Anne of Green Gables
CHAPTER XXVII
Vanity and Vexation of Spirit
Marilla, walking home one late April evening from an Aid meeting, realized
that the winter was over and gone with the thrill of delight that spring never
fails to bring to the oldest and saddest as well as to the youngest and
merriest. Marilla was not given to subjective analysis of her thoughts and
feelings. She probably imagined that she was thinking about the Aids and their
missionary box and the new carpet for the vestry room, but under these
reflections was a harmonious consciousness of red fields smoking into
pale-purply mists in the declining sun, of long, sharp-pointed fir shadows
falling over the meadow beyond the brook, of still, crimson-budded maples around
a mirrorlike wood pool, of a wakening in the world and a stir of hidden pulses
under the gray sod. The spring was abroad in the land and Marilla's sober,
middle-aged step was lighter and swifter because of its deep, primal gladness.
Her eyes dwelt affectionately on Green Gables, peering through its network of
trees and reflecting the sunlight back from its windows in several little
coruscations of glory. Marilla, as she picked her steps along the damp lane,
thought that it was really a satisfaction to know that she was going home to a
briskly snapping wood fire and a table nicely spread for tea, instead of to the
cold comfort of old Aid meeting evenings before Anne had come to Green Gables.
Consequently, when Marilla entered her kitchen and found the fire black out,
with no sign of Anne anywhere, she felt justly disappointed and irritated. She
had told Anne to be sure and have tea ready at five o'clock, but now she must
hurry to take off her second-best dress and prepare the meal herself against
Matthew's return from plowing.
"I'll settle Miss Anne when she comes home," said Marilla grimly, as she
shaved up kindlings with a carving knife and with more vim than was strictly
necessary. Matthew had come in and was waiting patiently for his tea in his
corner. "She's gadding off somewhere with Diana, writing stories or practicing
dialogues or some such tomfoolery, and never thinking once about the time or her
duties. She's just got to be pulled up short and sudden on this sort of thing. I
don't care if Mrs. Allan does say she's the brightest and sweetest child she
ever knew. She may be bright and sweet enough, but her head is full of nonsense
and there's never any knowing what shape it'll break out in next. Just as soon
as she grows out of one freak she takes up with another. But there! Here I am
saying the very thing I was so riled with Rachel Lynde for saying at the Aid
today. I was real glad when Mrs. Allan spoke up for Anne, for if she hadn't I
know I'd have said something too sharp to Rachel before everybody. Anne's got
plenty of faults, goodness knows, and far be it from me to deny it. But I'm
bringing her up and not Rachel Lynde, who'd pick faults in the Angel Gabriel
himself if he lived in Avonlea. Just the same, Anne has no business to leave the
house like this when I told her she was to stay home this afternoon and look
after things. I must say, with all her faults, I never found her disobedient or
untrustworthy before and I'm real sorry to find her so now."
"Well now, I dunno," said Matthew, who, being patient and wise and, above
all, hungry, had deemed it best to let Marilla talk her wrath out unhindered,
having learned by experience that she got through with whatever work was on hand
much quicker if not delayed by untimely argument. "Perhaps you're judging her
too hasty, Marilla. Don't call her untrustworthy until you're sure she has
disobeyed you. Mebbe it can all be explained—Anne's a great hand at explaining."
"She's not here when I told her to stay," retorted Marilla. "I reckon she'll
find it hard to explain THAT to my satisfaction. Of course I knew you'd take her
part, Matthew. But I'm bringing her up, not you."
It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming
hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover's Lane, breathless and repentant with
a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away the dishes grimly.
Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the cellar, she went up to the east
gable for the one that generally stood on Anne's table. Lighting it, she turned
around to see Anne herself lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows.
"Mercy on us," said astonished Marilla, "have you been asleep, Anne?"
"No," was the muffled reply.
"Are you sick then?" demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed.
Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself forever
from mortal eyes.
"No. But please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me. I'm in the depths of
despair and I don't care who gets head in class or writes the best composition
or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little things like that are of no
importance now because I don't suppose I'll ever be able to go anywhere again.
My career is closed. Please, Marilla, go away and don't look at me."
"Did anyone ever hear the like?" the mystified Marilla wanted to know. "Anne
Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get right up this
minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is it?"
Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience.
"Look at my hair, Marilla," she whispered.
Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at Anne's
hair, flowing in heavy masses down her back. It certainly had a very strange
appearance.
"Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it's GREEN!"
Green it might be called, if it were any earthly color—a queer, dull, bronzy
green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly
effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne's
hair at that moment.
"Yes, it's green," moaned Anne. "I thought nothing could be as bad as red
hair. But now I know it's ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you
little know how utterly wretched I am."
"I little know how you got into this fix, but I mean to find out," said
Marilla. "Come right down to the kitchen—it's too cold up here—and tell me just
what you've done. I've been expecting something queer for some time. You haven't
got into any scrape for over two months, and I was sure another one was due.
Now, then, what did you do to your hair?"
"I dyed it."
"Dyed it! Dyed your hair! Anne Shirley, didn't you know it was a wicked thing
to do?"
"Yes, I knew it was a little wicked," admitted Anne. "But I thought it was
worth while to be a little wicked to get rid of red hair. I counted the cost,
Marilla. Besides, I meant to be extra good in other ways to make up for it."
"Well," said Marilla sarcastically, "if I'd decided it was worth while to dye
my hair I'd have dyed it a decent color at least. I wouldn't have dyed it
green."
"But I didn't mean to dye it green, Marilla," protested Anne dejectedly. "If
I was wicked I meant to be wicked to some purpose. He said it would turn my hair
a beautiful raven black—he positively assured me that it would. How could I
doubt his word, Marilla? I know what it feels like to have your word doubted.
And Mrs. Allan says we should never suspect anyone of not telling us the truth
unless we have proof that they're not. I have proof now—green hair is proof
enough for anybody. But I hadn't then and I believed every word he said
IMPLICITLY."
"Who said? Who are you talking about?"
"The peddler that was here this afternoon. I bought the dye from him."
"Anne Shirley, how often have I told you never to let one of those Italians
in the house! I don't believe in encouraging them to come around at all."
"Oh, I didn't let him in the house. I remembered what you told me, and I went
out, carefully shut the door, and looked at his things on the step. Besides, he
wasn't an Italian—he was a German Jew. He had a big box full of very interesting
things and he told me he was working hard to make enough money to bring his wife
and children out from Germany. He spoke so feelingly about them that it touched
my heart. I wanted to buy something from him to help him in such a worthy
object. Then all at once I saw the bottle of hair dye. The peddler said it was
warranted to dye any hair a beautiful raven black and wouldn't wash off. In a
trice I saw myself with beautiful raven-black hair and the temptation was
irresistible. But the price of the bottle was seventy-five cents and I had only
fifty cents left out of my chicken money. I think the peddler had a very kind
heart, for he said that, seeing it was me, he'd sell it for fifty cents and that
was just giving it away. So I bought it, and as soon as he had gone I came up
here and applied it with an old hairbrush as the directions said. I used up the
whole bottle, and oh, Marilla, when I saw the dreadful color it turned my hair I
repented of being wicked, I can tell you. And I've been repenting ever since."
"Well, I hope you'll repent to good purpose," said Marilla severely, "and
that you've got your eyes opened to where your vanity has led you, Anne.
Goodness knows what's to be done. I suppose the first thing is to give your hair
a good washing and see if that will do any good."
Accordingly, Anne washed her hair, scrubbing it vigorously with soap and
water, but for all the difference it made she might as well have been scouring
its original red. The peddler had certainly spoken the truth when he declared
that the dye wouldn't wash off, however his veracity might be impeached in other
respects.
"Oh, Marilla, what shall I do?" questioned Anne in tears. "I can never live
this down. People have pretty well forgotten my other mistakes—the liniment cake
and setting Diana drunk and flying into a temper with Mrs. Lynde. But they'll
never forget this. They will think I am not respectable. Oh, Marilla, 'what a
tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.' That is poetry, but it
is true. And oh, how Josie Pye will laugh! Marilla, I CANNOT face Josie Pye. I
am the unhappiest girl in Prince Edward Island."
Anne's unhappiness continued for a week. During that time she went nowhere
and shampooed her hair every day. Diana alone of outsiders knew the fatal
secret, but she promised solemnly never to tell, and it may be stated here and
now that she kept her word. At the end of the week Marilla said decidedly:
"It's no use, Anne. That is fast dye if ever there was any. Your hair must be
cut off; there is no other way. You can't go out with it looking like that."
Anne's lips quivered, but she realized the bitter truth of Marilla's remarks.
With a dismal sigh she went for the scissors.
"Please cut it off at once, Marilla, and have it over. Oh, I feel that my
heart is broken. This is such an unromantic affliction. The girls in books lose
their hair in fevers or sell it to get money for some good deed, and I'm sure I
wouldn't mind losing my hair in some such fashion half so much. But there is
nothing comforting in having your hair cut off because you've dyed it a dreadful
color, is there? I'm going to weep all the time you're cutting it off, if it
won't interfere. It seems such a tragic thing."
Anne wept then, but later on, when she went upstairs and looked in the glass,
she was calm with despair. Marilla had done her work thoroughly and it had been
necessary to shingle the hair as closely as possible. The result was not
becoming, to state the case as mildly as may be. Anne promptly turned her glass
to the wall.
"I'll never, never look at myself again until my hair grows," she exclaimed
passionately.
Then she suddenly righted the glass.
"Yes, I will, too. I'd do penance for being wicked that way. I'll look at
myself every time I come to my room and see how ugly I am. And I won't try to
imagine it away, either. I never thought I was vain about my hair, of all
things, but now I know I was, in spite of its being red, because it was so long
and thick and curly. I expect something will happen to my nose next."
Anne's clipped head made a sensation in school on the following Monday, but
to her relief nobody guessed the real reason for it, not even Josie Pye, who,
however, did not fail to inform Anne that she looked like a perfect scarecrow.
"I didn't say anything when Josie said that to me," Anne confided that
evening to Marilla, who was lying on the sofa after one of her headaches,
"because I thought it was part of my punishment and I ought to bear it
patiently. It's hard to be told you look like a scarecrow and I wanted to say
something back. But I didn't. I just swept her one scornful look and then I
forgave her. It makes you feel very virtuous when you forgive people, doesn't
it? I mean to devote all my energies to being good after this and I shall never
try to be beautiful again. Of course it's better to be good. I know it is, but
it's sometimes so hard to believe a thing even when you know it. I do really
want to be good, Marilla, like you and Mrs. Allan and Miss Stacy, and grow up to
be a credit to you. Diana says when my hair begins to grow to tie a black velvet
ribbon around my head with a bow at one side. She says she thinks it will be
very becoming. I will call it a snood—that sounds so romantic. But am I talking
too much, Marilla? Does it hurt your head?"
"My head is better now. It was terrible bad this afternoon, though. These
headaches of mine are getting worse and worse. I'll have to see a doctor about
them. As for your chatter, I don't know that I mind it—I've got so used to it."
Which was Marilla's way of saying that she liked to hear it.