Rating: 4/5
Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert are two siblings in their early sixties. For years, all the former has wanted are children of her own, but she remained a spinster, and felt that her wish would never come true. But one day, she heard from a Mrs Spencer saying that a nearby orphan asylum had some children “spare”. Marilla hated to miss the opportunity, and after discussing with her shy, reluctant brother, she wrote to Mrs Spencer and requested for a boy of ten or eleven to help around the house.
On the day that the lad was due to arrive at the station, bashful Matthew buckled up his horse and went to wait for him. He was a few minutes late, and was surprised to find that the only person outside the station was a small girl sitting on a suitcase, staring dreamily out at the railway.
Taking no notice of the child, Mr Cuthbert hobbled into the station master’s hut. The master looked confused when he asked if the so-and-so train had been. ‘Aye,’ he said; ‘bin ‘n’ gone. No little boy, nay, sir; yes, a Mrs Spencer got off, but with that li’l red’ead sitting outside on the platform.’
Puzzled, Matthew stepped once more outside and stared for a while at the aforesaid ‘li’l red’ead’. She was, indeed, a little redhead; but such redness was indescribable! Two neat, plain orange plaits hung over her shoulders; and what remarkable, bright eyes shone out from beneath the lashes, watching the ‘wonders’ of the bleak railway station! Matthew was overcome with shyness as he watched the small child, but he knew that he would have to address her at some point. And address her he did.
‘Oh!’ the child cried, and leapt to her feet. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come; I was rather thinking you would never be here. The train came very early, you see, but I’m all right, because I’ve been watching the wildlife and those hills in the distance there. The station master asked if I might come inside to wait, but there is so little scope for imagination in that bleak little room. Here, though, I can almost imagine away my hair. Oh, do tell me the truth about my hair: does it really upset you so? You look so wistful, almost as though you were sorry for me – I’ve never had anyone pity me before. Is it that easy? Is it really that easy to pity me? Oh, I’m so sad about that -’
Matthew realised two things. One, that it would take all his heart and soul to discourage the poor little thing and explain that there had been some mistake. To send the little creature back to the orphan asylum was to chop off her head to poor Mr Cuthbert. And two, that he had no need to fear this child. In fact, he was perfectly happy with her incessant chattering. It meant that he wouldn’t need to talk back.
After gently reassuring her that not only did he not pity her, but also that her red hair was shining very prettily in the twilight, the orphan seemed to be consoled. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased you don’t contemn me,’ she went on. ‘People so often contemn me. I’m used to being treated with contempt, but I still abide it. Mrs Spencer was all right, but I fear that’s just because she pitied me. I think it is more offending to be pitied than contemned. I heard that your wife is a very sharp woman. I hope she won’t be too strict with me. Will she be?’
‘Well now, I don’t have myself a wife,’ Matthew said quietly.
‘Oh, don’t you? I’m so sorry; you must pity me all the more because I have no manners. Who is the lady with the name that begins with an M, then?’
‘Well now, that would be my sister, Marilla.’
The child’s eyes widened. ‘You have a sister? Oh, do you really? I’m so pleased. I’ve never had a sister before – or a brother, for that matter. But I’m not sure I would like a brother. A sister could easily be a bosom friend, but boys don’t work like that. I know that because my other carer had three sets of twins – three sets of twins! Can you imagine that? I can, and I daresay I wouldn’t like it. Two of those sets were boys, you see, and though they were only about five when I left for the orphan asylum, I could tell that they could never be kindred spirits, or even bosom friends. Do you have a bosom friend, Mr Cuthbert?’
‘Well now, I dunno.’
The conversation continued all the way back to Green Gables. The child was a spritely little thing, and became increasingly excited as she watched the beautiful Canadian scenery float by. When they arrived at Avonlea, she had already renamed many places. ‘Barry Pond shall now be called The Lake of Shining Waters. And the Avenue shall be called the White Way of Delight. That pretty path over there, Mr Cuthbert – does that have a name? Oh, well that’s boring; I shall call it Lovers’ Lane. Doesn’t that sound lovely?’
When they arrived finally at Green Gables, the orphan was overcome with delight. Marilla, however, was not. She inquired sharply of her brother where the boy was; and the little girl, blissfully unaware of the mishap, quivered from crown to toe.
‘You don’t want me, do you?’ she cried, burying her small head in her white hands. ‘Oh, I could have guessed it from that forlorn look on Mr Cuthbert’s face… oh, oh, please don’t say you don’t want me!’
‘What kind of a difference would it make to you?’ Marilla inquired harshly.
The orphan looked up with watering eyes, shook her head, and buried it into her hands once more. ‘Oh, so much, Miss Cuthbert, so very, very much! Since you were a baby you have always had a home. I’ve been passed from hand to hand until nobody wanted me. Then I was handed to an asylum – an orphan asylum. Oh, I was so excited when I saw Avonlea, and the Lake of Shining Waters, and the White Way of Delight – and oh, when my eyes fell upon the glistening home of the Cuthberts. And then, right down in my heart, a little happy thrill went through me, because I realised that the glistening home of the Cuthberts did not only belong to them. Oh, it was mine, Miss Cuthbert, mine too! My home! Oh, my home, my home!’
And she erupted into tears until Marilla thought there would be no more left.
‘Well now, come in, and we’ll see about you tomorrow,’ she said uneasily – for already, down in her steel-plated heart of gold, she had become firmly attached to the child. It was obvious to her that Matthew, too, had become attached; the way he went quietly into the corner of the room and smoked silently on his pipe, and then took himself to bed without a word.
The next morning, the orphan awoke with tear-stained cheeks. She had spent the night crying, and had not even taken into mind the beautiful view from her window. She gazed at it long, and barely took notice of Marilla when she entered the room.
‘Child, I never heard your name.’
The orphan looked up at her with a mixture of excitement, hope, and sullen expectancies. ‘Cordelia,’ she said brightly.
‘Cordelia!’ repeated Marilla. ‘I don’t believe it.’
The crafty child looked at her with an expression of fake innocence. ‘Lady Cordelia,’ she added slyly.
Marilla laughed a brittle laugh. ‘And now it is certain. Child, what is your real name?’
Her countenance faded and she looked at the ground. ‘Anne Shirley,’ she said.
‘Hm,’ Marilla said ot herself. ‘Anne. A good, hard, sensible name.’
‘But mind you spell it with an e!’ Anne called after her as she turned to go. ‘It would be so ridiculously traumatic if you were to call me Anne without an e.’
‘What difference does it make how I spell it, so long as I pronounce it correctly?’
Anne gasped. ‘Oh, such a difference, Miss Cuthbert. A very big difference, indeed! Anne with an e looks so much more ladylike – so much more dignified and distinguished. Doesn’t it? Look at A-N-N-E compared to A-N-N. Ann looks almost half-finished. Oh, I think I might die if you were to call me Ann instead of Anne!’
‘I am afraid you are a very vain little girl, Anne,’ said Marilla with a disapproving air.
‘Vain, Miss Cuthbert? How can I be vain when I know I am so plain and ugly,’ Anne sighed with a wistful glance at her straight red plaits.
And so Anne’s life at Green Gables continued. For you see, Marilla became accustomed to little Anne’s being around. She liked her little ways, and she thought she had a very nice nose – albeit Anne was rather vain about that nose. But the orphan’s vanity soon faded away, and she found a ‘bosom friend’ and ‘kindred spirit’, as she liked to call Miss Diana Barry.
School begins to lead Anne’s life in a different direction. Fourteen-year-old crafty, sly, but awfully handsome Gilbert Blythe is loved by every girl at school – save Anne Shirley. She noticed Blythe, but took no note of him. That is, until he called her carrots.
She was leaning over her desk and staring in a dreamlike trance out of the window one morning. Gilbert Blythe was shocked to find that she was not greatly interested in him like all the other young ladies were. He tried to get her attention, but still she stared out of the glass pane trance-like. He realised that the only way he might catch her notice was to reach over, pull gently on one of her plaits, and say, ‘Carrots! Carrots!’
In a rage, Anne stood up, picked up her slate, and broke it over Gilbert’s head.
Shocked but not hurt, Gilbert spluttered to the master, ‘Don’t hurt her, Mr Phillips. Oh, don’t hurt her…’ And, slightly dazed, he collapsed into his seat and promptly fainted onto the desk.
The girls shrieked and giggled and ran over to him, but Anne only stalked out the room under the watchful eye of a puzzled Mr Phillips, who had not seen the entire occurrence. Confused, he decided to tend to Gilbert Blythe, who tried to stand up but then collapsed into the excited arms of many waiting girls.
Anne was let off from school the rest of that afternoon, but she proceeded to arrive there the next morning. Gilbert Blythe, for once in his life, actually apologised to Anne on the field and pleaded for forgiveness; but she only mimicked his words:- ‘Carrots! Carrots! Carrots!’ until he thought he might cry if only he were shrived.
That afternoon, such a havoc was created at the back of the room where Anne sat that Mr Phillips actually cried, ‘Do be quiet while I am teaching! Anne Shirley, go and sit next to…’
The master did not really hesitate, but Anne felt the terror of the moment before he called out briskly, ‘Gilbert Blythe.’
Anne could not stand the heat that penetrated her bones as she stood up, face to the ground, and collapsed into the empty seat next to Gilbert. Before anyone could see her countenance (though, apparently, Ruby Gillis saw it, and reported to her close listeners that it was ‘dreadful white, with great red spots all over it’), she crossed her arms over her desk and hid it in there. A puddle of tears swam beneath her fingers within minutes, but she took no heed.
Presently, Blythe slipped a small, pink, heart-shaped sweet under the curve of her arm. She read the message – ‘You are sweet’ – and promptly lifted her head, dropped the candy to the floor, ground it to a powder under her heel, and resumed her steadfast position on the table.
For four years Anne ignores Blythe. She gets prettier, talks a lot less, and becomes sweeter in every aspect; Blythe loves her all the more; Anne hates him all the more. He apologises on numerous occasions; pleads for mercy; offers to walk her home, help with her homework, or play her ‘absolutely, definitely, completely not silly’ games with her; but still she shuns him.
At fifteen years old, Anne is pretending to be Elaine from a play the name of which I do not remember; she is softly floating down The Lake of Shining Waters, arms crossed, eyes closed, on one of her friend’s father’s flats. She soon realises that the flat is sinking: she stands up, panics, and quickly utters a prayer to God.
‘Dear God, if only you would steer me to those piles, I will do the rest. Dear God, if only you would steer me to those piles, I will do the rest. Dear God, if only you would steer me to those piles, I will do the rest.’
The flat lands close to the piles, and Anne climbs off them and watches as the little boat gets trashed in a waterfall a few feet away. It happened that her friends, Diana, Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis also saw the flat, but not Anne. Ruby erupted into hysterics, while Jane and Diana fled to Anne’s house, found nobody, and fled back again. Anne, meanwhile, could only wait, trembling with cold and fear, until who should come flying through the woods but Gilbert Blythe.
Anne knows her options. Ignore him and die; get help from him, and live. She does not want to die. For a while she imagines her time in Heaven: and then she recalls her ‘Oh, Marilla, so many sins!’ and quickly takes his hand and pulls herself up on it.
‘There now,’ says Gilbert softly. ‘There. Care to explain?’
Reluctantly, Anne recalls her tale.
Gilbert resists the urge to tease, and only says, ‘There, there, Anne. You’re safe now. Come; let’s be friends. Will you do that for me? I’m dreadfully sorry I teased you. I think your hair is a lovely auburn colour now.’
She boils up the colour of a lobster, but turns her head, not listening to Blythe’s pleas. She is half-listening to her left shoulder, half to her right.
‘Come, come, Anne. Please. I would so love to join in with your games.’
But Anne does not hear that. She hears:-
‘Carrots! carrots!’
‘Never,’ she cries, ‘never, Gilbert Blythe.’
Shortly after, Anne and her friends Jane Andrews and Ruby Gillis – along with her enemies Josie Pye and Gilbert Blythe – attends the Queen’s training class at the school in Avonlea. There she trains extra hours of the day, to be a teacher: and Anne realises what life is like with ambitions, and ‘pities’ people with none.
As for Gilbert Blythe, he is now so cross with Anne that he ignores her, just as she did him. She has never been ignored before (‘my hair was always too orange for that’) and does not find the experience particularly pleasant. He does not taunt or tease or mock her, but rather pretend she wasn’t there.
‘Oh, Diana, I would so rather he would call me ‘Carrots!’ or ‘Sweetie,’ or ‘Darling,’ all day long like he used to if only he wouldn’t shun me. I hated it when he called me those names, and I am sure I would still hate it now; but oh, ignoring me is too, too, too much for ‘my little ways’ to take, as Marilla calls them.’
Anne is relieved when, one day, she finds an envelope inviting her to the Queen’s training academy. Excited and happy, she takes the journey with Matthew, and is even more relieved when her friends Ruby and Jane are there too.
‘I cannot believe it, my dears!’ she cries, kissing and hugging them all. ‘Well done, well done! Well done!’
‘There’s a small problem,’ says Jane meekly.
‘What -’ Anne looks at them. They have very serious faces on. ‘What is it?’
Ruby looks down at the ground, then at Anne’s dress, then into her eyes, and then back at the ground again. ‘Gilbert Blythe got in too,’ she whispers hoarsely.
Surprisingly, Anne throws her head back and laughs. ‘Ha! So what, Ruby dear? So what, Jane lovely? I don’t care two hoots for Gilbert Blythe.’ (Anne lies, but she knows white lies are all right, very occasionally.) ‘He can go off and beat me for all I care. When I leave here, I will never see him again. Fancy that! And once he is gone, never will I lay eyes on his handsome – I mean, ugly face, to have to bear the tormenting look in his big, brow- evil eyes. I could get 100th, and he 1st, and still what difference will that make to me?’ (A big difference, she knows, but she would sooner tell Ruby and Jane that she hated them than that.) ‘Gilbert Blythe, dispose of thyself. Now, girls, didn’t that sound romantic?’
To cut a long story short, Anne passes the grade, along with winning the Avery scholarship and a good loving and liking from her friends.
‘Anne! Anne! You’ve been awarded a part at the concert tonight!’
This did Anne Shirley hear from Diana Barry, as she ran up to Green Gables with a fluttering newspaper clutched in her hands. ‘Come dear, what recitation are you to say? Tell me while I help you dress.’
After much excitement, giggling, and merriment, Anne was dressed in a delicate white organdie with a flower behind her ear, and the tune of her recitation ringing in her head. An exciting and extravagant night it was; Anne recited till even the most sour-faced, stuck-up-looking monsters applauded her, and Marilla and Matthew were so pleased with ‘their girl’ that they arranged a special navy dress with the puffed sleeves Anne so longed for.
But it might not have gone quite so well, said the little orphan privately to herself, if it hadn’t been for Gilbert Blythe in the audience. A smile on his face played when Anne stood there, stage-frightened to the core; but not a taunting one: rather, an encouraging one through all his anger and frustration. Anne took heart right away, and a prettier performance there might never have been that night in Avonlea.
At the end of the book, Anne is sixteen and a half. She’s graduated from Queen’s, and has the qualifications to go to college; but when shy, loveable Matthew becomes extremely ill and dies from shock, and Marilla learns she is likely to go blund, Anne decides to abandon her dream and stay at home with the now almost mellow lady, and help her about the house when she can. ‘It’s not like I’ve nothing to do,’ she chirps cheerfully. ‘I can be a teacher now, at Avonlea – although I might have to teach at Carmody, because Avonlea has been promised to Gilbert Blythe.’
‘Not any more,’ says the wavering voice of Mrs Lynde, a next-door neighbour. ‘He’s given it up to yer. He’s heard of yer intentions and has gone off to teach at Carmody.’
‘How – how nice,’ gasps Anne. ‘Oh, Mrs Lynde, has he really? A – a lovely sacrifice!’
Later on that day, while laying fresh flowers on Matthew’s grave, who should come along but Gilbert Blythe himself. Anne blushes, then explains how apologetic and thankful she is; Gilbert shrugs it off and walks her home. Anne is extremely grateful for his friendship, and the book rounds off while she utters a little prayer declaring that gratitude.