Аня з острова Принца Едуарда

The Last Redmond Year Opens

           Theroofleakedandtheraincamepatteringdownonmybed.TherewasnopoetryinTHAT.Ihadtogetupinthe‘mirkmidnight’andchivyroundtopullthebedsteadoutofthedrip—anditwasoneofthosesolid,old-fashionedbedsthatweighaton—moreorless.Andthenthatdrip-drop,drip-dropkeptupallnightuntilmynervesjustwenttopieces.You’venoideawhataneerienoiseagreatdropofrainfallingwithamushythudonabarefloormakesinthenight.Itsoundslikeghostlyfootstepsandallthatsortofthing.Whatareyoulaughingover,Anne?”

           “Thesestories.AsPhilwouldsaytheyarekilling—inmoresensesthanone,foreverybodydiedinthem.Whatdazzlinglylovelyheroineswehad—andhowwedressedthem!

           “Silks—satins—velvets—jewels—laces—theyneverworeanythingelse.HereisoneofJaneAndrews’storiesdepictingherheroineassleepinginabeautifulwhitesatinnightdresstrimmedwithseedpearls.”

           “Goon,”saidStella.“Ibegintofeelthatlifeisworthlivingaslongasthere’salaughinit.”

           “Here’soneIwrote.Myheroineisdisportingherselfataball‘glitteringfromheadtofootwithlargediamondsofthefirstwater.’Butwhatbootedbeautyorrichattire?‘Thepathsofgloryleadbuttothegrave.’Theymusteitherbemurderedordieofabrokenheart.Therewasnoescapeforthem.”

           “Letmereadsomeofyourstories.”

           “Well,here’smymasterpiece.Noteitscheerfultitle—‘MyGraves.’Ishedquartsoftearswhilewritingit,andtheothergirlsshedgallonswhileIreadit.

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