The Books: Chronicles of Avonlea – ‘Aunt Olivia’s Beau’ (L.M. Montgomery)

Daily Book Excerpt: YA/Children’s books:

Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery. Next story in the collection: “Aunt Olivia’s Beau”.

This story is a total HOOT. I love it! It’s Lucy Maud at her best. The plot doesn’t show its machinations, everything seems to just unfold naturally, and – I remember the first time reading it – truly not knowing how it would all work out. And the way she DOES work it out? It’s so satisfying! It’s as good as any romantic-comedy big-finish! I mean, there’s no ‘slow clap’ – but there might as well be!

Lucy Maud had a great love for the delicate spinster character. She despised bitter spinsters – women who hated other women for being happy, etc. – but she had a great affection for those little “aunt” characters, who maintained their femininity, even if they were a bit prissy about it, still took care of their appearance, and still never ‘aped’ youth – a woman who has grown older gracefully, and who has accepted her spinster status gracefully. Who is a wonderful aunt, fun and girlish, etc. Miss Lavendar is another one – but Lucy Maud’s books and stories are full of such characters.

Olivia Sterling is one of those spinster characters. Actually, Lucy Maud would call her an “old maid” – which has a slightly softer connotation than “spinster”. Aunt Olivia is a confirmed old maid. She lives alone, she keeps an IMPECCABLE house (she’s actually rather OCD about cleanliness), she is good friends with her two mischievous nieces (who are young ladies – one of whom is the narrator of this tale) – Her nieces love to come and hang out at Olivia’s house. They sew together, they gather flowers, whatever – but Olivia is a mild non-judgmental fun person to be with. She has sympathy for their young romances, wants to hear all the details … she’s not one of those people who has grown older and has contempt for youth. She loves youth! But she’s an old maid – make no mistake about it. She is a fussy personality, you get that right away. Her house is so clean that it’s actually almost frightening. She is set in her ways.

So the nieces are DUMBFOUNDED at the beginning of the story when Aunt Olivia shyly tells them that she has a beau and his name is Malcolm McPherson. Malcolm McPherson had lived in East Grafton 20 years prior – and maybe had a crush on the younger Olivia – then he moved away and has not been home in 20 years. But now he is coming home – he sparked up a correspondence with old-maid Olivia – asked her to marry him – and she said yes!

Her nieces are … they literally have no words. They try to be happy for her … and they ARE … but … Olivia just doesn’t seem the marrying TYPE. She had never been courted – and now she is so set in her ways … who is this Malcolm McPherson? Was he nice? How would he fit in to her fussy type-A sort of lifestyle???? The nieces are DYING to meet him and watch the drama unfold.

I won’t tell what eventually happens – because it’s all just too funny and too perfect – and I even get a little lump in my throat at times when I read those last 2 scenes (sniff!!) – but my excerpt is the “reunion scene” between Olivia and Malcolm McPherson.

The last sentence of the first paragraph makes me laugh out loud – but there are SO many sentences that do the same thing in this entire story. I love, too, how they always refer to him as “Mr. Malcolm MacPherson”. He’s never just Malcolm or Mr. MacPherson – he’s “Mr Malcolm MacPherson.” It’s repeated a gazillion times, and it just keeps getting funnier.

This story is one of my favorites of hers.

Excerpt from Chronicles of Avonlea by L.M. Montgomery – “Aunt Olivia’s Beau”.

The day on which Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was expected, peggy and I went over. We had planned to remain away, thinking that the lovers would prefer their first meeting to be unwitnessed, but Aunt Olivia insisted on our being present. She was plainly nervous; the abstract was becoming concrete. Her little house was in spotless, speckless order from top to bottom. Aunt Olivia had herself scrubbed the garret floor and swept the cellar steps that very morning with as much painstaking care as if she expected that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson would hasten to inspect each at once and she must stand or fall by his opinion of them.

Peggy and I helped her to dress. She insisted on wearing her best black silk, in which she looked unnaturally fine. Her soft muslin became her much better, but we could not induce her to wear it. Anything more prim and bandboxy than Aunt Olivia when her toilet was finished it has never been my lot to see. Peggy and I watched her as she went downstairs, her skirt held stiffly up all around her that it might not brush the floor.

” ‘Mr. Malcolm MacPherson’ will be inspired with such awe that he will only be able to sit back and gaze at her,” whispered Peggy. “I wish he would come and have it over. This is getting on my nerves.”

Aunt Olivia went into the parlour, settled herself in the old carved chair, and folded her hands. Peggy and I sat down on the stairs to await his coming in a crisping suspense. Aunt Olivia’s kitten, a fat, bewhiskered creature, looking as if it were cut out of black velvet, shared our vigil and purred in maddening peace of mind.

We could see the garden path and gate through the hall window, and therefore supposed we should have full warning of the approach of Mr. Malcolm MacPherson. It was no wonder, therefore, that we positively jumped when a thunderous knock crashed against the front door and re-echoed through the house. Had Mr. Malcolm MacPherson dropped from the skies?

We afterwards discovered that he had come across lots and around the house from the back, but just then his sudden advent was almost uncanny. I ran downstairs and opened the door. On the step stood a man about six feet two in height, and proportionately broad and sinewy. He had splendid shoulders, a great crop of curly black hair, big, twinkling blue eyes, and a tremendous crinkly black beard that fell over his breast in shining waves. In brief, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson was what one would call instinctively, if somewhat tritely, “a magnificent specimen of manhood.”

In one hand he carried a bunch of early goldenrod and smoke-blue asters.

“Good afternoon,” he said in a resonant voice which seemed to take possession of the drowsy summer afternoon. “Is Miss Olivia Sterling in? And will you please tell her that Mr. Malcolm MacPherson is here?”

I showed him into the parlour. Then Peggy and I peeped through the crack of the door. Anyone would ahve done it. We would have scorned to excuse ourselves. And, indeed, what we saw would have been worth several conscience spasms, if we had felt any.

Aunt Olivia arose and advanced primly, with outstretched hand.

“Mr. MacPherson, I am very glad to see you,” she said formally.

“It’s yourself, Nillie!” Mr. Malcolm MacPherson gave two strides.

He dropped his flowers on the floor, knocked over a small table, and sent the ottoman spinning against the wall. Then he caught Aunt Olivia in his arms and — smack, smack, smack! Peggy sank back upon the stair-step with her handkerchief stuffed in her mouth. Aunt Olivia was being kissed!

Presently, Mr. Malcolm MacPherson held her back at arm’s legnth in his big paws and looked her over. I saw Aunt Olivia’s eyes roam over his arm to the inverted table and the litter of asters and goldenrod. Her sleek crimps were all ruffled up, and her lace fichu twisted half around her neck. She looked distressed.

“It’s not a bit changed you are, Nillie,” said Mr. Malcolm MacPherson admiringly. “And it’s good I’m feeling to see you again. Are you glad to see me, Nillie?”

“Oh, of course,” said Aunt Olivia.

She twisted herself free and went to set up the table. Then she turned to the flowers, but Mr. Malcolm MacPherson had already gathered them up, leaving a goodly sprinkling of leaves and stalks on the carpet.

“I picked these for you in the river field, Nillie,” he said. “Where will I be getting something to stick them in? Here, this will do.”

He grasped a frail, painted vase on the mantel, stuffed the flowers in it, and set it on the table. The look on Aunt Olivia’s face was too much for me at last. I turned, caught Peggy by the shoulder, and dragged her out of the house.

“He will horrify the very soul out of Olivia’s body if he goes on like this,” I gasped. “But he’s splendid – and he thinks the world of her – and, oh, Peggy, did you ever hear such kisses? Fancy Aunt Olivia!”