The Understanding of Sister Sara

"The Understanding of Sister Sara" is a novella by Lucy Maud Montgomery that delves into themes of love, perception, and the complexities of human relationships. The story revolves around the experiences of Sister Sara, exploring her inner life and her bonds with those around her. Through Montgomery's signature lyrical prose, the narrative unfolds the nuances of sisterly affection, societal expectations, and personal growth, ultimately highlighting the importance of understanding and connection in one's life journey.

• Short story

								
                                                 June First.

I began this journal last New Year's--wrote two entries in it and then
forgot all about it. I came across it today in a rummage--Sara insists
on my cleaning things out thoroughly every once in so long--and I'm
going to keep it up. I feel the need of a confidant of some kind, even
if it is only an inanimate journal. I have no other. And I cannot talk
my thoughts over with Sara--she is so unsympathetic.

Sara is a dear good soul and I love her as much as she will let me. I
am also very grateful to her. She brought me up when our mother died.
No doubt she had a hard time of it, poor dear, for I never was easily
brought up, perversely preferring to come up in my own way. But Sara
did her duty unflinchingly and--well, it's not for me to say that the
result does her credit. But it really does, considering the material
she had to work with. I'm a bundle of faults as it is, but I tremble
to think what I would have been if there had been no Sara.

Yes, I love Sara, and I'm grateful to her. But she doesn't understand
me in the least. Perhaps it is because she is so much older than I am,
but it doesn't seem to me that Sara could really ever have been young.
She laughs at things I consider the most sacred and calls me a
romantic girl, in a tone of humorous toleration. I am chilled and
thrown back on myself, and the dreams and confidences I am bubbling
over with have no outlet. Sara couldn't understand--she is so
practical. When I go to her with some beautiful thought I have found
in a book or poem she is quite likely to say, "Yes, yes, but I noticed
this morning that the braid was loose on your skirt, Beatrice. Better
go and sew it on before you forget again. 'A stitch in time saves
nine.'"

When I come home from a concert or lecture, yearning to talk over the
divine music or the wonderful new ideas with her, she will say, "Yes,
yes, but are you sure you didn't get your feet damp? Better go and
change your stockings, my dear. 'An ounce of prevention is worth a
pound of cure.'"

So I have given up trying to talk things over with Sara. This old
journal will be better.

Last night Sara and I went to Mrs. Trent's musicale. I had to sing and
I had the loveliest new gown for the occasion. At first Sara thought
my old blue dress would do. She said we must economize this summer and
told me I was entirely too extravagant in the matter of clothes. I
cried about it after I went to bed. Sara looked at me very sharply the
next morning without saying anything. In the afternoon she went uptown
and bought some lovely pale yellow silk organdie. She made it up
herself--Sara is a genius at dressmaking--and it was the prettiest
gown at the musicale. Sara wore her old grey silk made over. Sara
doesn't care anything about dress, but then she is forty.

Walter Shirley was at the Trents'. The Shirleys are a new family here;
they moved to Atwater two months ago. Walter is the oldest son and has
been at college in Marlboro all winter so that nobody here knew him
until he came home a fortnight ago. He is very handsome and
distinguished-looking and everybody says he is so clever. He plays the
violin just beautifully and has such a melting, sympathetic voice and
the loveliest deep, dark, inscrutable eyes. I asked Sara when we came
home if she didn't think he was splendid.

"He'd be a nice boy if he wasn't rather conceited," said Sara.

After that it was impossible to say anything more about Mr. Shirley.

I am glad he is going to be in Atwater all summer. We have so few
really nice young men here; they go away just as soon as they grow up
and those who stay are just the muffs. I wonder if I shall see Mr.
Shirley soon again.

                                             June Thirtieth.

It does not seem possible that it is only a month since my last entry.
It seems more like a year--a delightful year. I can't believe that I
am the same Beatrice Mason who wrote then. And I am not, either. She
was just a simple little girl, knowing nothing but romantic dreams. I
feel that I am very much changed. Life seems so grand and high and
beautiful. I want to be a true noble woman. Only such a woman could be
worthy of--of--a fine, noble man. But when I tried to say something
like this to Sara she replied calmly:

"My dear child, the average woman is quite good enough for the average
man. If she can cook his meals decently and keep his buttons sewed on
and doesn't nag him he will think that life is a pretty comfortable
affair. And that reminds me, I saw holes in your black lace stockings
yesterday. Better go and darn them at once. 'Procrastination is the
thief of time.'"

Sara cannot understand.

Blanche Lawrence was married yesterday to Ted Martin. I thought it the
most solemn and sacred thing I had ever listened to--the marriage
ceremony, I mean. I had never thought much about it before. I don't
see how Blanche could care anything for Ted--he is so stout and dumpy;
with shallow blue eyes and a little pale moustache. I must say I do
not like fair men. But there is no doubt that he and Blanche love each
other devotedly and that fact sufficed to make the service very
beautiful to me--those two people pledging each other to go through
life together, meeting its storm and sunshine hand in hand, thinking
joy the sweeter because they shared it, finding sorrow sacred because
it came to them both.

When Sara and I walked home from the church Sara said, "Well,
considering the chances she has had, Blanche Lawrence hasn't done so
well after all."

"Oh, Sara," I cried, "she has married the man she loves and who loves
her. What better is there to do? I thought it beautiful."

"They should have waited another year at least," said Sara severely.
"Ted Martin has only been practising law for a year, and he had
nothing to begin with. He can't have made enough in one year in
Atwater to justify him in setting up housekeeping. I think a man ought
to be ashamed of himself to take a girl from a good home to an
uncertainty like that."

"Not if she loved him and was willing to share the uncertainty," I
said softly.

"Love won't pay the butcher's bill," said Sara with a sniff, "and
landlords have an unfeeling preference for money over affection.
Besides, Blanche is a mere child, far too young to be burdened with
the responsibilities of life."

Blanche is twenty--two years older than I am. But Sara talks as if I
were a mere infant.

                                             July Thirtieth.

Oh, I am so happy! I wonder if there is another girl in the world as
happy as I am tonight. No, of course there cannot be, because there is
only one Walter!

Walter and I are engaged. It happened last night when we were sitting
out in the moonlight under the silver maple on the lawn. I cannot
write down what he said--the words are too sacred and beautiful to be
kept anywhere but in my own heart forever and ever as long as I live.

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