Sometimes I'm Emily, sometimes I'm Ilse.
Sep. 24th, 2004 11:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valancystirlingEmily and Ilse had a splendid fortnight of fun before their first
fight. It was really quite a terrible fight, arising out of a
simple argument as to whether they would or would not have a
parlour in the playhouse they were building in Lofty John's bush.
Emily wanted a parlour and Ilse didn't. Ilse lost her temper at
once, and went into a true Burnley tantrum. She was very fluent in
her rages and the volley of abusive "dictionary words" which she
hurled at Emily would have staggered most of the Blair Water girls.
But Emily was too much at home with words to be floored so easily;
she grew angry too, but in the cool, dignified, Murray way which
was more exasperating than violence. When Ilse had to pause for
breath in her diatribes, Emily, sitting on a big stone with her
knees crossed, her eyes black and her cheeks crimson, interjected
little sarcastic retorts that infuriated Ilse still further. Ilse
was crimson, too, and her eyes were pools of scintillating, tawny
fire. They were both so pretty in their fury that it was almost a
pity they couldn't have been angry all the time.
"You needn't suppose, you little puling, snivelling chit, that you
are going to boss ME, just because you live at New Moon," shrieked
Ilse, as an ultimatum, stamping her foot.
"I'm not going to boss you--I'm not going to associate with you
ever again," retorted Emily, disdainfully.
"I'm glad to be rid of you--you proud, stuck-up, conceited, top-
lofty BIPED," cried Ilse. "Never you speak to me again. And don't
you go about Blair Water saying things about me, either."
This was unbearable to a girl who NEVER "said things" about her
friends or once-friends.
"I'm not going to SAY things about you," said Emily deliberately.
"I'm just going to THINK them."
This was far more aggravating than speech and Emily knew it. Ilse
was driven quite frantic by it. Who knew what unearthly things
Emily might be thinking about her any time she took the notion to?
Ilse had already discovered what a fertile imagination Emily had.
"Do you suppose I care what you think, you insignificant serpent?
Why, you haven't ANY sense."
"I've got something then that's far better," said Emily, with a
maddening superior smile. "Something that YOU can NEVER have, Ilse
Burnley."
Ilse doubled her fists as if she would like to demolish Emily by
physical force.
"If I couldn't write better poetry than you, I'd hang myself," she
derided.
"I'll lend you a dime to buy a rope," said Emily.
Ilse glared at her, vanquished.
"You can go to the devil!" she said.
Emily got up and went, not to the devil, but back to New Moon.
Ilse relieved HER feelings by knocking the boards of their china
closet down, and kicking their "moss gardens" to pieces, and
departed also.
Emily felt exceedingly badly. Here was another friendship
destroyed--a friendship, too, that had been very delightful and
satisfying. Ilse HAD been a splendid chum--there was no doubt
about that. After Emily had cooled down she went to the dormer-
window and cried.
"Wretched, wretched me!" she sobbed, dramatically, but very
sincerely.
Yet the bitterness of her break with Rhoda was not present. THIS
quarrel was fair and open and above-board. She had not been
stabbed in the back. But of course she and Ilse would never be
chums again. You couldn't be chums with a person who called you a
chit and a biped, and a serpent, and told you to go to the devil.
The thing was impossible. And besides, Ilse could NEVER forgive
HER--for Emily was honest enough to admit to herself that she had
been very aggravating, too.
Yet, when Emily went to the playhouse next morning, bent on
retrieving her share of broken dishes and boards, there was Ilse,
skipping around, hard at work, with all the shelves back in place,
the moss garden re-made, and a beautiful parlour laid out and
connected with the living-room by a spruce arch.
"Hello, you. Here's your parlour and I hope you'll be satisfied
now," she said gaily. "What's kept you so long? I thought you
were never coming."
This rather posed Emily after her tragic night, wherein she had
buried her second friendship and wept over its grave. She was not
prepared for so speedy a resurrection. As far as Ilse was
concerned it seemed as if no quarrel had ever taken place.
"Why, that was YESTERDAY," she said in amazement, when Emily,
rather distantly, referred to it. Yesterday and to-day were two
entirely different things in Ilse's philosophy. Emily accepted it--
she found she had to. Ilse, it transpired, could no more help
flying into tantrums now and then than she could help being jolly
and affectionate between them. What amazed Emily, in whom things
were bound to rankle for a time, was the way in which Ilse appeared
to forget a quarrel the moment it was over. To be called a serpent
and a crocodile one minute and hugged and darling-ed the next was
somewhat disconcerting until time and experience took the edge off
it.
"Aren't I nice enough between times to make up for it?" demanded
Ilse. "Dot Payne never flies into tempers, but would you like HER
for a chum?"
"No, she's too stupid," admitted Emily.
"And Rhoda Stuart is never out of temper, but you got enough of
HER. Do you think I'd ever treat you as she did?"
No, Emily had no doubt on this point. Whatever Ilse was or was
not, she was loyal and true.
And certainly Rhoda Stuart and Dot Payne compared to Ilse were "as
moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine"--or would have been
if Emily had as yet known anything more of her Tennyson than the
Bugle Song.
"You can't have everything," said Ilse. "I've got Dad's temper and
that's all there is to it. Wait till you see HIM in one of his
rages."
fight. It was really quite a terrible fight, arising out of a
simple argument as to whether they would or would not have a
parlour in the playhouse they were building in Lofty John's bush.
Emily wanted a parlour and Ilse didn't. Ilse lost her temper at
once, and went into a true Burnley tantrum. She was very fluent in
her rages and the volley of abusive "dictionary words" which she
hurled at Emily would have staggered most of the Blair Water girls.
But Emily was too much at home with words to be floored so easily;
she grew angry too, but in the cool, dignified, Murray way which
was more exasperating than violence. When Ilse had to pause for
breath in her diatribes, Emily, sitting on a big stone with her
knees crossed, her eyes black and her cheeks crimson, interjected
little sarcastic retorts that infuriated Ilse still further. Ilse
was crimson, too, and her eyes were pools of scintillating, tawny
fire. They were both so pretty in their fury that it was almost a
pity they couldn't have been angry all the time.
"You needn't suppose, you little puling, snivelling chit, that you
are going to boss ME, just because you live at New Moon," shrieked
Ilse, as an ultimatum, stamping her foot.
"I'm not going to boss you--I'm not going to associate with you
ever again," retorted Emily, disdainfully.
"I'm glad to be rid of you--you proud, stuck-up, conceited, top-
lofty BIPED," cried Ilse. "Never you speak to me again. And don't
you go about Blair Water saying things about me, either."
This was unbearable to a girl who NEVER "said things" about her
friends or once-friends.
"I'm not going to SAY things about you," said Emily deliberately.
"I'm just going to THINK them."
This was far more aggravating than speech and Emily knew it. Ilse
was driven quite frantic by it. Who knew what unearthly things
Emily might be thinking about her any time she took the notion to?
Ilse had already discovered what a fertile imagination Emily had.
"Do you suppose I care what you think, you insignificant serpent?
Why, you haven't ANY sense."
"I've got something then that's far better," said Emily, with a
maddening superior smile. "Something that YOU can NEVER have, Ilse
Burnley."
Ilse doubled her fists as if she would like to demolish Emily by
physical force.
"If I couldn't write better poetry than you, I'd hang myself," she
derided.
"I'll lend you a dime to buy a rope," said Emily.
Ilse glared at her, vanquished.
"You can go to the devil!" she said.
Emily got up and went, not to the devil, but back to New Moon.
Ilse relieved HER feelings by knocking the boards of their china
closet down, and kicking their "moss gardens" to pieces, and
departed also.
Emily felt exceedingly badly. Here was another friendship
destroyed--a friendship, too, that had been very delightful and
satisfying. Ilse HAD been a splendid chum--there was no doubt
about that. After Emily had cooled down she went to the dormer-
window and cried.
"Wretched, wretched me!" she sobbed, dramatically, but very
sincerely.
Yet the bitterness of her break with Rhoda was not present. THIS
quarrel was fair and open and above-board. She had not been
stabbed in the back. But of course she and Ilse would never be
chums again. You couldn't be chums with a person who called you a
chit and a biped, and a serpent, and told you to go to the devil.
The thing was impossible. And besides, Ilse could NEVER forgive
HER--for Emily was honest enough to admit to herself that she had
been very aggravating, too.
Yet, when Emily went to the playhouse next morning, bent on
retrieving her share of broken dishes and boards, there was Ilse,
skipping around, hard at work, with all the shelves back in place,
the moss garden re-made, and a beautiful parlour laid out and
connected with the living-room by a spruce arch.
"Hello, you. Here's your parlour and I hope you'll be satisfied
now," she said gaily. "What's kept you so long? I thought you
were never coming."
This rather posed Emily after her tragic night, wherein she had
buried her second friendship and wept over its grave. She was not
prepared for so speedy a resurrection. As far as Ilse was
concerned it seemed as if no quarrel had ever taken place.
"Why, that was YESTERDAY," she said in amazement, when Emily,
rather distantly, referred to it. Yesterday and to-day were two
entirely different things in Ilse's philosophy. Emily accepted it--
she found she had to. Ilse, it transpired, could no more help
flying into tantrums now and then than she could help being jolly
and affectionate between them. What amazed Emily, in whom things
were bound to rankle for a time, was the way in which Ilse appeared
to forget a quarrel the moment it was over. To be called a serpent
and a crocodile one minute and hugged and darling-ed the next was
somewhat disconcerting until time and experience took the edge off
it.
"Aren't I nice enough between times to make up for it?" demanded
Ilse. "Dot Payne never flies into tempers, but would you like HER
for a chum?"
"No, she's too stupid," admitted Emily.
"And Rhoda Stuart is never out of temper, but you got enough of
HER. Do you think I'd ever treat you as she did?"
No, Emily had no doubt on this point. Whatever Ilse was or was
not, she was loyal and true.
And certainly Rhoda Stuart and Dot Payne compared to Ilse were "as
moonlight unto sunlight and as water unto wine"--or would have been
if Emily had as yet known anything more of her Tennyson than the
Bugle Song.
"You can't have everything," said Ilse. "I've got Dad's temper and
that's all there is to it. Wait till you see HIM in one of his
rages."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-09-24 09:48 am (UTC)Not because I expect more so much as I bruise easily and take longer than the average bear to cope.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-24 01:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-24 11:08 am (UTC)Emily got up and went, not to the devil, but back to New Moon.
I feel like I need to pull those out & re-read them all.
I love you Julie. I think you need to know that. I wished I lived nearer.
xoxox
no subject
Date: 2004-09-24 01:11 pm (UTC)