Anne of Green Gables (Penguin) Page 6

  Matthew’s shy face was a glow of delight.

  ‘Well now, I reckoned you’d come to see it in that light, Marilla,’ he said. ‘She’s such an interesting little thing.’

  ‘It’d be more to the point if you could say she was a useful little thing,’ retorted Marilla, ‘but I’ll make it my business to see she’s trained to be that. And mind, Matthew, you’re not to go interfering with my methods. Perhaps an old maid doesn’t know much about bringing up a child, but I guess she knows more than an old bachelor. So you just leave me to manage her. When I fail it’ll be time enough to put your oar in.’

  ‘There, there, Marilla, you can have your own way,’ said Matthew reassuringly. ‘Only be as good and kind to her as you can be without spoiling her. I kind of think she’s one of the sort you can do anything with if you only get her to love you.’

  Marilla sniffed, to express her contempt for Matthew’s opinions concerning anything feminine, and walked off to the dairy with the pails.

  ‘I won’t tell her tonight that she can stay,’ she reflected, as she strained the milk into the creamers. ‘She’d be so excited that she wouldn’t sleep a wink. Marilla Cuthbert, you’re fairly in for it. Did you ever suppose you’d see the day when you’d be adopting an orphan girl? It’s surprising enough; but not so surprising as that Matthew should be at the bottom of it, him that always seemed to have such a mortal dread of little girls. Anyhow, we’ve decided on the experiment and goodness only knows what will come of it.’

  7

  Anne says her Prayers

  When Marilla took Anne up to bed that night she said stiffly:

  ‘Now, Anne, I noticed last night that you threw your clothes all about the floor when you took them off. That is a very untidy habit, and I can’t allow it at all. As soon as you take off any article of clothing fold it neatly and place it on the chair. I haven’t any use at all for little girls who aren’t neat.’

  ‘I was so harrowed up in my mind last night that I didn’t think about my clothes at all,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll fold them nicely tonight. They always made us do that at the asylum. Half the time, though, I’d forget, I’d be in such a hurry to get into bed, nice and quiet, and imagine things.’

  ‘You’ll have to remember a little better if you stay here,’ admonished Marilla. ‘There, that looks something like. Say your prayers now and get into bed.’

  ‘I never say any prayers,’ announced Anne.

  Marilla looked with horrified astonishment.

  ‘Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don’t you know who God is, Anne?’

  ‘“God is a spirit, infinite, eternal, and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,”’ responded Anne promptly and glibly.

  Marilla looked rather relieved.

  ‘So you do know something then, thank goodness! You’re not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There’s something splendid about some of the words. “Infinite, eternal, and unchangeable.” Isn’t that grand? It has such a roll to it — just like a big organ playing. You couldn’t quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn’t it?’

  ‘We’re not talking about poetry, Anne — we are talking about saying your prayers. Don’t you know it’s a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I’m afraid you are a very bad little girl.’

  ‘You’d find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair,’ said Anne reproachfully. ‘People who haven’t red hair don’t know what trouble is. Mrs Thomas told me that God made my hair red on purpose, and I’ve never cared about Him since. And anyhow, I’d always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can’t be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?’

  Marilla decided that Anne’s religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost.

  ‘You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne.’

  ‘Why, of course, if you want me to,’ assented Anne cheerfully. ‘I’d do anything to oblige you. But you’ll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I’ll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it.’

  ‘You must kneel down,’ said Marilla in embarrassment.

  Anne knelt at Marilla’s knee and looked up gravely.

  ‘Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep woods, and I’d look up into the sky — up — up — up — into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I’d just feel a prayer. Well, I’m ready. What am I to say?’

  Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’. But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humour — which is simply another name for a sense of the fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God’s love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love.

  ‘You’re old enough to pray for yourself, Anne,’ she said finally. ‘Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best,’ promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla’s lap. ‘Gracious heavenly Father — that’s the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it’s all right in a private prayer, isn’t it?’ she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. ‘Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I’m really extremely grateful for them. And that’s all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they’re so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all, so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain,

  Yours respectfully,

  ANNE SHIRLEY’

  ‘There, did I do it all right?’ she asked eagerly, getting up. ‘I could have made it much more flowery if I’d had a little more time to think it over.’

  Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.

  ‘I’ve just thought of it now. I should have said “Amen” in place of “yours respectfully”, shouldn’t I? — the way the ministers do. I’d forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?’

  ‘I — I don’t suppose it will,’ said Marilla. ‘Go to sleep now like a good child. Good night.’

  ‘I can say good night tonight with a clear conscience,’ said Anne, cuddling luxuriously down among her pillows.

  Marilla retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Matthew.

  ‘Matthew Cuthbert, it’s about time somebody adopted that child and taught her something. She’s next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that she never said a prayer in her life till tonight? I’ll send to the manse tomorrow and borrow the Peep of Day series, that’s what I’ll do. And she shall go to Sunday school just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for her. I foresee that I shall have my hands full. Well, well, we can’t get through this world without our share of trouble. I’ve had a pretty easy li
fe of it so far, but my time has come at last and I suppose I’ll just have to make the best of it.’

  8

  Anne’s Bringing-up is Begun

  For reasons best known to herself, Marilla did not tell Anne that she was to stay at Green Gables until the next afternoon. During the forenoon she kept the child busy with various tasks and watched over her with a keen eye while she did them. By noon she had concluded that Anne was smart and obedient, willing to work and quick to learn; her most serious shortcoming seemed to be a tendency to fall into day-dreams in the middle of a task and forget all about it until such time as she was sharply recalled to earth by a reprimand or a catastrophe.

  When Anne had finished washing the dinner dishes she suddenly confronted Marilla with the air and expression of one desperately determined to learn the worst. Her thin little body trembled from head to foot; her face flushed and her eyes dilated until they were almost black; she clasped her hands tightly and said in an imploring voice: ‘Oh, please, Miss Cuthbert, won’t you tell me if you are going to send me away or not? I’ve tried to be patient all the morning, but I really feel that I cannot bear not knowing any longer. It’s a dreadful feeling. Please tell me.’

  ‘You haven’t scalded the dish-cloth in clean hot water as I told you to do,’ said Marilla immovably. ‘Just go and do it before you ask any more questions, Anne.’

  Anne went and attended to the dish-cloth. Then she returned to Marilla and fastened imploring eyes on the latter’s face.

  ‘Well,’ said Marilla, unable to find any excuse for deferring her explanation longer, ‘I suppose I might as well tell you. Matthew and I have decided to keep you — that is, if you will try to be a good little girl and show yourself grateful. Why, child, whatever is the matter?’

  ‘I’m crying,’ said Anne in a tone of bewilderment. ‘I can’t think why. I’m glad as glad can be. Oh, glad doesn’t seem the right word at all. I was glad about the White Way and the cherry blossoms — but this! Oh, it’s something more than glad. I’m so happy. I’ll try to be so good. It will be uphill work, I expect, for Mrs Thomas often told me I was desperately wicked. However, I’ll do my very best. But can you tell me why I’m crying?’

  ‘I suppose it’s because you’re all excited and worked up,’ said Marilla disapprovingly. ‘Sit down on that chair and try to calm yourself. I’m afraid you both cry and laugh far too easily. Yes, you can stay here and we will try to do right by you. You must go to school; but it’s only a fortnight till vacation, so it isn’t worth while for you to start before it opens again in September.’

  ‘What am I to call you?’ asked Anne. ‘Shall I always say Miss Cuthbert? Can I call you Aunt Marilla?’

  ‘No; you’ll call me just plain Marilla. I’m not used to being called Miss Cuthbert and it would make me nervous.’

  ‘It sounds awfully disrespectful to say just Marilla,’ protested Anne.

  ‘I guess there’ll be nothing disrespectful in it if you’re careful to speak respectfully. Everybody, young and old, in Avonlea calls me Marilla except the minister. He says Miss Cuthbert — when he thinks of it.’

  ‘I’d love to call you Aunt Marilla,’ said Anne wistfully. ‘I’ve never had an aunt or any relation at all — not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can’t I call you Aunt Marilla?’

  ‘No. I’m not your aunt and I don’t believe in calling people names that don’t belong to them.’

  ‘But we could imagine you were my aunt.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ said Marilla grimly.

  ‘Do you never imagine things different from what they really are?’ asked Anne wide-eyed.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’ Anne drew a long breath. ‘Oh, Miss — Marilla, how much you miss!’

  ‘I don’t believe in imagining things different from what they really are,’ retorted Marilla. ‘When the Lord puts us in certain circumstances He doesn’t mean for us to imagine them away. And that reminds me. Go into the sitting-room, Anne — be sure your feet are clean and don’t let any flies in — and bring me out the illustrated card that’s on the mantelpiece. The Lord’s Prayer is on it and you’ll devote your spare time this afternoon to learning it off by heart. There’s to be no more of such praying as I heard last night.’

  ‘I suppose I was very awkward,’ said Anne apologetically, ‘but then, you see, I’d never had any practice. You couldn’t really expect a person to pray very well the first time she tried, could you? I thought out a splendid prayer after I went to bed, just as I promised you I would. It was nearly as long as a minister’s and so poetical. But would you believe it? I couldn’t remember one word when I woke up this morning. And I’m afraid I’ll never be able to think out another one as good. Somehow, things never are so good when they’re thought out a second time. Have you ever noticed that?’

  ‘Here is something for you to notice, Anne. When I tell you to do a thing I want you to obey me at once and not stand stock-still and discourse about it. Just you go and do as I bid you.’

  Anne promptly departed for the sitting-room across the hall; she failed to return; after waiting ten minutes Marilla laid down her knitting and marched after her with a grim expression. She found Anne standing motionless before a picture hanging on the wall between the two windows, with her hands clasped behind her, her face uplifted, and her eyes astar with dreams. The white and green light strained through apple-trees and clustering vines outside fell over the rapt little figure with a half-unearthly raidance.

  ‘Anne, whatever are you thinking of?’ demanded Marilla sharply.

  Anne came back to earth with a start.

  ‘That,’ she said, pointing to the picture — a rather vivid chromo entitled, ‘Christ Blessing Little Children’ — ‘and I was just imagining I was one of them — that I was the little girl in the blue dress, standing off by herself in the corner as if she didn’t belong to anybody, like me. She looks lonely and sad, don’t you think? I guess she hadn’t any father or mother of her own. But she wanted to be blessed, too, so she just crept shyly up on the outside of the crowd, hoping nobody would notice her — except Him. I’m sure I know just how she felt. Her heart must have beat and her hands must have got cold, like mine did when I asked you if I could stay. She was afraid He mightn’t notice her. But it’s likely He did, don’t you think? I’ve been trying to imagine it all out — her edging a little nearer all the time until she was quite close to Him; and then He would look at her and put His hand on her hair and oh, such a thrill of joy would run over her! But I wish the artist hadn’t painted Him so sorrowful-looking. All His pictures are like that, if you’ve noticed. But I don’t believe He could really have looked so sad or the children would have been afraid of Him.’

  ‘Anne,’ said Marilla, wondering why she had not broken into this speech long before, ‘you shouldn’t talk that way. It’s irreverent — positively irreverent.’

  Anne’s eyes marvelled.

  ‘Why, I felt just as reverent as could be. I’m sure I didn’t mean to be irreverent.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose you did — but it doesn’t sound right to talk so familiarly about such things. And another thing, Anne, when I send you after something you’re to bring it at once and not fall into mooning and imagining before pictures. Remember that. Take that card and come right to the kitchen. Now, sit down in the corner and learn that prayer off by heart.’

  Anne set the card up against the jugful of apple blossoms she had brought in to decorate the dinner-table — Marilla had eyed that decoration askance, but had said nothing –propped her chin on her hands, and fell to studying it intently for several silent minutes.

  ‘I like this,’ she announced at length. ‘It’s beautiful. I’ve heard it before — I heard the superintendent of the asylum Sunday-school say it over once. But I didn’t like it then. He had such a cracked voice and he prayed it so mournfully. I really felt sure he thought praying was a disagreeable duty. This isn’t poetry, but it makes me feel just t
he same way poetry does. “Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.” That is just like a line of music. Oh, I’m so glad you thought of making me learn this, Miss — Marilla.’

  ‘Well, learn it, and hold your tongue,’ said Marilla shortly.

  Anne tipped the vase of apple blossoms near enough to bestow a soft kiss on a pink-cupped bud, and then studied diligently for some moments longer.

  ‘Marilla,’ she demanded presently, ‘do you think that I shall ever have a bosom friend in Avonlea?’

  ‘A — a what kind of a friend?’

  ‘A bosom friend — an intimate friend, you know — a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I’ve dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will, too. Do you think it’s possible?’

  ‘Diana Barry lives over at Orchard Slope, and she’s about your age. She’s a very nice little girl, and perhaps she will be a playmate for you when she comes home. She’s visiting her aunt over at Carmody just now. You’ll have to be careful how you behave yourself, though. Mrs Barry is a very particular woman. She won’t let Diana play with any little girl who isn’t nice and good.’

  Anne looked at Marilla through the apple blossoms, her eyes aglow with interest.

  ‘What is Diana like? Her hair isn’t red, is it? Oh, I hope not. It’s bad enough to have red hair myself, but I positively couldn’t endure it in a bosom friend.’

  ‘Diana is a very pretty little girl. She has black eyes and hair and rosy cheeks. And she is good and smart, which is better than being pretty.’

  Marilla was as fond of morals as the Duchess in Wonderland, and was firmly convinced that one should be tacked on to every remark made to a child who was being brought up.