Lucy Maud Montgomery, The Woman Behind The Books - Memoirs & Private Letters (Including The Complete Anne of Green Gables Series, Emily Starr Trilogy & The Blue Castle). Lucy Maud Montgomery
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the Sunday-school papers of my childhood. When I think of an angel I can’t help seeing one of those pictures—a creature wearing a sort of nightgown with big goosy(?)-looking wings branching out from their shoulders and a mop of untidy hair streaming over their backs. I should like to think of angels as Marie Corelli does—creatures shaped of rainbow light, but I can’t. Those impressions of susceptible childhood are too strong.
At the present moment I’d rather be a girl than an angel if angels can’t have mayflowers. I’m surrounded with them—mayflowers, I mean. A vaseful on each side of me and a big jugful on the shelf over my head. Oh, they are divine! A lot of us went up to the barrens Saturday and picked great basketfuls. Today I read that Henry Ward Beecher said once “Flowers are the sweetest things God ever made and forgot to put souls into.” But I don’t believe He forgot! I believe they have souls. I’ve known roses that I expect to meet in heaven.
Oh yes, yes, spring has come. You can’t imagine how glad I was to see it. We had such a terrible winter. It was like being born again to see the drifts go and the catkins bud on the willows. I know exactly what I shall feel like on the resurrection morning! And I’m gardening, too. Three weeks ago I went out amid slush and took the spruce boughs off my tulip and daffodil bed. I didn’t expect any of them would be up so soon—but when I lifted the boughs there were the dear green spikes up two inches. I felt just like a prayer when I saw them! There are big buds on them now and they will be out in full bloom in a week. It’s lovely to be out poking into the moist earth again. In regard to your thoughts on the ministry of pain; yes, I agree with you in regard to one kind of pain. There are two kinds, don’t you think! The pain God sends to us and the pain we bring on ourselves; the former is the fire of heaven, the latter the flame of hell. God’s pain is indeed one of his ministering spirits. Great mysteries of soul-birth and soul growth are bound up in it and if we have the courage and the endurance to make a friend of it it will bring great gifts to us. But the pain we bring on ourselves through folly or wilfulness or even simple blindness! Ah, it is horrible; it is degrading; there is no fine, high ministry in it; it burns and scars and defaces for our punishment. The child whose father punishes it justly will be the better for that punishment; but if it picks up a red-hot coal in its hand its suffering will not better it—only make it a little wiser perhaps with the sorry wisdom of experience.
Perhaps you are one of the fortunate ones who never picks up red-hot coals—whose only knowledge of pain is taught by the suffering God sends. If so, you won’t feel the truth of some of these remarks. I’m not; I’m always picking up the coals because they sparkle and look pretty. And then come the blisters!
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I agree with you that all literature should be read in its own tongue. Much must be lost in translation—all the subtle shades of meaning which go back to the very root-words of the language. Its body may be translated but, as you say, its soul is lost in the transition. The coarser meaning may be expressed; the finer cannot be.
As for the Bible, the same limitations must apply to it. You know to be frank, I do not look upon the Bible as a book inspired by God. I look upon it as a book much of which is inspired with God—a collection of the myths, history, poetry, ethics and philosophy of a singularly spiritual (taking into account the period in which they lived) people whose superior conception of the Great Intelligence fitted them to be the mouthpieces of that Intelligence. The Jews made a specialty of religion as the Egyptians of architecture, the Greeks of literature or the Romans of war. As a result they were pre-eminent in it. Their conception of God was naturally marred by the errors of all human conceptions of the Inconceivable. But still it remains as great and wonderful and striking as the rock-temple of Ipsambul. There have been finer, nobler, more truthful conceptions since. But that does not affect the grandeur of it, in contrast to the reeking idolatry of the nations which surrounded them.
I read a very fine book recently by Newman Smith, Through Science to Faith. He leaves revelation entirely out of the question and essays to prove a Directing Intelligence working towards a certain goal, and resulting immortality by the conclusions of science alone. The book pleased me much. It is so sane, so guarded, so logical. If it were mine I would send it to you but it is only a borrowed book. Keep the title in mind and read it if you ever get a chance.
While I have drifted into this subject I’m going to ask you a very old question. Will you answer it frankly: “What think ye of Christ?” Don’t be afraid to say what you think. I’ll respond as frankly. Do you believe he was God incarnate? Do you believe he rose from the dead literally?
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My mountain tansy was from the grave of the Black Dwarf. Don’t you recall Scott’s famous novel of that name? It was founded on fact. The Dwarf really existed and this tansy grew on his grave. I bought the novel recently to be able to paste the tansy on the title page!
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I’ve been on a debauch of books for a fortnight. A long-delayed grist of books for our library arrived and I’ve simply read myself stupid and soggy over them. The best was Jack London’s Sea Wolf—a powerful thing but revolting in some respects. He can write, that fellow.
Recently, gardening, housecleaning, etc. has pushed literary work to the wall. I must sober up from book-saturation, get work done and take up my pen again. Had a lot of acceptances lately, nothing worthy particular mention except the taking of a story by the Associated Sunday Magazines. This concern seems to be flourishing. At first they sent me only $25 for a story but this time they sent $40. The story was “The Schoolmaster’s Love Letters” and is something of a new departure in style for me. For this reason will try and send you a copy of it when published if possible.
McClure’s can hold on to a thing, can’t they? Fortunately one hasn’t to wait until publication for their checks.
I got into a new mag. lately, The Pilgrim, of Battle Creek, Michigan. It is a good affair and has good names in it. They took a short story to be paid for on publication.
No, don’t give up writing; it’s the best method of soul cultivation there is; even if you never published another thing the writing of it would bring you a beatitude.
I haven’t heard from Miriam. Nor do I really wish to, now. Don’t misunderstand me. I enjoyed my correspondence with her and was sorry it lapsed. But it has lapsed so long now that the old interest has died out and it seems to me rather impossible to get up a new interest should she re-open it—like rekindling an outburnt fire. The gap has grown too wide.
I must go now for some friends have called. Wish I could send you the scent of the mayflowers in this letter. Or of a pale pink tea rose that is nodding over my shoulder.
Yours sincerely,
L. M. Montgomery.
Cavendish, P.E.I.,
Wednesday Evening,
June 28, 1905.
Dear Mr. W.:—
I think your Alberta snowstorm in which you got caught has arrived here. Not that it is exactly snowing but it is almost cold enough to. We have had a dismal two days’ northeast storm of wind and rain and my religion is at present Calvinistic to the back bone. I feel exactly as the old lady did who said, “The Universalists think all the world is going to be saved but we Presbyterians hope for better things!”
I’m down here by the kitchen fire because my den is really too cold to be comfy. I can’t even get out to see my garden the orchard grass is so dripping wet.
The tulips are gone. I cut the last one yesterday. They were lovely while they lasted. There is nothing out just now; it’s a sort of betwixt and between time; but there are lots of buds of roses, lilies and peonies. You ask what is my favourite flower. The carnation; and of carnations the pink carnation. I was in town last week and bought a couple of dozen cut carnations to bring home with me. I’ve just been revelling in them ever since. They combine perfect beauty of form and colour with perfection of perfume, to a degree that only the rose, and not always the rose, can rival. You say you don’t like a bouquet which has no white in it. Well, I don’t like bouquets