Work Text:
24/09/1915
Dearest Diana,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
We've been learning of some poets in my English Literature class, and I find this poem simply fascinating. It is by a man named William Shakespeare, yet appears to be written for another man. It was simply gorgeous Diana.
Our professor did not share my views, although I don't suppose that is entirely unsurprising considering the controversial nature of topics such as homosexuality. I for one have no idea as to why anyone should be treated any differently for factors out of their control. Why are we worrying about homosexuals when there are people as annoying as Gilbert Blythe just wandering around the Earth? (I am, of course, joking about Gilbert. We've actually become surprisingly close in recent months, although I do hope that he is not getting the wrong impression. Our connection is completely platonic- to me, he is merely a friend and a competitor within school.)
You would love it here Diana. The willow trees stretch for miles upon miles and the grass becomes all dewy on the colder mornings. There are daises growing in a small patch outside of my window in the boarding houses and whenever I see them I think of you.
The girls here are all so nice, but none of them could ever compare to you. I miss you so much I can hardly breathe sometimes. That sounds dramatic I'm sure, and Marilla would surely have something to say if she ever read this letter, but she won't because this letter is meant for you and you alone. I hope no-one else touches this letter before it reaches you, although that is a silly thing to hope as surely the postman must have to touch it to give it to you, but I can't help but want my touch to linger on this envelope so you might touch the places I did, and know I was with you.
That sounds dreadfully romantic Diana. Friends can be romantic, I think.
I am just now realizing that this shall be the first season we are away from each other since we were eleven. I shall miss the sight of snowflakes falling softly onto your head and melting slowly into your hair. Your hair is simply the most divine shade of brown. I cannot explain the curious feeling it evokes within me.
I hope to be home at Green Gables for Christmas. That seems an age away, although I suppose it shall pass faster than I ever expect it to. That's the way life is sometimes I suppose. It seems to last an age, but the second it ends it feels as though no time has passed at all.
Write back soon.
With deepest affection,
Your bosom friend, Anne with an E.
19/10/1915
My Diana,
Enclosed are the pressed flowers you requested in your last letter. Pressed flowers are simply magnificent, I think. They're like mementos of nature.
It is nearing Hallows Eve as usual, and you'd be surprised how many academic people here at Redmond who should really know better are superstitious. For the past few days, there seems to have been a outbreak of salt throwing and knocking on wood, and frankly I find the whole situation rather amusing.
I am a person of great imagination, you know this Diana, but I cannot bring myself to understand how a person could genuinely believe that breaking a mirror results in seven years of bad luck, or that stars can predict a person's personality. I'm sure I'm entirely missing the point, and it is fun to compare astrological alignments with the other girls in my boarding house, but I personally do not believe in superstition.
Are you particularly superstitious Diana? I had not thought so, but perhaps; perhaps.
Diana, you must never show this letter to anyone, but I do not think I believe in God. Marilla and Matthew do, and I'll never breathe a word of my doubt to them for fear I will anger or upset them, but I needed to tell someone.
How are you such a good listener even through a quill and ink on parchment?
Every day I miss you more. I feel as though I can hardly remember the sound of your voice, or the sound of your laugh when I startle you into giggles. When you laugh I can swear the fairies in the woods listen and capture the sound for themselves, drinking the sound from flower heads.
I cannot wait to feel your arms around me again.
Love always,
Anne Shirley
23/11/1915
Diana,
Is it true? Are you engaged to be married to Fred Wright? You cannot! You can't. We promised, don't you remember? Kindred spirits, forever and ever.
You didn't even tell me. Why? You had every opportunity.
Did you not want me to know? Diana, I'm your best friend in all the world, why would you keep this from me?
I feel as though my chest has been ripped down the middle, like paper. You did that Diana.
Don't write for a while please.
Anne.
12/12/1915
Diana my love,
Thank you for not writing. I needed to time to collect my thoughts.
As you know, I am very blunt, and I must say thoughts as they come to my mind, especially when it comes to you, dearest Diana. All I ask is that you do not hate me when I reveal to you my true thoughts. I can't lose you. You are everything to me.
I have been examining my feelings and actions for the past few months- well, years, I suppose- and I have come to the inevitable conclusion that I am quite in love with you. That is the fact of the matter, it seems.
I am, for one of the first times in my life, at a loss as to what to do with this information. So I'm telling you. I love you. I love your hair as it tumbles down your shoulders, unruly no matter the attempts to tame it with a comb. I love your cheeks when they get all rosy when I lean in slightly too close for comfort. I love your hands, artistic and soft as duck's down. I love you.
Well, there it is. The big secret.
If you are truly disgusted by me, please do not write me back. I don't think I could stand the pain.
If you still want to be friends, please tell Marilla to tell me in her next letter that you will see me at Christmas. I'll need some time, but I can be your friend, I'm sure of it.
And if you by some miracle love me too, write me back.
Yours, forever and ever,
Anne Shirley
18/12/1915
My love,
You replied.