shirley, care of Miss Marilla Cuthbert, Avonlea, Prince Edward Island, Canada, Ontario.” In the correspondence space was written “Dear Anne, I am sending you a picture of the floral clock in our park at Detroit, Michigan, from a friend.” No name was signed to it. The writing was very unformed so I presume it is from some kiddy who fondly imagines that all the people in books live “really and truly” somewhere. A p.o. clerk in town had written across it, “Try Miss Montgomery, Cavendish,” so it reached me.
I think it was since I wrote you that I received a copy of the London Spectator reviewing Anne. It honoured me with a two column review and was exceedingly kind and flattering. I did feel flattered. The Spectator is supposed to be “the” review of England and praise or blame from it makes or mars. It wound up by solemnly warning me not to make a sequel so when it sees I’ve disregarded its advice I expect it will justify my warning by “slating” my new book. But I’d rather be abused by the Spectator than ignored,—or even praised by many inferior sheets. I can’t really believe that my little yarn, written with an eye single to Sunday School scholars, should really have been taken notice of by the Spectator.
What are you doing in Calgary? Teaching? A cousin of mine, Laura McIntyre, has just gone to Calgary as a bride—Mrs. Ralph Aylesworth. If you come across her tell her to be good to you for my sake!
This new sheet is simply to say good-bye on. Write when the spirit moves. I’m always glad to hear from you, even if I am slow in answering. That isn’t my fault but my misfortune.
Yours faithfully,
L. M. Montgomery.
Anne Shirley Series
ANNE OF GREEN GABLES
I. Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised
II. Matthew Cuthbert Is Surprised