Verso Pages

These back-of-page seemingly random, out-of-order scrap pieces are drafts of Montgomery’s early short stories and poems. Some were already published when she drafted Anne in 1905 and 1906, and others were probably typed up and kept elsewhere. Some verso scrap sheets show early experiments: “A Baking of Gingersnaps” (1895) was her first published short story; she tests the pen names Maud Cavendish and Maud Eglinton. After Chapter 15, she started writing Anne front-to-back. Why did she switch from scrap pages to fresh sheets?

View an index of the verso contents here, or explore the full collection of Verso pages below:

814294               96 hateful cordiality of his voice—for Andrew Cameron was not entirely without the homely virtues of the average man. He had been a good husband and father; he had once been very fond of his Cousin Margaret; and he was really very sorry that “circumstances” had “compelled” him to act as he had done in that old affair of her father’s investment. “You must be my guest to-night.” “Thank you. I must return home to-night,” said the Old Lady firmly, and there was that in her tone which told Andrew Cameron that it would be useless to urge her. But he insisted on telephoning for his carriage to drive her to the station.
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to ask you if you would give her one of your musical scholarships. I understand her name has already been suggested to you, with a recommendation from her teacher. I do not know what he has said of her voice, but I do know he could hardly overrate it. If you send her abroad for training you will not make any mistake.”

The Old Lady stopped talking. She felt sure Andrew Cameron would grant her request; but she did hope he would grant it rather rudely or unwillingly. She could accept the favor so much more easily if it were flung to her like a bone to a dog. But not a bit of it, Andrew Cameron was suaver than ever.

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you I shall be only too pleased to do. I am afraid you have looked upon me as an enemy, Margaret, and I assure you I have felt your injustice keenly. although it was I realize that some appearances were against me, but—”

The Old Lady lifted her head and stemmed his eloquence by that one gesture.

“I did not come here to discuss that matter,” she said. “We will not refer to the past, if you please. I came to ask a favor, not for myself, but for a very dear young friend of mine—a Miss Gray, who has a remarkably fine voice which she wishes to have trained. She is poor, so I came

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house—as, indeed, seemed not unlikely—before she would ask a favor of Andrew Cam Cameron. And so, in truth, she would have, had it been for herself. But for Sylvia! Could she so far humble herself for Sylvia’s sake?

The question was not easily or speedily settled, as had been the case in the matters of the grape jug and the book of poems. For a whole week the Old Lady fought her pride and bitterness. Sometimes, in the hours of sleepless night, when all human resentments and rancors seemed petty and contemptible, she thought she had conquered it. But in the daytime, with the picture of her

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was sober today. He liked to bask in that ripe sunlight as as well as his dog and cat did; and in such baskings he almost always looked out of his doorway at the far, fine blue sky over the tops of the crowding maples. But to-day he was not looking at the sky, instead, he was staring at the black, dusty rafters of his kitchen, where hung hung dried meats and strings of onions and bunches of herbs and fishing tackle and guns and skins.

But old Abel saw not these things; his face was the face of a man who beholds visions, compact of heavenly pleasure and hellish pain; for old Abel was seeing what he might have been—and what

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he was; as he always saw when Felix Moore played to him on the violin. And the awful joy of dreaming that he was young again, with unspoiled life before him, was so great and compelling that it counter balanced the agony in the realization of a dishonoured old age, following years in which he had squandered the wealth of his soul in ways where Wisdom lifted not her voice.

Felix Moore was standing opposite to him, before an untidy stove, where the no noon fire had died down into pallid, scattered ashes. Under his chin he held old Abel’s brown, battered fiddle; his eyes, too, were fixed on the ceiling; and he, too,

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saw things not lawful to be uttered in any language save that of music; and of all music, only that given forth by the anguished, enraptured spirit of the violin. And yet this Felix was little more than twelve years old, and his face was still the face of a child who knows nothing of either sorrow or sin or failure or remorse. Only in his large, gray-black eyes was there something not of the child—something that spoke of an inheritance from many hearts, now ashes, which had aforetime grieved and joyed, and struggled and failed, and succeeded and grovelled groveled. The inarticulate cries of their longings had passed into this child’s soul, and transmuted them –

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what use was it to be taking any account of old Abel’s queer speeches? Though, to be sure, there was no great harm in a fiddle, and maybe Mr. Leonard was a mite too strict that way with the child. But then, could you wonder at it? There was his father, you see.

Felix finally lowered the violin, and came back to old Abel’s kitchen with a long sigh. Old Abel smiled drearily at him—the smile of a man who has been in the hands of the tormentors.

“It’s awful the way you play—it’s awful,” he said with a shudder. “I never heard anything like it—and you that never had any teaching since you were nine years

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old, and not much practice, except what you could get here now and then on my old, battered fiddle. And to think you make it up yourself as you go along! I suppose your grandfather would never hear to your studying music—would he now?”

Felix shook his head.

“I know he wouldn’t, Abel. He wants me to be a minister. Ministers are good things to be, but I’m afraid I can’t be a minister.”

“Not a pulpit minister. There’s different kinds of ministers, and each must talk to men in his own tongue if he’s going to do ‘em any real good,” said old Abel meditatively. “Your tongue is music. Strange

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that your grandfather can’t see that for himself, and him such a broad-minded man! He’s the only minister I ever had much use for. He’s God’s own if ever a man was. And he loves you—yes, sir, he loves you like the apple of his eye.”

“And I love him,” said Felix warmly. “I love him so much that I’ll even try to be a minister for his sake, though I don’t want to be.”

“What do you want to be?”

“A great violinist,” answered the child, his ivory-hued face suddenly warming into living rose. “I want to play to thousands—and see their ey eyes look as yours do when I play. Sometimes your eyes

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frighten me, but oh, it’s a splendid fright! If I had father’s violin I could do better. I remember that he once said it had a soul that was doing purgatory for its sins when it had lived on earth. I don’t know what he meant, but it did seem to me that his violin was alive. He taught me to play on it as soon as I was big enough to hold it.”

“Did you love your father?” asked old Abel, with a keen look.

Again Felix crimsoned; but he looked straightly and steadily into his old friend’s face.

“No,” he said, “I didn’t; but,” he added, gravely and deliberately, “I don’t think you should have asked me such a question.”

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hands thisaway, ‘and I’m sure that when I’m sixty they’ll matter just five times as much to me.’ Well, the way she looked and the way she spoke made me feel as if downright ashamed of myself because things had stopped mattering with me. But never mind all that. My miserable old feelings don’t count for much. What come of your father’s fiddle?”

“Grandfather took it away when I came here. I think he burned it. And I long for it so often.”

“Well, you’ve always got my old brown fiddle to come to when you must[.]”

“Yes, I know. And I’m glad for that. But I’m hungry for a violin all the time. And I only come here

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when the hunger gets too much to bear. I feel as if I oughtn’t to come even then—I’m always saying I won’t do it again, because I know grandfather wouldn’t like it, if he knew.”

“He has never forbidden it, has he?”

“No, but that is because he doesn’t know I come here for that. He never thinks of such a thing. I feel sure he would forbid it, if he knew. And that makes me very wretched. And yet I have to come. Mr. Blair, do you know why grandfather can’t bear to have me play on the violin? He loves music, and he doesn’t mind my playing on the organ, if I don’t neglect other

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