The Finished Story

"The Finished Story" is a short story by Lucy Maud Montgomery, the renowned author of the Anne of Green Gables series. This poignant tale explores themes of creativity, self-doubt, and the complexities of storytelling. It follows a young woman who grapples with the pressure to complete her literary work while reflecting on her life and relationships. Through her introspection, Montgomery delves into the profound impact of narrative on personal identity and the bittersweet nature of artistic fulfillment. This story showcases Montgomery's signature lyrical prose and deep emotional insight, inviting readers to contemplate the nature of unfinished dreams.

• Short story

								
She always sat in a corner of the west veranda at the hotel, knitting
something white and fluffy, or pink and fluffy, or pale blue and
fluffy--always fluffy, at least, and always dainty. Shawls and scarfs
and hoods the things were, I believe. When she finished one she gave
it to some girl and began another. Every girl at Harbour Light that
summer wore some distracting thing that had been fashioned by Miss
Sylvia's slim, tireless, white fingers.

She was old, with that beautiful, serene old age which is as beautiful
in its way as youth. Her girlhood and womanhood must have been very
lovely to have ripened into such a beauty of sixty years. It was a
surprise to everyone who heard her called Miss Sylvia. She looked so
like a woman who ought to have stalwart, grown sons and dimpled little
grandchildren.

For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her
corner alone. There was always a circle of young people around her;
old folks and middle-aged people would have liked to join it, but Miss
Sylvia, while she was gracious to all, let it be distinctly understood
that her sympathies were with youth. She sat among the boys and girls,
young men and maidens, like a fine white queen. Her dress was always
the same and somewhat old-fashioned, but nothing else would have
suited her half so well; she wore a lace cap on her snowy hair and a
heliotrope shawl over her black silk shoulders. She knitted
continually and talked a good deal, but listened more. We sat around
her at all hours of the day and told her everything.

When you were first introduced to her you called her Miss
Stanleymain. Her endurance of that was limited to twenty-four hours.
Then she begged you to call her Miss Sylvia, and as Miss Sylvia you
spoke and thought of her forevermore.

Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favourite. She told us so
frankly and let it be understood that when I was talking to her and
her heliotrope shawl was allowed to slip under one arm it was a sign
that we were not to be interrupted. I was as vain of her favour as any
lovelorn suitor whose lady had honoured him, not knowing, as I came to
know later, the reason for it.

Although Miss Sylvia had an unlimited capacity for receiving
confidences, she never gave any. We were all sure that there must be
some romance in her life, but our efforts to discover it were
unsuccessful. Miss Sylvia parried tentative questions so skilfully
that we knew she had something to defend. But one evening, when I had
known her a month, as time is reckoned, and long years as affection
and understanding are computed, she told me her story--at least, what
there was to tell of it. The last chapter was missing.

We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset. Most of the hotel
people had gone for a harbour sail; a few forlorn mortals prowled
about the grounds and eyed our corner wistfully, but by the sign of
the heliotrope shawl knew it was not for them.

I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia. In my own excuse I
must allege that she tempted me to do it. I did not go around with
manuscripts under my arm, inflicting them on defenceless females. But
Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler, and
moreover, that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and
perpetrated a short story. Nothing would do but that I read it to her.

It was a rather sad little story. The hero loved the heroine, and she
loved him. There was no reason why he should not love her, but there
was a reason why he could not marry her. When he found that he loved
her he knew that he must go away. But might he not, at least, tell her
his love? Might he not, at least, find out for his consolation if she
cared for him? There was a struggle; he won, and went away without a
word, believing it to be the more manly course. When I began to read
Miss Sylvia was knitting, a pale green something this time, of the
tender hue of young leaves in May. But after a little her knitting
slipped unheeded to her lap and her hands folded idly above it. It was
the most subtle compliment I had ever received.

When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss
Sylvia's soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands,
clasped them together and said in an agitated voice:

"Oh, no, no; don't let him go away without telling her--just telling
her. Don't let him do it!"

"But, you see, Miss Sylvia," I explained, flattered beyond measure
that my characters had seemed so real to her, "that would spoil the
story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its motif is
simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course."

"No, no, it wasn't--if he loved her he should have told her. Think of
her shame and humiliation--she loved him, and he went without a word
and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it--you
must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have
suffered."

Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed. To appease her, I promised that I
would remodel the story, although I knew that the doing so would leave
it absolutely pointless.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Miss Sylvia, her eyes shining through her
tears. "You see, I know it would make her happier--I know it. I'm
going to tell you my poor little story to convince you. But you--you
must not tell it to any of the others."

"I am sorry you think the admonition necessary," I said
reproachfully.

"Oh, I do not, indeed I do not," she hastened to assure me. "I know I
can trust you. But it's such a poor little story. You mustn't laugh at
it--it is all the romance I had. Years ago--forty years ago--when I
was a young girl of twenty, I--learned to care very much for somebody.
I met him at a summer resort like this. I was there with my aunt and
he was there with his mother, who was delicate. We saw a great deal of
each other for a little while. He was--oh, he was like no other man I
had ever seen. You remind me of him somehow. That is partly why I like
you so much. I noticed the resemblance the first time I saw you. I
don't know in just what it consists--in your expression and the way
you carry your head, I think. He was not strong--he coughed a good
deal. Then one day he went away--suddenly. I had thought he cared for
me, but he never said so--just went away. Oh, the shame of it! After a
time I heard that he had been ordered to California for his health.
And he died out there the next spring. My heart broke then, I never
cared for anybody again--I couldn't. I have always loved him. But it
would have been so much easier to bear if I had only known that he
loved me--oh, it would have made all the difference in the world. And
the sting of it has been there all these years. I can't even permit
myself the joy of dwelling on his memory because of the thought that
perhaps he did not care."

"He must have cared," I said warmly. "He couldn't have helped it, Miss
Sylvia."

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