More Than Just a Pretty Character: Anne

As a child, I resisted the pull of Anne.  I refused to watch the movies. My grandmother read me the first few chapters in hopes that I would relent. I would not be moved.  

Secret Garden? I'd come in anytime. 

Little Women? Quadruple the pleasure. 

Pollyanna? Be glad to. 

Anne of Green Gables? Shirley not. 

Why, you ask?  Well now, I dunno.  In any case I was nineteen, not nine, when I cracked it open.  

That's right. I read Lord of the Flies before I read Anne of Green Gables. Do you know what that does to the human mind? Nothing healthy, that's what.  

Why does everyone, including us latecomers, adore it so? Let me tell you--I'm rereading it now--it sure ain't the plot. Dead mice and drunken twelve-year-olds are fun, but they do not a bestseller make.

Reason One:  The Writer is Gracious

By all rights, of course, Reason One should be, well, Anne herself.  But other, far smarter people have expounded on Anne's personality. Let us trudge onward.  

Guess what page the word "Anne" first appears on? In my edition, it's 21. That's the third chapter.  

We don't meet Anne until Matthew does. (He forgets to ask her name.) Once we're formally introduced, the story is told through Marilla's point of view for the next several pages.  When she sends Anne upstairs to bed, the narration follows her:

"And upstairs, in the east gable, a lonely, heart-hungry, friendless child cried herself to sleep."

Notice whose red head we're not inside.  

Anne is one of fiction's most unique characters. Way more interesting than crusty old spinster Marilla or the ordinary schoolkids. That's the point. They're boring, Anne isn't. If we saw things through Anne's eyes, not only would AGG be pages of daydreams and descriptions, but the book itself would be silly. When we meet her through other people, only Anne is silly. A silly world isn't funny, but a silly person in a serious world is hilarious. And touching. And wistful.   Montgomery is gracious enough to introduce us to Anne.  We don't become her, we experience her. 

Edwardian writer that she is, Montgomery headhops. I mean, she doesn't really headhop because she's ominiscient--she knows Anne forgets to turn down the bedclothes before Marilla does--but you know what I mean. She trips from one character's view to another in a single scene.  

Today this is no longer allowed. We're not even supposed to narrate. It's deep third this, deep third that.  (Mr. Spock, I fear we're in great danger.  Set our course to deep third.*) We're supposed to make our readers forget they're reading. You'd think the book in their hands would be kind of a giveaway. 

 

I'm not bashing deep third. If you can't write in it nowadays, you're toast.  The point is, Montgomery zooms in on their thoughts and then out to tell what they don't know.  Yet, until I was rude enough to point it out, you probably didn't notice she was doing it.  So why does it work?

1. Montgomery assumes that the reader will sympathize with her characters without becoming them.  Do you only sympathize with yourself?  I hope not.  
2. Montgomery has places to go and people to see.  She wants to get on with the story.  And so do you.

Reason Two:  The Writer Knows What We Want

Cool orphans abound in fiction. Why does Anne rise above Oliver, Pollyanna, and Arthur Fonzerelli?  It's more than Anne herself--we don't just enjoy her company, we want to enter her world.

  

"Just as soon as I saw it I felt it was home. Oh, it seems as if I must be in a dream. Do you know, my arm must be black and blue from the elbow up, for I've pinched myself so many times today. Every little while a horrible sickening feeling would come over me and I'd be so afraid it was all a dream....But it is real and we're nearly home."

For eleven years Anne has a life of colicky babies and yellow wincey, and then, suddenly, she's taken to P.E.I.. And her real life begins. It's beautiful there. She hasn't earned it--she wins it through a fluke--but once she comes, she begins a journey from isolation into community. She must un-learn some things, but it's clear that the real Anne--the Anne borne of her parents--was made to live there. 

Have you ever noticed that we don't flash back to Anne's old life? We get hints--it's personified by Mrs. Blewett--and Marilla suspects it's worse than Anne's leading her to believe, but we never go there.** Surely there's something interesting about such a "tragical" life, to use our heroine's*** word. But Anne doesn't dwell, and neither do we. The Island is where the dimension lies.  

There are cultures that would find a talkative, stubborn girl unsympathetic, but everyone feels lost. Everyone wants to board a train and get off at their real home. To be of.   

Anne--even Anne!--was not enough. Montgomery plucked at a simple human desire--to come home. This is why romance novels often have houses on their covers. And why they don't suffer for readers.     

***

I know, I know. There ought to be three.  Well, there will be. Tomorrow. And like I said, it sure ain't plot.

*I have no idea who was the navigator on the Enterprise. In case you couldn't tell.

**Unless you're Kevin Sullivan. He did go there. By accusing Anne of lying  Literal defamation of character.  

***Yes, I know it's a stimulant, not a female protagonist. No, I don't care. Hero will always mean "boy" to me.