Five years ago, when I was a freshman in college wrapping up my
nerve-wracking first semester, I read the Chronicles of Narnia. I’d
already read the first two and a half, but I felt I really should delve
into them again in order to properly appreciate the subsequent volumes.
Once I did, I found I didn’t at all mind rereading such glorious prose
as Lewis’, and the books became a great comfort to me during my last
month of school. I have no particular challenge to overcome at the
moment, but having rekindled my interest in one of my favorite literary
heroines, Anne Shirley, I’ve decided to read through Lucy Maud
Montgomery’s books about her, even though I’ve read the first two. It’s
another case of “I can’t believe I never read the rest of them.” I’ve
been spending the past few days in familiar territory, just finishing Anne of Green Gables
yesterday. Though the edition I possess is riddled with typographical
errors, it took only a paragraph or two to find myself delightedly
immersed in the goings-on of Avonlea, the quaint Prince Edward Island
town where the book is set.
Reading Montgomery’s book, it’s
clear that the author loves words just as much as her most famous
character. Her descriptions, particularly of the various Avonlea
landscapes, are lush and enticing. They give the reader a very clear
vision of the world they are entering, one that is confirmed upon
viewing the glorious film adaptation. Did that movie, I wonder, do as
much for the tourism industry in Prince Edward Island (or Canada at
large) as Lord of the Rings did for New Zealand? It should have.
Montgomery presents us with a location that is at once utterly realistic
and fantastical. It is almost difficult for me to believe that this is a
true representation of life as it was just a hundred years ago and a
few hundred miles north of us. It makes me wish I could have inhabited
that town, replete with natural wonders and simple pleasures and
providing so much “scope for the imagination.”
Just as fully
realized as the places in the book are the people. Anne bursts onto the
scene with several half-page-long monologues, interrupted briefly by
Matthew’s feeble attempts to answer the questions she tosses his way.
This exchange is very amusing, giving us a great deal of information
about Anne and Matthew as individuals and establishing the sort of
relationship they will enjoy in the future. Anne’s breathless chatter
continues for at least half the novel. She jumps so quickly from subject
to subject that modern sensibilities might peg her as having ADD.
Certainly she can’t be counted on to concentrate on anything for any
given length of time, and the book is riddled with examples of
catastrophes brought on by her propensity for daydreaming.
In
addition to verbosity and wild imagination, Anne possesses a fiery
temper to match her hated tresses. Because of her sweet, affectionate
nature and her growing resolve to be more refined, this temper does not
rear its head all that often. But when it does, it is something fierce
to behold. More common than temper tantrums are plunges into “the depths
of despair,” preceded or followed so quickly by flights of ecstasy that
a modern psychologist would probably suspect manic depressiveness as
well. Though she does tend to exaggerate the anguish brought about by
life’s little disappointments and mishaps and relishes dreaming up the
most melancholy stories she can imagine, she has an inextinguishable
joie de vivre and a knack for getting people to like her.
Montgomery’s droll sense of humor is apparent from the first. She
introduces three of the most important secondary characters in the novel
with chapter headings all their own indicating the disruptive influence
Anne has on her future family and neighbors. First Mrs. Rachel Lynde,
then Matthew, then Marilla “is Surprised.” Each reacts to the surprise
differently. For gossipy Mrs. Lynde, the news of her neighbors’ decision
to adopt an orphan is something of a calamity, compounded several
chapters later when she meets the child. Matthew is startled to discover
a boy rather than a girl awaiting him and caught off guard when he
discovers he enjoys her company. Stern Marilla does not take to the girl
as readily as Matthew but finds in his reluctance to send her back a
compelling reason to let her stay.
Of the three, Mrs. Lynde,
though initially adversarial, is probably most like Anne, as she has a
sharp tongue that wags freely and often. She little cares who she
offends with her speech, though she is kind at heart and sometimes
regrets being unduly harsh. Marilla possesses some of Anne’s spunk, but
it has been submerged for so long that severity is her most notable
trait. She spends the novel trying to balance what she feels is her duty
to bring Anne up properly with a growing awareness of affection for the
girl. Shy and quiet as Matthew is, he shows none of his sister’s
reserve when it comes to expressing his adoration for Anne, and he
remains always her most devoted admirer.
Among her peers, Anne
finds a fast friend in Diana Barry, a lovely young girl a few weeks
older than her who makes up for in loyalty what she lacks in
imagination. Diana indulges Anne’s fantasies as best she can but is
ultimately a practical girl with too many years of ladylike upbringing
to match Anne’s capacity for creativity. She finds other kindred spirits
in Rubie Gillis and Jane Andrews, who are pleasant playmates even
though they have little more imaginative capacity than Diana. Josie Pye,
meanwhile, a well-to-do sourpuss from a notably unpleasant family,
conspires to make Anne’s life miserable whenever possible.
By
far my biggest frustration with Anne in this novel is her refusal to
treat Gilbert Blythe civilly. She takes his tiny bit of teasing as the
deepest of insults and insists upon holding a grudge. The fact that he
is the only student who can compete with her academically serves to
further injure her pride, and it is heartbreaking to observe Gilbert’s
unabashed good will refused time and again, until at last he gives up on
ever winning Anne’s friendship. The film allows Anne to relent a bit
earlier, waylaying some of the icy antagonism Gilbert adopts in the book
when even a heroic rescue fails to move her. But Gilbert’s jubilation
when Anne finally, in the book’s final pages, admits that she was in the
wrong for snubbing him for so many years makes up for his cold silence.
Some of the usages in this text are a bit dated; such
statements as “an important toilet was being made” are likely to strike
modern readers as perfectly ridiculous. Montgomery could also be
accused, I suppose, of excessively flowery prose. She has a particular
obsession, it seems, with color, describing tints and hues in as many
different ways as possible. (Who ever heard of the word “empurpled?”)
Nonetheless, I enjoy drowning in her descriptions, which are often
replete with masterful metaphors, and Anne’s rambling is just as
beguiling to read, if a bit more exhausting.
Anne’s
youthfulness in this first chronicle is especially appealing, and
according to the introductory note this was the only of the Anne books
Montgomery intended to write, it having grown out of a planned Sunday
School serial. Anne grew so popular that publishers coaxed seven sequels
out of her, but even if she had only written the one Anne would remain a
memorable young heroine capable of resonating with readers a century
later, nestled in a setting readers would wish they could inhabit
themselves. At least, stepping into the pages of this glorious classic,
they can, if only for a little while.
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