The Pursuit of the Ideal

"The Pursuit of the Ideal" is a collection of essays and reflections by Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery, best known for her beloved Anne of Green Gables series. In this work, Montgomery explores themes of aspiration, creativity, and the quest for a meaningful life. Through her lyrical prose, she delves into her thoughts on nature, beauty, and the power of imagination, offering readers a glimpse into her artistic philosophy and personal struggles. The essays emphasize the importance of pursuing one's dreams and the ideals that inspire us, making it a poignant and insightful read for those interested in Montgomery's life and literary vision.

• Short story

								
Freda's snuggery was aglow with the rose-red splendour of an open fire
which was triumphantly warding off the stealthy approaches of the dull
grey autumn twilight. Roger St. Clair stretched himself out
luxuriously in an easy-chair with a sigh of pleasure.

"Freda, your armchairs are the most comfy in the world. How do you get
them to fit into a fellow's kinks so splendidly?"

Freda smiled at him out of big, owlish eyes that were the same tint as
the coppery grey sea upon which the north window of the snuggery
looked.

"Any armchair will fit a lazy fellow's kinks," she said.

"I'm not lazy," protested Roger. "That you should say so, Freda, when
I have wheeled all the way out of town this dismal afternoon over the
worst bicycle road in three kingdoms to see you, bonnie maid!"

"I like lazy people," said Freda softly, tilting her spoon on a cup of
chocolate with a slender brown hand.

Roger smiled at her chummily.

"You are such a comfortable girl," he said. "I like to talk to you and
tell you things."

"You have something to tell me today. It has been fairly sticking out
of your eyes ever since you came. Now, 'fess."

Freda put away her cup and saucer, got up, and stood by the fireplace,
with one arm outstretched along the quaintly carved old mantel. She
laid her head down on its curve and looked expectantly at Roger.

"I have seen my ideal, Freda," said Roger gravely.

Freda lifted her head and then laid it down again. She did not speak.
Roger was glad of it. Even at the moment he found himself thinking
that Freda had a genius for silence. Any other girl he knew would have
broken in at once with surprised exclamations and questions and
spoiled his story.

"You have not forgotten what my ideal woman is like?" he said.

Freda shook her head. She was not likely to forget. She remembered
only too keenly the afternoon he had told her. They had been sitting
in the snuggery, herself in the inglenook, and Roger coiled up in his
big pet chair that nobody else ever sat in.

"'What must my lady be that I must love her?'" he had quoted. "Well, I
will paint my dream-love for you, Freda. She must be tall and slender,
with chestnut hair of wonderful gloss, with just the suggestion of a
ripple in it. She must have an oval face, colourless ivory in hue,
with the expression of a Madonna; and her eyes must be 'passionless,
peaceful blue,' deep and tender as a twilight sky."

Freda, looking at herself along her arm in the mirror, recalled this
description and smiled faintly. She was short and plump, with a
piquant, irregular little face, vivid tinting, curly, unmanageable
hair of ruddy brown, and big grey eyes. Certainly, she was not his
ideal.

"When and where did you meet your lady of the Madonna face and
twilight eyes?" she asked.

Roger frowned. Freda's face was solemn enough but her eyes looked as
if she might be laughing at him.

"I haven't met her yet. I have only seen her. It was in the park
yesterday. She was in a carriage with the Mandersons. So beautiful,
Freda! Our eyes met as she drove past and I realized that I had found
my long-sought ideal. I rushed back to town and hunted up Pete
Manderson at the club. Pete is a donkey but he has his ways of being
useful. He told me who she was. Her name is Stephanie Gardiner; she is
his cousin from the south and is visiting his mother. And, Freda, I am
to dine at the Mandersons' tonight. I shall meet her."

"Do goddesses and ideals and Madonnas eat?" said Freda in an awed
whisper. Her eyes were certainly laughing now. Roger got up stiffly.

"I must confess I did not expect that you would ridicule my
confidence, Freda," he said frigidly. "It is very unlike you. But if
you are not interested I will not bore you with any further details.
And it is time I was getting back to town anyhow."

When he had gone Freda ran to the west window and flung it open. She
leaned out and waved both hands at him over the spruce hedge.

"Roger, Roger, I was a horrid little beast. Forget it immediately,
please. And come out tomorrow and tell me all about her."

Roger came. He bored Freda terribly with his raptures but she never
betrayed it. She was all sympathy--or, at least, as much sympathy as a
woman can be who must listen while the man of men sings another
woman's praises to her. She sent Roger away in perfect good humour
with himself and all the world, then she curled herself up in the
snuggery, pulled a rug over her head, and cried.

Roger came out to Lowlands oftener than ever after that. He had to
talk to somebody about Stephanie Gardiner and Freda was the safest
vent. The "pursuit of the Ideal," as she called it, went on with vim
and fervour. Sometimes Roger would be on the heights of hope and
elation; the next visit he would be in the depths of despair and
humility. Freda had learned to tell which it was by the way he opened
the snuggery door.

One day when Roger came he found six feet of young man reposing at
ease in his particular chair. Freda was sipping chocolate in her
corner and looking over the rim of her cup at the intruder just as she
had been wont to look at Roger. She had on a new dark red gown and
looked vivid and rose-hued.

She introduced the stranger as Mr. Grayson and called him Tim. They
seemed to be excellent friends. Roger sat bolt upright on the edge of
a fragile, gilded chair which Freda kept to hide a shabby spot in the
carpet, and glared at Tim until the latter said goodbye and lounged
out.

"You'll be over tomorrow?" said Freda.

"Can't I come this evening?" he pleaded.

Freda nodded. "Yes--and we'll make taffy. You used to make such
delicious stuff, Tim."

"Who is that fellow, Freda?" Roger inquired crossly, as soon as the
door closed.

Freda began to make a fresh pot of chocolate. She smiled dreamily as
if thinking of something pleasant.

"Why, that was Tim Grayson--dear old Tim. He used to live next door to
us when we were children. And we were such chums--always together,
making mud pies, and getting into scrapes. He is just the same old
Tim, and is home from the west for a long visit. I was so glad to see
him again."

"So it would appear," said Roger grumpily. "Well, now that 'dear old
Tim' is gone, I suppose I can have my own chair, can I? And do give me
some chocolate. I didn't know you made taffy."

"Oh, I don't. It's Tim. He can do everything. He used to make it long
ago, and I washed up after him and helped him eat it. How is the
pursuit of the Ideal coming on, Roger-boy?"

Roger did not feel as if he wanted to talk about the Ideal. He noticed
how vivid Freda's smile was and how lovable were the curves of her
neck where the dusky curls were caught up from it. He had also an
inner vision of Freda making taffy with Tim and he did not approve of
it.

He refused to talk about the Ideal. On his way back to town he found

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