Cyrilla's Inspiration

"Cyrilla's Inspiration" is a short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery that centers around Cyrilla, a young woman with dreams of becoming an artist. Set against the backdrop of rural Canada, the narrative explores themes of creativity, inspiration, and the search for self-identity. As Cyrilla navigates her relationships and the expectations placed upon her, she discovers the profound impact of love and the beauty of embracing one's passions. Montgomery's lyrical prose captures both the struggles and triumphs of her protagonist, making it a poignant reflection on the artist's journey and the significance of finding one's voice.

• Short story

								
It was a rainy Saturday afternoon and all the boarders at Mrs.
Plunkett's were feeling dull and stupid, especially the Normal School
girls on the third floor, Cyrilla Blair and Carol Hart and Mary
Newton, who were known as The Trio, and shared the big front room
together.

They were sitting in that front room, scowling out at the weather. At
least, Carol and Mary were scowling. Cyrilla never scowled; she was
sitting curled up on her bed with her Greek grammar, and she smiled at
the rain and her grumbling chums as cheerfully as possible.

"For pity's sake, Cyrilla, put that grammar away," moaned Mary. "There
is something positively uncanny about a girl who can study Greek on
Saturday afternoons--at least, this early in the term."

"I'm not really studying," said Cyrilla, tossing the book away. "I'm
only pretending to. I'm really just as bored and lonesome as you are.
But what else is there to do? We can't stir outside the door; we've
nothing to read; we can't make candy since Mrs. Plunkett has forbidden
us to use the oil stove in our room; we'll probably quarrel all round
if we sit here in idleness; so I've been trying to brush up my Greek
verbs by way of keeping out of mischief. Have you any better
employment to offer me?"

"If it were only a mild drizzle we might go around and see the
Patterson girls," sighed Carol. "But there is no venturing out in such
a downpour. Cyrilla, you are supposed to be the brainiest one of us.
Prove your claim to such pre-eminence by thinking of some brand-new
amusement, especially suited to rainy afternoons. That will be putting
your grey matter to better use than squandering it on Greek verbs out
of study limits."

"If only I'd got a letter from home today," said Mary, who seemed
determined to persist in gloom. "I wouldn't mind the weather. Letters
are such cheery things:--especially the letters my sister writes.
They're so full of fun and nice little news. The reading of one cheers
me up for the day. Cyrilla Blair, what is the matter? You nearly
frightened me to death!" Cyrilla had bounded from her bed to the
centre of the floor, waving her Greek grammar wildly in the air.

"Girls, I have an inspiration!" she exclaimed.

"Good! Let's hear it," said Carol.

"Let's write letters--rainy-day letters--to everyone in the house,"
said Cyrilla. "You may depend all the rest of the folks under Mrs.
Plunkett's hospitable roof are feeling more or less blue and lonely
too, as well as ourselves. Let's write them the jolliest, nicest
letters we can compose and get Nora Jane to take them to their rooms.
There's that pale little sewing girl, I don't believe she ever gets
letters from anybody, and Miss Marshall, I'm sure she doesn't, and
poor old Mrs. Johnson, whose only son died last month, and the new
music teacher who came yesterday, a letter of welcome to her--and old
Mr. Grant, yes, and Mrs. Plunkett too, thanking her for all her
kindness to us. You knew she has been awfully nice to us in spite of
the oil stove ukase. That's six--two apiece. Let's do it, girls."

Cyrilla's sudden enthusiasm for her plan infected the others.

"It's a nice idea," said Mary, brightening up. "But who's to write to
whom? I'm willing to take anybody but Miss Marshall. I couldn't write
a line to her to save my life. She'd be horrified at anything funny or
jokey and our letters will have to be mainly nonsense--nonsense of the
best brand, to be sure, but still nonsense."

"Better leave Miss Marshall out," suggested Carol. "You know she
disapproves of us anyhow. She'd probably resent a letter of the sort,
thinking we were trying to play some kind of joke on her."

"It would never do to leave her out," said Cyrilla decisively. "Of
course, she's a bit queer and unamiable, but, girls, think of thirty
years of boarding-house life, even with the best of Plunketts.
Wouldn't that sour anybody? You know it would. You'd be cranky and
grumbly and disagreeable too, I dare say. I'm really sorry for Miss
Marshall. She's had a very hard life. Mrs. Plunkett told me all about
her one day. I don't think we should mind her biting little speeches
and sharp looks. And anyway, even if she is really as disagreeable as
she sometimes seems to be, why, it must make it all the harder for
her, don't you think? So she needs a letter most of all. I'll write to
her, since it's my suggestion. We'll draw lots for the others."

Besides Miss Marshall, the new music teacher fell to Cyrilla's share.
Mary drew Mrs. Plunkett and the dressmaker, and Carol drew Mrs.
Johnson and old Mr. Grant. For the next two hours the girls wrote
busily, forgetting all about the rainy day, and enjoying their
epistolary labours to the full. It was dusk when all the letters were
finished.

"Why, hasn't the afternoon gone quickly after all!" exclaimed Carol.
"I just let my pen run on and jotted down any good working idea that
came into my head. Cyrilla Blair, that big fat letter is never for
Miss Marshall! What on earth did you find to write her?"

"It wasn't so hard when I got fairly started," said Cyrilla, smiling.
"Now, let's hunt up Nora Jane and send the letters around so that
everybody can read his or hers before tea-time. We should have a
choice assortment of smiles at the table instead of all those frowns
and sighs we had at dinner." Miss Emily Marshall was at that moment
sitting in her little back room, all alone in the dusk, with the rain
splashing drearily against the windowpanes outside. Miss Marshall was
feeling as lonely and dreary as she looked--and as she had often felt
in her life of sixty years. She told herself bitterly that she hadn't
a friend in the world--not even one who cared enough for her to come
and see her or write her a letter now and then. She thought her
boarding-house acquaintances disliked her and she resented their
dislike, without admitting to herself that her ungracious ways were
responsible for it. She smiled sourly when little ripples of laughter
came faintly down the hall from the front room where The Trio were
writing their letters and laughing over the fun they were putting into
them.

"If they were old and lonesome and friendless they wouldn't see much
in life to laugh at, I guess," said Miss Marshall bitterly, drawing
her shawl closer about her sharp shoulders. "They never think of
anything but themselves and if a day passes that they don't have 'some
fun' they think it's a fearful thing to put up with. I'm sick and
tired of their giggling and whispering."

In the midst of these amiable reflections Miss Marshall heard a knock
at her door. When she opened it there stood Nora Jane, her broad red
face beaming with smiles.

"Please, Miss, here's a letter for you," she said.

"A letter for me!" Miss Marshall shut her door and stared at the fat

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