The Books: “Mistress Pat” (L.M. Montgomery)

Daily Book Excerpt: YA/Children’s books:

Yawn. The second (and thankfully last) book in the Pat series. It’s endless. Mistress Pat. Pat’s fear of change begins to seem pathological here as she grows older. Like – her sister goes to college and Pat grieves for months the “loss”. Every single thing that says “change” is resisted. Judy Plum wants to go home to visit Ireland – and Pat so dreads this that she can barely show an enthusiasm for her friend. Pat – you can’t do without Judy Plum for 3 months? What the hell is your problem? Get a LIFE. Trees are cut down. Pat mourns. Her brother marries someone she despises. Yes, that sucks, it does … but get over it. Your brother is not YOU, Pat. She has stupid love affairs which I, the reader, cannot get into because I know Pat’s heart isn’t in it. Naturally, on the very last page of the book – she “falls in love” with Jingle (yes, that is his name) – her childhood friend – a kind of Gilbert-ish character – and Pat insists, over YEARS, that she does not love him – even though Jingle loves her. Then – in one moment – she realizes she DOES love him. Pat – grownups learn how to deal with their emotions, learn how to know their own mind. It’s boring to read. And again, you can feel Lucy Maud losing steam. For example, the book is broken up into “years” – which doesn’t really make sense in the context. If it were the story of Pat going to college, then having chapters be titled “First Year”, “Second Year”, etc. would make sense. But in this context – it just seems like everyone is marking time. Another thing is the length of the chapters. The “First Year” chapter is 100 pages long. It goes on forEVER. And every chapter after that gets shorter and shorter and shorter … there’s one montage that starts one of the “years” that literally goes like this: “It was summer … it was autumn … it was winter …” Lucy Maud must have been very tired. But she was obligated to finish the book. So she basically just sketched it in. And you can FEEL that, when you’re reading it.

Bets, her childhood friend dies. A brother and sister move into Bets’ old house. Pat, because she has mental problems, decides not to like them – because they have moved into Bets’ old house. Yeah, that’s a good reason not to like somebody. But eventually they become friends. David and Suzanne are her friends – and I guess she starts to “date” David – even though the way it’s written you know it’s never going to go anywhere. It’s not like with Emily’s other lovers – Jarback Priest, et al … these are characters who are alive, and her relationship with these people could go somewhere. It’s not a literary device to track time passing. It’s a real relationship. But Pat “goes out” with David for EVER and then … I guess she breaks it off with him, I don’t know … the whole thing seems so tired.

Here’s an excerpt. There are a couple of lines here that I think are quite good. The whole description in the paragraph starting “Pat went up to the Long House …” I do like the “silence kneeling like a grey nun” line. But other than that – what we are seeing here – is a woman full of pathologies who cannot accept reality.

Excerpt from Mistress Pat.

They heard about the Long House at Winnie’s. It was to have new tenants. They had rented the house for the summer … not the farm, which was still to be farmed by John Hammond, the owner, who had bought it from the successor of the Wilcoxes.

Pat heard the news with a feeling of distaste. The Long House had been vacant almost ever since Bets had died. A couple had bought the farm, lived there for a few months, then sold out to John Hammond. Pat had been glad of this. It was easier to fancy that Bets was still there when it was empty. In childhood she had resented it being empty and lonely, and had wanted to see it occupied and warmed and lighted. But it was different now. She preferred to think of it as tenanted only by the fragrance of old years and the little spectral joys of the past. Somehow, it seemed to belong to her as long as it was

“Abandoned to the lonely peace
Of bygone ghostly things.”

Judy had more news the next morning. The newcomers were a man and his sister. Kirk was their name. He was a widower and had been until recently the editor of a paper in Halifax. And they had bought the house, not rented it.

“Wid the garden and the spruce bush thrown in,” said Judy. “John Hammond do be still houlding to the farm. He was here last night, after ye wint away, complaining tarrible about the cost av his wife’s operation. ‘Oh, oh, what a pity,’ sez I, sympathetic-like. ‘Sure and a funeral wud have come chaper,’ sez I. Patsy dear, did ye be hearing Lester Conway was married?”

“Somebody sent me a paper with the notice marked,” laughed Pat. “I’m sure it was May Binnie. Fancy any one supposing it mattered to me.”

It seemed a lifetime since she had been so wildly in love with Lester Conway. Why was it she never fell in love like that nowadays? Not that she wanted to … but why? Was she getting too old? Nonsense!

She knew her clan was beginning to say she didn’t know what she wanted but she knew quite well and couldn’t find it in any of the men who wooed her. As far as they were concerned, she seemed possessed by a spirit of contrariness. No matter how nice they seemed while they were merely friends or acquaintances she could not bear them when they showed signs of developing into lovers. Silver Bush had no rival in her heart.

In the evening she stood in the garden and looked up at the Long House … it was suddenly a delicate, aerial pink in the sunset light. Pat had never been enar it since the day of Bets’ funeral. Now she had a strange whim to visit it once more before the strangers came and took it from her forever … to go and keep a tryst with old, sacred memories.

Pat slipped into the house and flung a bright-hued scarf over her brown dress with its neck-frill of pleated pink chiffon. She always thought she looked nicer in that dress than any other. Somehow people seldom wondered whether Pat Gardiner was pretty or not … she was so vital, so wholesome, so joyous, that nothing else mattered. Yet her dark-brown hair was wavy and lustrous, her golden-brown eyes held challenging lights and the corners of her mouth had such a jolly quirk. She was looking her best to-night with a little flush of excitement staining her round, creamy cheeks. She felt as if she were slipping back into the past.

Judy was in the kitchen, telling stories to a couple of Aunt Hazel’s small fry who were visiting at Silver Bush. Pat caught a sentence or two as she went out. “Oh, oh, the ears av him, children dear! He cud hear the softest wind walking over the hills and what the grasses used to say to aich other at the sunrising.” Dear old Judy! What a matchless storyteller she was!

“I remember how Joe and Win and Sid and I used to sit on the backdoor steps and listen to her telling fairy tales by moonlight,” thought Pat, “and whatever she told you you felt had happened … must have happened. That is the difference between her yarns and Tillytuck’s. Oh, it is really awful to think of her going away in the fall for a whole winter.”

Pat went up to the Long House by the old delightful short cut past Swallowfield and over the brook and up the hill fields. It was a long time since she had trodden that fairy path but it had not changed. The fields on the hill still looked as if they loved each other. The big silver birch still hung over the log bridge across the brook. The damp mint, crushed under her feet, still gave out its old haunting aroma, and all kinds of wild blossom filled the crevices of the stone dyke where she and Bets had picked wild strawberries. Its base was still lost in a wave of fern and bayberry. And on the hill the Watching Pine still watched and seemed to shake a hand meaningly at her. At the top was the old gate, fallen into ruin, and beyond it the path through the spruce bush where silence seemed to kneel like a grey nun and she felt that Bets had come to meet her, walking through the dusk with dreams in her eyes.

Past the bush she came out on the garden with the house in the midst. Pat stopped and gazed around her. Everything she looked on had some memory of pleasure or pain. The old garden was very eloquent … that old garden that had once been so beloved by Bets. She seemed to come back again in the flowers she had tended and loved. The whole place was full of her. She had planted that row of lilies … she had trained that vine over the trellis … she had set out that rose-bush by the porch step. But most of it was now a festering mass of weeds and in its midst was the sad, empty house, with the little dormer window in its spruce-shadowed roof … the window of the room where she had seen the sunrise light falling over Bets’ dead face. A dreadful pang of loneliness tore her soul.

“I hate those people who are going to live in you,” she told the house. “I daresay they’ll tear you up and turn you inside out. That will break my heart. You won’t be you then.”