Emily of New Moon (33 page)

“What are you crying for?” demanded Mr. Carpenter.

Emily blinked away the tears and tried to laugh.

“I—I'm sorry—you think it's no good—” she said.

Mr. Carpenter gave the desk a mighty thump.

“No good! Didn't I tell you there were ten good lines? Jade, for ten righteous men Sodom had been spared.”

“Do you mean—that—after all—” The candle was being relighted again.

“Of course, I mean. If at thirteen you can write ten good lines, at twenty you'll write ten times ten—if the gods are kind. Stop messing over months, though—and don't imagine you're a genius either, if you
have
written ten decent lines. I think there's
something
trying to speak through you—but you'll have to make yourself a fit instrument for it. You've got to work hard and sacrifice—by gad, girl, you've chosen a jealous goddess. And she never lets her votaries go—not even when she shuts her ears forever to their plea. What have you there?”

Emily, her heart thrilling, handed him her Jimmy-book. She was so happy that it shone through her whole being with a positive radiance. She saw her future, wonderful, brilliant—oh, her goddess would listen to
her
—“Emily B. Starr, the distinguished poet”—“E. Byrd Starr, the rising young novelist”—

She was recalled from her enchanting reverie by a chuckle from Mr. Carpenter. Emily wondered a little uneasily what he was laughing at. She didn't think there was anything funny in
that
book. It contained only three or four of her latest stories—
The
Butterfly
Queen
, a little fairy tale; The Disappointed House, wherein she had woven a pretty dream of hopes come true after long years;
The
Secret
of
the
Glen
, which, in spite of its title, was a fanciful little dialogue between the Spirit of the Snow, the Spirit of the Gray Rain, the Spirit of Mist, and the Spirit of Moonshine.

“So you think I am not beautiful when I say my prayers?” said Mr. Carpenter.

Emily gasped—realized what had happened—made a frantic grab at her Jimmy-book—missed it. Mr. Carpenter held it up beyond her reach and mocked at her.

She had given him the wrong Jimmy-book! And this one, oh, horrors, what was in it? Or rather, what wasn't in it? Sketches of everyone in Blair Water—and a full—a very full—description of Mr. Carpenter himself. Intent on describing him exactly, she had been as mercilessly lucid as she always was, especially in regard to the odd faces he made on mornings when he opened the school day with a prayer. Thanks to her dramatic knack of word painting, Mr. Carpenter
lived
in that sketch. Emily did not know it, but
he
did—he saw himself as in a glass and the artistry of it pleased him so that he cared for nothing else. Besides, she had drawn his good points quite as clearly as his bad ones. And there were some sentences in it—“He looks as if he knew a great deal that can never be any use to him”—“I think he wears the black coat Mondays because it makes him feel that he hasn't been drunk at all.” Who or what had taught the little jade these things? Oh, her goddess would not pass Emily by!

“I'm—sorry,” said Emily, crimson with shame all over her dainty paleness.

“Why, I wouldn't have missed this for all the poetry you've written or ever will write! By gad, it's literature—
literature
—and you're only thirteen. But you don't know what's ahead of you—the stony hills—the steep ascents—the buffets—the discouragements. Stay in the valley if you're wise. Emily,
why
do you want to write? Give me your reason.”

“I want to be famous and rich,” said Emily coolly.

“Everybody does. Is that all?”

“No. I just
love
to write.”

“A better reason—but not enough—not enough. Tell me this—if you knew you would be poor as a church mouse all your life—if you knew you'd never have a line published—would you still go on writing—
would
you?”

“Of course I would,” said Emily disdainfully. “Why, I
have
to write—I can't help it by times—I've just
got
to.”

“Oh—then I'd waste my breath giving advice at all. If it's
in
you to climb you must—there are those who
must
lift their eyes to the hills—they can't breathe properly in the valleys. God help them if there's some weakness in them that prevents their climbing. You don't understand a word I'm saying—yet. But go on—climb! There, take your book and go home. Thirteen years from now I will have a claim to distinction in the fact that Emily Byrd Starr was once a pupil of mine. Go—go—before I remember what a disrespectful baggage you are to write such stuff about me and be properly enraged.”

Emily went, still a bit scared but oddly exultant behind her fright. She was so happy that her happiness seemed to irradiate the world with its own splendor. All the sweet sounds of nature around her seemed like the broken words of her own delight. Mr. Carpenter watched her out of sight from the old worn threshold.

“Wind—and flame—and sea!” he muttered. “Nature is always taking us by surprise. This child has—what I have never had and would have made any sacrifice to have. But ‘the gods don't allow us to be in their debt'—she will pay for it—she will pay.”

At sunset Emily sat in the lookout room. It was flooded with soft splendor. Outside, in sky and trees, were delicate tintings and aerial sounds. Down in the garden Daffy was chasing dead leaves along the red walks. The sight of his sleek, striped sides, the grace of his movements, gave her pleasure—as did the beautiful, even, glossy furrows of the plowed fields beyond the lane, and the first faint white star in the crystal-green sky.

The wind of the autumn night was blowing trumpets of fairyland on the hills; and over in Lofty John's bush was laughter—like the laughter of fauns. Ilse and Perry and Teddy were waiting there for her—they had made a tryst for a twilight romp. She would go to them—presently—not yet. She was so full of rapture that she must write it out before she went back from her world of dreams to the world of reality. Once she would have poured it into a letter to her father. She could no longer do that. But on the table before her lay a brand-new Jimmy-book. She pulled it towards her, took up her pen, and on its first virgin page she wrote.

New Moon,

Blair Water,

P. E. Island

October 8th

I am going to write a diary, that it may be published when I die.

L. M. Montgomery achieved international fame in her lifetime that endures well over a century later. A prolific writer, she published some 500 short stories and poems and twenty novels. Most recognized for
Anne
of
Green
Gables
, her work has been hailed by Mark Twain, Margaret Atwood, Madeleine L'Engle, and Duchess Kate, to name a few. Today, Montgomery's novels, journals, letters, short stories, and poems are read and studied by general readers and scholars from around the world. Her writing appeals to people who love beauty and to those who struggle against oppression.

Discover beautiful new editions of the beloved Anne series

• • •

Anne of Green Gables

Anne of Avonlea

Anne of the Island

Anne of Windy Poplars

Anne's House of Dreams

Anne of Ingleside

• • •

“One of the most extraordinary girls that ever came out of an ink pot.” —
New York Times

“The dearest and most lovable child in fiction since the immortal Alice.” —Mark Twain

• • •

For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit
sourcebooks.com
.

Find a new heroine in the Emily trilogy

• • •

Emily of New Moon

Emily Climbs

Emily's Quest

• • •

“I loved Emily.” —Madeleine L'Engle

• • •

For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit
sourcebooks.com
.

And don't miss more classic favorites from L. M. Montgomery

• • •

The Blue Castle

Magic for Marigold

Pat of Silver Bush

Mistress Pat

Jane of Lantern Hill

A Tangled Web

• • •

For more information on the L. M. Montgomery titles, visit
sourcebooks.com
.