Rilla of Ingleside by L. M. Montgomery

Source of book: My wife owns the entire Anne series.

For those of you who have not been following my blog, I participate in an online book club, hosted by my friend Carrie at readingtoknow.com. Here is our 2013 list, with instructions on how to participate if you wish. As usual, I will be picking and choosing which books to read, based on my level of interest, available time, and sunspots.

This month’s selection was anything by L. M. Montgomery, picked by Carrie, who is a huge fan of the author. I recommend searching her blog if you want to know more about the author or her books. On to the review!

Embarrassing confession time. I had a HUGE crush on Anne of Green Gables in Junior High. I read the first four books multiple times, and watched the movies more times than I wish to recall. In fact, I could say I crushed on Megan Follows in her Anne portrayal as well. As a musician, I was also fond of the Hagood Hardy soundtrack. My string quartet still uses the music from the scene where Anne dances with an imaginary man until Gilbert cuts in. I have been singularly unsuccessful at finding this on youtube, so I can’t paste a clip here, but true fans will know exactly what I am talking about.

Over the years, I have thought of what exactly drew me to the stories when I was young, and why I was never able to go past the first four books.

The Anne books are, more than anything else, a delightful coming-of-age story. Anne is awkward, emotional, horrifyingly honest, and yet loving and loveable all in the mix. In many ways, she is familiar to anyone who felt out of place in those horrid years between childhood and the later teens. (You might be able to pay me enough to go through High School again. But it would be a lot of money, believe me! You couldn’t pay me enough to do Junior High again. No way.) Anne is a notable character because she is so real and believable, and not just in an aspirational way. Many of us, when we were young men, thought it would be cool to be Robin Hood, or Odysseus, or Tom Sawyer, but these were dreams. I felt like Anne could be me. (At least internally. I was far too square to ever get into her kind of trouble. Although staging The Lady of Shalott was pure genius.) I have always felt a bit odd - a male bookish introvert is rarely popular - to say nothing of a short one. My homeschooling experience, if anything, helped with this, as it freed me to hang out with similarly geeky sorts and discover who I was without the constant disapproval of the cliques. However, this certainly led me to feel that Anne was, to use her phrase, a “kindred spirit.”

I was thinking about it as a read the book over the last few weeks, and I have decided that, in retrospect, I both wanted to marry Anne, and wanted to be her. One the one hand, Anne was similar to the woman I wanted to marry. Perhaps not one quite as prone to extremes of emotion, but one who was real and adventuresome, and wanted to talk about literature and life and dreams and so forth. One who felt herself neither superior nor inferior to me, but who wanted to be a friend first. The last thing I wanted was to be a “husband,” that is, the cardboard cut-out of a man that would fit the woman’s dream of her perfect life. This was why it was satisfying to read of the Anne/Gilbert romance, because they respected each other, and didn’t give their hearts away lightly, nor their hand in marriage to anyone they could not respect and love passionately.

On the other hand, I found that Anne was not simply a “real woman.” She was a real person, someone who represented the universal struggle of humans, male and female, to transition to adulthood. It was this facet of her that, I think, prevented me from enjoying the later books.

Montgomery is in some ways the other side of the coin from Charles Dickens, who could not write a believable young female to save his life. Montgomery had the opposite problem: she did not write young male characters well. Gilbert is probably the best, but he becomes the equivalent of Agnes (in David Copperfield) as the stories progress. Too good to be true, and thus boring. The related problem for Montgomery is her difficulty with adulthood. Like Dickens, her portrayal of quirky old folks is excellent. There are a gallery of memorable characters - but no ordinary adults. At least not real ones.

This particularly struck me in Rilla of Ingleside. Rilla herself is a great character. She is believable and relatable, and she grows from a shallow and flighty teen to a more serious and responsible grownup, as the result of war, responsibility, and loss. So far, so good. A good character, well drawn, and a compelling story. What was disappointing to me is that Anne herself has become completely colorless. What the heck happened? How did she go from a vibrant personality to being a “generic mother” such as might be purchased in my friend Sara’s shop-of-stock-characters? She and Gilbert have NO recognizable personality in the book. They both do and say the perfect thing in every situation.

I think this is why I lost interest in the later books. Montgomery neither understood nor liked adulthood. Perhaps it is because she never really had a true childhood, perhaps because her own relationship with the adult world was unpleasant. (She married because she felt it socially necessary, not because she truly loved. By most accounts, she was unhappy in her role as preacher’s wife, and her husband suffered from mental illness. She probably committed suicide.) Perhaps it is just that balancing adult responsibility with one’s personality is hard work. The tension between the requirements of society and the needs of the inner life have made for many a great novel, of course, and one wonders if she might have written a devastatingly bitter book for adults had she felt free to do so. I feel like she never really figured out how to be herself in the context of society, and that she was deeply unhappy outside of the confines of her books. However, she wrote some remarkable young adult literature, the first of which captured that elusive moment in such a memorable way.

Aside from the disappointment that the real Anne disappeared, here are my thoughts on Rilla.

I found it interesting that Sarajevo has played such a crucial role in both ends of the 20th Century. One tends to forget that the Balkan War of the 1990s was really a continuation of a conflict that started a century or more before World War One, sparked that war, and continued as soon as the Soviet era dictatorship crumbled. Some hate lives beyond time and circumstance.


Second, I loved the line about fifteen year old girls. Rilla was “as fond of italics as most girls of fifteen are...” And fifteen year old boys, I might add.

Rilla, in the tradition of Montgomery’s heroines, completely misunderstands men throughout the story. She figures that Ken Ford, who she loves, doesn’t return her affections, because he calls her by a childhood name that irritates her. (Montgomery understands this stage of male infatuation, but one doubts she quite understood deep, adult passion, though.)

Also good was Walter’s view of war. (Walter is the poetic brother of Rilla, and he predictably gets offed in the war, as he is too good for this earth. Perhaps this was an echo of the real life deaths of poet Joyce Kilmer and author Hector Hugh Munro, aka Saki?) Unlike the rest of the men, he finds war to be “a hellish, horrible, hideous thing - too horrible and hideous to happen in the twentieth century between civilized nations.” Montgomery died before the Second World War, and I doubt she ever knew just how terrible Stalin’s purges were. If only Walter had known how ghastly the history of the century would be, I doubt he would have remained as poetically optimistic. Or perhaps he would have. Walter is not exactly believable as a character, but as an archetype, he is in the vein of Tom Joad and others who live beyond death as an inspiration to the living.

Other fun stuff: I loved the references to parenting books. (Rilla adopts a war orphan and raises him “by the book.”) Anyone with a real child, let alone a crowd of them knows that there is no such thing as a “typical” child, and that they will do everything in their power to ruin any preconceived notion of parenting. The scene with the “war wedding,” where so much went wrong, and yet it worked out in a memorable way was well done. Another good one was Susan rejecting the ludicrous proposal from “Whiskers-on-the-Moon.” These are the things that one eagerly anticipates in Montgomery’s writing. Susan is a memorable character in general, and the only one other than Rilla that is well developed in this book.

One final note. There is an intriguing exchange between the clergyman, Mr. Meredith, and some others on the nature of the Divine, and whether the affairs of men, even a great war, are somehow beneath His notice. Mr. Meredith opines that “an infinite power must be infinitely little as well as infinitely great.” Thus, “He changes times and seasons; he deposes kings and raises up others.” (Daniel 2:21) is balanced by, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.” (Matthew 10:29)

Overall, I have mixed feelings about this book. Rilla’s story was well written, and the book had some moments of humor, pathos, and introspection. However, I was disappointed by the lack of development of the secondary characters. One wonders what Anne’s inner life would have been throughout the dramatic events in this book.

archy and mehitabel by Don Marquis

Source of book: I own this.

Every reader, I suspect, has a particular obscure author that gives him or her a unique pleasure. Don Marquis is one of mine.

Marquis wrote in a variety of genres from novels to plays, but he was best known for his work as a journalist and humorist for the New York Evening Sun, and the New York Herald Tribune in the 1910s, 20s, and 30s. It was in this capacity that he conceived the character of Archy in 1916.

Archy is a cockroach who was a free verse poet in a previous life. As punishment for his abandonment of classical forms, he is condemned to live as a despised life form while fully retaining his poetic powers. As he puts it:

gods i am pent up in a cockroach

i with the soul of a dante

am mate and companion of fleas

i with the gift of homer

must smile when a mouse calls me pal

tumble bugs are my familiars

this is the punishment meted

because i have written vers libre

…

i with the brain of a milton

fell into the mincemeat at christmas

and was damned-near baked in a pie 

Marquis “discovers” him flinging his body against the typewriter keys one night, and thereafter leaves a sheet of paper in the machine each night. Since capitalization (and most punctuation on older machines) requires two keys at a time, Archy cannot use them, and so writes with all lower case and without punctuation. In this, he parallels E. E. Cummings, who lived roughly at the same time, although it appears that Marquis published the first Archy poems before Cummings published his first collection. The two share the unorthodox approach to capitalization and punctuation (although Marquis did it as part of the humor rather than for shocking effect) and a fascination with transcendentalism and reincarnation. (Both were popular in the latter years of the 19th Century.)

Archy’s friend Mehitabel is a female alley cat,  who claims to be a reincarnated version of Cleopatra. (Doesn’t everyone pick Cleopatra? Or is it just my impression?) Despite her royal origin and claim to the status of lady, her behavior is decidedly indecorous and her language (mildly) salty.

Accompanying the poems are the delightful illustrations of George Herriman, the African-American cartoonist responsible for Krazy Kat.

archy and mehitabel is the first collection of poems, and covers the Prohibition era. While humor is certainly present, the poems also are a pointed commentary on human nature, social issues, and hypocrisy. The introductory poem reads as follows:

the coming of archy

expression is the need of my soul

i was once a vers libre bard

but i died and my soul went

into the body of a cockroach

it has given me a new outlook on life

i see things from the under side now

thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket

but your paste is getting so stale i can't eat it

there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have

removed she nearly ate me the other night why don't she

catch rats that is what she is supposed to be for

there is a rat here she should get without delay

most of these rats here are just rats

but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him

he used to be a poet himself

night after night i have written poetry for you

on your typewriter

and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet

comes out of his hole when it is done

and reads it and sniffs at it

he is jealous of my poetry

he used to make fun of it when we were both human

he was a punk poet himself

and after he has read it he sneers

and then he eats it

i wish you would have mehitabel kill that rat

or get a cat that is onto her job

and i will write you a series of poems

showing how things look

to a cockroach

that rats name is freddy

the next time freddy dies i hope he won't be a rat

but something smaller i hope i will be a rat

in the next transmigration and freddy a cockroach

i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then

don't you ever eat any sandwiches in your office

i havent had a crumb of bread

for i dont know how long

or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings

and paste leave a piece of paper in your machine

every night you can call me archy

Mehitabel is gradually introduced into the book, and her various love affairs are a recurring subject of the poems. In many cases, the tom cats contribute their own poetry, usually rhymed doggerel, such as the following.

persian pussy from over the sea

demure and lazy and smug and fat

none of your ribbons and bells for me

ours is the zest of the alley cat

over the roofs from flat to flat

we prance with capers corybantic

what though a boost should break a slat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

we would rather be rowdy and gaunt and free

and dine on a diet of roach and rat

than slaves to a tame society

ours is the zest of the alley cat

fish heads freedom a frozen sprat

dug from the gutter with digits frantic

is better than bores and a fireside mat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

when the pendant moon in the leafless tree

clings and sways like a golden bat

i sing its light and my love for thee

ours is the zest of the alley cat

missiles around us fall rat a tat tat

but our shadows leap in a ribald antic

as over the fences the world cries scat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

persian princess i dont care that

for your pedigree traced by scribes pedantic

ours is the zest of the alley cat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

The stray cat meme wasn’t limited to Marquis, of course. T. S. Eliot used the idea in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, which I read last year. I got to hear Brian Setzer perform one of his signature tunes from his Stray Cats days - another fun use of the idea.


I can’t quote all of the poems I liked, but I do want to mention “the cockroach who had been to hell,” which tells of a roach that stumbled into a house that was being fumigated and believed it to be hell. I also loved the rather longish “archy interviews a pharaoh,” wherein Archy interviews a mummy, who complains of being rather dry after all these centuries. He craves beer, and would trade his royal history for a job in a brewery. He is unamused to discover that Prohibition will prevent him from slaking his thirst. There are several pointed poems about Prohibition in the collection. Presumably, subsequent books will comment on the passage of the 21st Amendment.

“clarence the ghost” is also fun - a complaint by a ghost about the annoyance of mediums always calling him up to ask him silly questions. In this as in many others, Marquis shows a talent for looking at situations from the other perspective.

I would also recommend “unjust,” a meditation on the sad fact that we consider superficial beauty to be good and ugliness to be evil. These lines alone makes the poem worthwhile:

but there is very little

justice in the universe

what is the use

of being the universe

if you have to be just

interrogation point

Marquis’ concern for the poor and downtrodden permeates the collection. I imagine that the poems composed during the Great Depression will be even more poignant.

pity the poor spider

i have just been reading

an advertisement of a certain

roach exterminator

the human race little knows

all the sadness it

causes in the insect world

i remember some weeks ago

meeting a middle aged spider

she was weeping

what is the trouble i asked

it is these cursed

fly swatters she replied

they kill off all the flies

and my family and i are starving

to death it struck me as

so pathetic that i made

a little song about it

as follows to wit

twas an elderly mother spider

grown gaunt and fierce and gray

with her little ones crouched beside her

who wept as she sang this lay

curses on these here swatters

what kills off all the flies

for me and my little daughters

unless we eats we dies

swattin and swattin and swattin

tis little else you hear

and we'll soon be dead and forgotten

with the cost of living so dear

my husband he up and left me

lured off by a centipede

and he says as he bereft me

tis wrong but i ll get a feed

and me a working and working

scouring the streets for food

faithful and never shirking

doing the best i could

curses on these here swatters

what kills off all the flies

me and my poor little daughters

unless we eats we dies

only a withered spider

feeble and worn and old

and this is what

you do when you swat

you swatters cruel and cold

i will admit that some

of the insects do not lead

noble lives but is every

man s hand to be against them

yours for less justice

and more charity

I am reminded again of Scrooge’s “If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” Perhaps also of the casual disregard of the “47%” that became the deciding factor in a recent election.

On a lighter note, “certain maxims of archy” contains some humorous gems.

prohibition makes you

want to cry

into your beer and

denies you the beer

to cry into

every cloud

has its silver

lining but it is

sometimes a little

difficult to get it to

the mint

there is always
something to be thankful
for you would not
think that a cockroach
had much ground
for optimism
but as the fishing season
opens up i grow
more and more
cheerful at the thought
that nobody ever got
the notion of using
cockroaches for bait

My favorite satiric poem of the bunch is “warty bliggins the toad.”

i met a toad
the other day by the name
of warty bliggens
he was sitting under
a toadstool
feeling contented
he explained that when the cosmos
was created
that toadstool was especially planned for his personal
shelter from sun and rain
thought out and prepared
for him

do not tell me
said warty bliggens
that there is not a purpose
in the universe
the thought is blasphemy

a little more
conversation revealed
that warty bliggens
considers himself to be
the centre of the said
universe
the earth exists
to grow toadstools for him
to sit under
the sun to give him light
by day and the moon
and wheeling constellations
to make beautiful
the night for the sake of
warty bliggens

to what act of yours
do you impute
this interest on the part
of the creator
of the universe
i asked him
why is it that you
are so greatly favoured
 
ask rather
said warty bliggens
what the universe has done to deserve me

if i were a
human being i would
not laugh
too complacently
at poor warty bliggens
for similar
absurdities
have only too often
lodged in the crinkles
of the human cerebrum

I’ll close with my wife’s favorite, “the robin and the worm” She is not nearly as fond of poetry in general as I am, but she does have a dry sense of humor.

a robin said to an
angleworm as he ate him
i am sorry but a bird
has to live somehow the
worm being slow witted could
not gather his
dissent into a wise crack
and retort he was
effectually swallowed
before he could turn
a phrase
by the time he had
reflected long enough
to say but why must a
bird live
he felt the beginnings
of a gradual change
invading him
some new and disintegrating
influence
was stealing along him
from his positive
to his negative pole
and he did not have
the mental stamina
of a jonah to resist the
insidious
process of assimilation
which comes like a thief
in the night
demons and fishhooks
he exclaimed
i am losing my personal
identity as a worm
my individuality
is melting away from me
odds craw i am becoming
part and parcel of
this bloody robin
so help me i am thinking
like a robin and not
like a worm any
longer yes yes i even
find myself agreeing
that a robin must live
i still do not
understand with my mentality
why a robin must live
and yet i swoon into a
condition of belief
yes yes by heck that is
my dogma and i shout it a
robin must live
amen said a beetle who had
preceded him into the
interior that is the way i
feel myself is it not
wonderful when one arrives
at the place
where he can give up his
ambitions and resignedly
nay even with gladness
recognize that it is a far
far better thing to be
merged harmoniously
in the cosmic all
and this comfortable situation
in his midst
so affected the marauding
robin that he perched
upon a blooming twig
and sang until the
blossoms shook with ecstasy
he sang
i have a good digestion
and there is a god after all
which i was wicked
enough to doubt
yesterday when it rained
breakfast breakfast
i am full of breakfast
and they are at breakfast
in heaven
they breakfast in heaven
all s well with the world
so intent was this pious and
murderous robin
on his own sweet song
that he did not notice
mehitabel the cat
sneaking toward him
she pounced just as he
had extended his larynx
in a melodious burst of
thanksgiving and
he went the way of all
flesh fish and good red herring
a ha purred mehitabel
licking the last
feather from her whiskers
was not that a beautiful
song he was singing
just before i took him to
my bosom
they breakfast in heaven
all s well with the world
how true that is
and even yet his song
echoes in the haunted
woodland of my midriff
peace and joy in the world
and over all the
provident skies
how beautiful is the universe
when something digestible meets
with an eager digestion
how sweet the embrace
when atom rushes to the arms
of waiting atom
and they dance together
skimming with fairy feet
along a tide of gastric juices
oh feline cosmos you were
made for cats
and in the spring
old cosmic thing
i dine and dance with you
i shall creep through
yonder tall grass
to see if peradventure
some silly fledgling thrushes
newly from the nest
be not floundering therein
i have a gusto this
morning i have a hunger
i have a yearning to hear
from my stomach
further music in accord with
the mystic chanting
of the spheres of the stars that
sang together in the dawn of
creation prophesying food
for me i have a faith
that providence has hidden for me
in yonder tall grass
still more
ornithological delicatessen
oh gayly let me strangle
what is gayly given
well well boss there is
something to be said
for the lyric and imperial
attitude
believe that everything is for
you until you discover
that you are for it
sing your faith in what you
get to eat right up to the
minute you are eaten
for you are going
to be eaten
will the orchestra please
strike up that old
tutankhamen jazz while i dance
a few steps i learnt from an
egyptian scarab and some day i
will narrate to you the most
merry light headed wheeze
that the skull of yorick put
across in answer to the
melancholy of the dane and also
what the ghost of
hamlet s father replied to the skull
not forgetting the worm that
wriggled across one of the picks
the grave diggers had left behind
for the worm listened and winked
at horatio while the skull and the
ghost and prince talked
saying there are more things
twixt the vermiform appendix
and nirvana than are dreamt of
in thy philosophy horatio
fol de riddle fol de rol
must every parrot be a poll

“there are more things twixt the vermiform appendix and nirvana than are dreamt of in thy philosophy horatio.” Yes indeed.

Perhaps I am one of the very few, but I find Marquis’ writing to be amusing while more applicable to our present times than one might think on first glance.