“Im not afraid of storms, for Im learning how to sail my ship.”
The
luggage has come, and I’ve been making hay of Amy’s Paris finery,
trying to find some things I want,” said Laurie, coming in the next day
to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother’s lap, as if being made
‘the baby’ again.
“Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this,” and
Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if
asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
“I shouldn’t have come over if I could have helped it, but I can’t get
on without my little woman any more than a...”
“Weathercock can without the wind,” suggested Jo, as he paused for a
simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came
home.
“Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with
only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven’t had an
easterly spell since I was married. Don’t know anything about the
north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?”
“Lovely weather so far. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m not
afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Come home,
dear, and I’ll find your bootjack. I suppose that’s what you are
rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother,” said
Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
“What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?” asked
Jo, buttoning Amy’s cloak as she used to button her pinafores.
“We have our plans. We don’t mean to say much about them yet, because
we are such very new brooms, but we don’t intend to be idle. I’m going
into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove
to him that I’m not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me
steady. I’m tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man.”
“And Amy, what is she going to do?” asked Mrs. March, well pleased at
Laurie’s decision and the energy with which he spoke.
“After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall
astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant
society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall
exert over the world at large.
“Resolved to take fate by the throat and shake a living out of her”
Probably owing to the excitement of grief for her sister's death, and
sympathy in Anna's happy betrothal, Louisa became in October more
discouraged than she had ever been, and went to Boston in search of
work. As she walked over the mill dam the running stream brought the
thought of the River of Death, which would end all troubles. It was
but a momentary impulse, and the brave young heart rallied to the
thought, "There is work for me, and I'll have it!" Her journal
narrates how Mr. Parker helped her through this period of anxiety. She
was all ready to go to Lancaster, to hard drudgery at sewing, when her
old place as governess was again offered to her, and her own support
was assured.
_October._--Went to Boston on my usual hunt for employment, as I
am not needed at home and seem to be the only bread-winner just
now.
* * * * *
My fit of despair was soon over, for it seemed so cowardly to run
away before the battle was over I couldn't do it. So I said
firmly, "There _is_ work for me, and I'll have it," and went home
resolved to take Fate by the throat and shake a living out of
her.
Sunday Mr. Parker preached a sermon on "Laborious Young Women."
Just what I needed; for it said: "Trust your fellow-beings, and
let them help you. Don't be too proud to ask, and accept the
humblest work till you can find the task you want."
"I will," said I, and went to Mr. P.'s. He was out; but I told
Mrs. P. my wants, and she kindly said Theodore and Hannah would
be sure to have something for me. As I went home I met Mrs. L.,
who had not wanted me, as Alice went to school. She asked if I
was engaged, and said A. did not do well, and she thought perhaps
they would like me back. I was rejoiced, and went home feeling
that the tide had begun to turn. Next day came Miss H. S. to
offer me a place at the Girls' Reform School at Lancaster, to sew
ten hours a day, make and mend. I said I'd go, as I could do
anything with a needle; but added, if Mrs. L. wants me I'd rather
do that.
"Of course you had. Take it if it comes, and if not, try my
work.
“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.”
The
luggage has come, and I’ve been making hay of Amy’s Paris finery,
trying to find some things I want,” said Laurie, coming in the next day
to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother’s lap, as if being made
‘the baby’ again.
“Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this,” and
Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if
asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
“I shouldn’t have come over if I could have helped it, but I can’t get
on without my little woman any more than a...”
“Weathercock can without the wind,” suggested Jo, as he paused for a
simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came
home.
“Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with
only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven’t had an
easterly spell since I was married. Don’t know anything about the
north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?”
“Lovely weather so far. I don’t know how long it will last, but I’m not
afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Come home,
dear, and I’ll find your bootjack. I suppose that’s what you are
rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother,” said
Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
“What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?” asked
Jo, buttoning Amy’s cloak as she used to button her pinafores.
“We have our plans. We don’t mean to say much about them yet, because
we are such very new brooms, but we don’t intend to be idle. I’m going
into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove
to him that I’m not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me
steady. I’m tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man.”
“And Amy, what is she going to do?” asked Mrs. March, well pleased at
Laurie’s decision and the energy with which he spoke.
“After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall
astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant
society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall
exert over the world at large.
“Girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say No when they mean Yes, and drive a man out of his wits for the fun of it.”
”
Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him
looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded
moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, “No,
Teddy. Please don’t!”
“I will, and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo, we’ve got to have it
out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered, getting
flushed and excited all at once.
“Say what you like then. I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a desperate sort
of patience.
Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to ‘have it
out’, if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with
characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now
and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady...
“I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Jo, couldn’t help it, you’ve
been so good to me. I’ve tried to show it, but you wouldn’t let me. Now
I’m going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can’t go on so
any longer.”
“I wanted to save you this. I thought you’d understand...” began Jo,
finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
“I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they
mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits
just for the fun of it,” returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an
undeniable fact.
“I don’t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to
keep you from it if I could.”
“I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all
the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and
everything you didn’t like, and waited and never complained, for I
hoped you’d love me, though I’m not half good enough...” Here there was
a choke that couldn’t be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while
he cleared his ‘confounded throat’.
“You, you are, you’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful
to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don’t know why I can’t love you
as you want me to. I’ve tried, but I can’t change the feeling, and it
would be a lie to say I do when I don’t.”
“Really, truly, Jo?”
He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with
a look that she did not soon forget.
“Really, truly, dear.”
They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words
fell reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as
if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him.
“Money is the root of all evil, and yet it is such a useful root that we cannot get on without it any more than we can without potatoes.”
Then her father rescued her,
and she drove away still smiling and waving her hands, while the boys
sat on the fence screaming like a flock of guinea-fowls, “Come back!
come back!” till she was out of sight.
They all missed her, and each dimly felt that he was better for having
known a creature so lovely, delicate, and sweet; for little Bess
appealed to the chivalrous instinct in them as something to love,
admire, and protect with a tender sort of reverence. Many a man
remembers some pretty child who has made a place in his heart and kept
her memory alive by the simple magic of her innocence; these little men
were just learning to feel this power, and to love it for its gentle
influence, not ashamed to let the small hand lead them, nor to own their
loyalty to womankind, even in the bud.
CHAPTER XIV. DAMON AND PYTHIAS
Mrs. Bhaer was right; peace was only a temporary lull, a storm was
brewing, and two days after Bess left, a moral earthquake shook
Plumfield to its centre.
Tommy's hens were at the bottom of the trouble, for if they had not
persisted in laying so many eggs, he could not have sold them and made
such sums. Money is the root of all evil, and yet it is such a useful
root that we cannot get on without it any more than we can without
potatoes. Tommy certainly could not, for he spent his income so
recklessly, that Mr. Bhaer was obliged to insist on a savings-bank, and
presented him with a private one an imposing tin edifice, with the name
over the door, and a tall chimney, down which the pennies were to
go, there to rattle temptingly till leave was given to open a sort of
trap-door in the floor.
The house increased in weight so rapidly, that Tommy soon became
satisfied with his investment, and planned to buy unheard-of treasures
with his capital. He kept account of the sums deposited, and was
promised that he might break the bank as soon as he had five dollars,
on condition that he spent the money wisely. Only one dollar was needed,
and the day Mrs. Jo paid him for four dozen eggs, he was so delighted,
that he raced off to the barn to display the bright quarters to Nat, who
was also laying by money for the long-desired violin.
“I wish I had 'em to put with my three dollars, then I'd soon get enough
to buy my fiddle,” he said, looking wistfully at the money.
“Have regular hours for work and play; make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life will become a beautiful success.”
It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and
spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than
money or fashion.”
“We’ll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don’t,” said Jo.
“I’ll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner
party I have shall be a success.”
“I’ll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it,
Marmee. I can and I will, though I’m not fond of sewing. That will be
better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as
they are.” said Meg.
“I’ll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music
and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing,”
was Beth’s resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically
declaring, “I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts
of speech.”
“Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy
that we shall not have to repeat it, only don’t go to the other extreme
and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each
day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth
of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age
will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite
of poverty.”
“We’ll remember, Mother!” and they did.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAMP LAURENCE
Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it
regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door
and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands
full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the
penny post.
“Here’s your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that,” she said,
putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in ‘Marmee’s corner’,
and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
“Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove,” continued Beth, delivering
the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching
wristbands.
“Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one,” said Meg,
looking at the gray cotton glove. “Didn’t you drop the other in the
garden?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t, for there was only one in the office.”
“I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found.
“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them and try to follow them.”
He comprehended, took it with a quiet “Thank you,” and stood
looking at it for a moment, as if her little compliment pleased him
very much.
“And these?” he said presently, pointing to the delicate violet bells
that grew next the crimson ones.
The color deepened a shade in Christie’s cheek, but she went on with no
other sign of shyness; for with David she always spoke out frankly,
because she could not help it.
“Those mean love to me, not passion: the deep red ones half hidden
under the leaves mean that. My violet flowers are the best and purest
love we can know: the sort that makes life beautiful and lasts for
ever. The white ones that come next are tinged with that soft color
here and there, and they mean holiness. I know there will be love in
heaven; so, whether I ever find it here or not, I am sure I shall not
miss it wholly.”
Then, as if glad to leave the theme that never can be touched without
reverent emotion by a true woman, she added, looking up to where a few
spotless blossoms shone like silver in the light:
“Far away there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I cannot
reach them: but I can look up, and see their beauty; believe in them,
and try to follow where they lead; remember that frost comes latest to
those that bloom the highest; and keep my beautiful white flowers as
long as I can.”
“The mush is ready; come to breakfast, children,” called Mrs. Sterling,
as she crossed the hall with a teapot in her hand.
Christie’s face fell, then she exclaimed laughing: “That’s always the
way; I never take a poetic flight but in comes the mush, and spoils it
all.”
“Not a bit; and that’s where women are mistaken. Souls and bodies
should go on together; and you will find that a hearty breakfast won’t
spoil the little hymn the morning-glories sung;” and David set her a
good example by eating two bowls of hasty-pudding and milk, with the
lovely flower in his button-hole.
“Now, what are we to do next?” asked Christie, when the usual morning
work was finished.
“In about ten minutes thee will see, I think,” answered Mrs. Sterling,
glancing at the clock, and smiling at the bright expectant look in the
younger woman’s eyes.
She did see; for in less than ten minutes the rumble of an omnibus was
heard, a sound of many voices, and then the whole Wilkins brood came
whooping down the lane.
“I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. Im not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”
“Perhaps not. I’ve heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for
me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has
John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and
Mother, won’t you Jo?”
“If I can. But, Beth, I don’t give up yet. I’m going to believe that it
is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true.” said Jo, trying to
speak cheerfully.
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, “I don’t
know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to anyone but you,
because I can’t speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I
have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I’m not
like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I’d do when I
grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t
seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about
at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and
the hard part now is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems
as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”
Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the
sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew
by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it
till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little
gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach ‘peeping’ softly to
itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth,
and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone,
dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt
comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and
remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.
“Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than
the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy,
confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and
Mother said they reminded her of me—busy, quaker-colored creatures,
always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song
of theirs.
“Women have been called queens for a long time, but the kingdom given them isnt worth ruling”
"I don't know whether it is meant for a saint or a muse, a goddess or a
fate; but to me it is only a beautiful woman, bigger, lovelier, and more
imposing than any woman I ever saw," answered Fanny, slowly, trying to
express the impression the statue made upon her.
Rebecca smiled brightly, and Bess looked round to nod approvingly, but
Polly clapped her hands, and said, "Well done, Fan! I did n't think you
'd get the idea so well, but you have, and I'm proud of your insight.
Now I'll tell you, for Becky will let me, since you have paid her the
compliment of understanding her work. Some time ago we got into a famous
talk about what women should be, and Becky said she'd show us her idea
of the coming woman. There she is, as you say, bigger, lovelier, and
more imposing than any we see nowadays; and at the same time, she is
a true woman. See what a fine forehead, yet the mouth is both firm
and tender, as if it could say strong, wise things, as well as teach
children and kiss babies. We could n't decide what to put in the hands
as the most appropriate symbol. What do you say?"
"Give her a sceptre: she would make a fine queen," answered Fanny.
"No, we have had enough of that; women have been called queens a long
time, but the kingdom given them is n't worth ruling," answered Rebecca.
"I don't think it is nowadays," said Fanny, with a tired sort of sigh.
"Put a man's hand in hers to help her along, then," said Polly, whose
happy fortune it had been to find friends and helpers in father and
brothers.
"No; my woman is to stand alone, and help herself," said Rebecca,
decidedly.
"She's to be strong-minded, is she?" and Fanny's lip curled a little as
she uttered the misused words.
"Yes, strong-minded, strong-hearted, strong-souled, and strong-bodied;
that is why I made her larger than the miserable, pinched-up woman of
our day. Strength and beauty must go together. Don't you think these
broad shoulders can bear burdens without breaking down, these hands work
well, these eyes see clearly, and these lips do something besides simper
and gossip?"
Fanny was silent; but a voice from Bess's corner said, "Put a child in
her arms, Becky."
"Not that even, for she is to be something more than a nurse."
"Give her a ballot-box," cried a new voice, and turning round, they saw
an odd-looking woman perched on a sofa behind them.
“Happy is the son whose faith in his mother remains unchallenged.”
Dan never forgot the little picture on which the light of his
lantern shone that night. He thought Mrs. Jo would cry out, but she
only whispered, “Hush!” as she softly lifted away the apron, and saw the
little ruddy face below. The berry-stained lips were half-open as the
breath came and went, the yellow hair lay damp on the hot forehead, and
both the chubby hands held fast the little pail still full.
The sight of the childish harvest, treasured through all the troubles of
that night for her, seemed to touch Mrs. Jo to the heart, for suddenly
she gathered up her boy, and began to cry over him, so tenderly, yet
so heartily, that he woke up, and at first seemed bewildered. Then he
remembered, and hugged her close, saying with a laugh of triumph,
“I knew you'd come! O Marmar! I did want you so!” For a moment they
kissed and clung to one another, quite forgetting all the world; for no
matter how lost and soiled and worn-out wandering sons may be, mothers
can forgive and forget every thing as they fold them in their fostering
arms. Happy the son whose faith in his mother remains unchanged, and
who, through all his wanderings, has kept some filial token to repay her
brave and tender love.
Dan meantime picked Nan out of her bush, and, with a gentleness none but
Teddy ever saw in him before, he soothed her first alarm at the sudden
waking, and wiped away her tears; for Nan also began to cry for joy,
it was so good to see a kind face and feel a strong arm round her after
what seemed to her ages of loneliness and fear.
“My poor little girl, don't cry! You are all safe now, and no one
shall say a word of blame to-night,” said Mrs. Jo, taking Nan into her
capacious embrace, and cuddling both children as a hen might gather her
lost chickens under her motherly wings.
“It was my fault; but I am sorry. I tried to take care of him, and I
covered him up and let him sleep, and didn't touch his berries, though I
was so hungry; and I never will do it again truly, never, never,” sobbed
Nan, quite lost in a sea of penitence and thankfulness.
“Call them now, and let us get home,” said Mrs.
“I may be strong-minded, but no one can say Im out of my sphere now, for womans special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens.”
Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight,
though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.
“What made you stay away so long?” she asked presently, finding it so
pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that
she could not keep silent.
“It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that
so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after
much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so
much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?”
“I’m glad you are poor. I couldn’t bear a rich husband,” said Jo
decidedly, adding in a softer tone, “Don’t fear poverty. I’ve known it
long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and
don’t call yourself old—forty is the prime of life. I couldn’t help
loving you if you were seventy!”
The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of
his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn’t, Jo wiped
his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or
two...
“I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I’m out of my sphere now,
for woman’s special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing
burdens. I’m to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home.
Make up your mind to that, or I’ll never go,” she added resolutely, as
he tried to reclaim his load.
“We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away
and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you,
I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy
while we hope and wait?”
“Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the
rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn’t enjoy
myself if I neglected them even for you, so there’s no need of hurry or
impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both
be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God
wills.”
“Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif
back but a full heart and these empty hands,” cried the Professor,
quite overcome.
Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they
stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering
tenderly, “Not empty now,” and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich
under the umbrella.
“She had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners.”
The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth
everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her
bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so
that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years
Jo’s most cherished castle in the air.
The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en
Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the
least lovely of the giant’s treasures, if I remember rightly. But the
‘up again and take another’ spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so
she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.
She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even
all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a
‘thrilling tale’, and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had
a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over
many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar
smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels
rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them
took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this
reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment...
“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to
see Mr. Dashwood.”
Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced
with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.
“Life is my college. May I graduate well, and earn some honors!”
How happy he will be if people will only listen to and _pay_
for his wisdom.
May came to B. and stayed with me while she took drawing lessons.
Christmas at home. Write an Indian story.
_January_, 1859.--Send a parcel home to Marmee and Nan.
Mother very ill. Home to nurse her for a week. Wonder if I ought
not to be a nurse, as I seem to have a gift for it. Lizzie, L.
W., and Mother all say so; and I like it. If I couldn't write or
act I'd try it. May yet. $21 from L.; $15 home.
* * * * *
Some day I'll do my best, and get well paid for it.
[$3,000 for a short serial in 1876. True prophet.--L. M. A.]
Wrote a sequel to "Mark Field." Had a queer time over it, getting
up at night to write it, being too full to sleep.
_March._--"Mark" was a success, and much praised. So I found the
divine afflatus did descend. Busy life teaching, writing, sewing,
getting all I can from lectures, books, and good people. Life is
my college. May I graduate well, and earn some honors!
_April._--May went home after a happy winter at the School of
Design, where she did finely, and was pronounced full of promise.
Mr. T. said good things of her, and we were very proud. No doubt
now what she is to be, if we can only keep her along.
I went home also, being done with A., who went out of town early.
Won't teach any more if I can help it; don't like it; and if I
can get writing enough can do much better.
I have done more than I hoped. Supported myself, helped May, and
sent something home. Not borrowed a penny, and had only five
dollars given me. So my third campaign ends well.
_May._--Took care of L. W., who was ill. Walked from C. to B. one
day, twenty miles, in five hours, and went to a party in the
evening. Not very tired. Well done for a vegetable production!
_June._--Took two children to board and teach. A busy month, as
Anna was in B.
_September._--Great State Encampment here. Town full of soldiers,
with military fuss and feathers.
“My definition [of a philosopher] is of a man up in a balloon, with his family and friends holding the ropes which confine him to earth and trying to haul him down.”
She felt that her father had too much of the trying
details, and perhaps did not appreciate how much joy of recognition it
brought him. She had not much faith in the practical success of the
experiment. Philosophy was much associated in her mind with early
poverty and suffering, and she did not feel its charms. She was
usually at the seashore at this season, as she suffered from the heat
at Concord. Frequent allusions to the school appear in her journal.
The following anecdote is given by a friend.
"It was at Concord on Emerson day. After a morning with Bartol and
Alcott and Mrs. Howe, I lunched with the Alcotts', who had for guest
the venerable Dr. McCosh. Naturally the conversation turned on the
events of the morning. 'I was thinking,' said the Doctor, 'as I looked
among your audience, that there were no young men; and that with none
but old men your school would soon die with them. By the way, madam,'
he continued, addressing Miss Alcott, 'will you tell me what is your
definition of a philosopher?'
"The reply came instantly, 'My definition is of a man up in a balloon,
with his family and friends holding the ropes which confine him to
earth and trying to haul him down.'
"The laugh which followed this reply was heartily joined in by the
philosopher himself."
_Journal._
_March_, 1878.--A happy event,--May's marriage to Ernest
Nieriker, the "tender friend" who has consoled her for Marmee's
loss, as John consoled Nan for Beth's. He is a Swiss, handsome,
cultivated, and good; an excellent family living in Baden, and E.
has a good business. May is old enough to choose for herself, and
seems so happy in the new relation that we have nothing to say
against it.
They were privately married on the 22d, and went to Havre for the
honeymoon, as E. had business in France; so they hurried the
wedding. Send her $1,000 as a gift, and all good wishes for the
new life.
_April._--Happy letters from May, who is enjoying life as one can
but once. E. writes finely to Father, and is a son to welcome I
am sure. May sketches and E. attends to his business by day, and
both revel in music in the evening, as E.
“The rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.”
In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature,
which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved
her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently
given.
“Girls,” said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her
to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, “Mother wants
us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We
used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this
war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as
you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a
little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good
and help me through the day.”
Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round
her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression
so seldom seen on her restless face.
“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let’s do as they do. I’ll help you with
the hard words, and they’ll explain things if we don’t understand,”
whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her
sisters’ example.
“I’m glad mine is blue,” said Amy. and then the rooms were very still
while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to
touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.
“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for
their gifts, half an hour later.
“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin’, and your ma
went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman
for givin’ away vittles and drink, clothes and firin’,” replied Hannah,
who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by
them all more as a friend than a servant.
“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything
ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a
basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper
time. “Why, where is Amy’s bottle of cologne?” she added, as the little
flask did not appear.
“She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on
it, or some such notion,” replied Jo, dancing about the room to take
the first stiffness off the new army slippers.
“How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they? Hannah washed and ironed
them for me, and I marked them all myself,” said Beth, looking proudly
at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.
“Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come.”
But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I
hope he truly will be, sometime.”
“Not through me,” said Jo decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and they
would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I
don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.”
“I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel
more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide, Jo, when
it turns, it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.”
“It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too
young, Beth. I can’t let you go. I’ll work and pray and fight against
it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can’t
be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from me,” cried poor
Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than
Beth’s.
Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows
itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than
homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the
faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and
cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no
questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of
us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and
strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did
not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her
passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love,
from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He
draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for
life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, “I try to be
willing,” while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this
great sorrow broke over them together.
By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, “You’ll tell them this
when we go home?”
“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo, for now it seemed
to her that Beth changed every day.
“Perhaps not. I’ve heard that the people who love best are often
blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for
me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has
John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and
Mother, won’t you Jo?”
“If I can. But, Beth, I don’t give up yet.
“Father asked us what was Gods noblest work. Anna said men, but I said babies. Men are often bad, but babies never are.”
If they
will in very deed be lovers, and not selfish; if they will serve
the town of Harvard, and make their neighbors feel them as
benefactors wherever they touch them,--they are as safe as the
sun.[5]
_Early Diary kept at Fruitlands_, 1843.
_Ten Years Old._
_September 1st._--I rose at five and had my bath. I love cold
water! Then we had our singing-lesson with Mr. Lane. After
breakfast I washed dishes, and ran on the hill till nine, and had
some thoughts,--it was so beautiful up there. Did my
lessons,--wrote and spelt and did sums; and Mr. Lane read a
story, "The Judicious Father": How a rich girl told a poor girl
not to look over the fence at the flowers, and was cross to her
because she was unhappy. The father heard her do it, and made the
girls change clothes. The poor one was glad to do it, and he told
her to keep them. But the rich one was very sad; for she had to
wear the old ones a week, and after that she was good to shabby
girls. I liked it very much, and I shall be kind to poor people.
Father asked us what was God's noblest work. Anna said _men_, but
I said _babies_. Men are often bad; babies never are. We had a
long talk, and I felt better after it, and _cleared up_.
We had bread and fruit for dinner. I read and walked and played
till supper-time. We sung in the evening. As I went to bed the
moon came up very brightly and looked at me. I felt sad because I
have been cross to-day, and did not mind Mother. I cried, and
then I felt better, and said that piece from Mrs. Sigourney, "I
must not tease my mother." I get to sleep saying poetry,--I know
a great deal.
_Thursday, 14th._--Mr. Parker Pillsbury came, and we talked about
the poor slaves. I had a music lesson with Miss F. I hate her,
she is so fussy. I ran in the wind and played be a horse, and had
a lovely time in the woods with Anna and Lizzie. We were fairies,
and made gowns and paper wings. I "flied" the highest of all. In
the evening they talked about travelling. I thought about Father
going to England, and said this piece of poetry I found in
Byron's poems:--
"When I left thy shores, O Naxos,
Not a tear in sorrow fell;
Not a sigh or faltered accent
Told my bosom's struggling swell.
“Rivalry adds so much to the charms of ones conquests”
There was
a compact between the two women, that each should keep the other
informed of all adventures, plots and plans, and share whatever good
fortune fell to the lot of either. Thus Jean wrote freely, as you
shall judge. The letters concern us alone. The first was written a few
days after she came.
"Dear Hortense:
"Another failure. Sydney was more wily than I thought. All was going
well, when one day my old fault beset me, I took too much wine, and
I carelessly owned that I had been an actress. He was shocked, and
retreated. I got up a scene, and gave myself a safe little wound, to
frighten him. The brute was not frightened, but coolly left me to my
fate. I'd have died to spite him, if I dared, but as I didn't, I
lived to torment him. As yet, I have had no chance, but I will not
forget him. His mother is a poor, weak creature, whom I could use as
I would, and through her I found an excellent place. A sick mother,
silly daughter, and two eligible sons. One is engaged to a handsome
iceberg, but that only renders him more interesting in my eyes,
rivalry adds so much to the charm of one's conquests. Well, my dear,
I went, got up in the meek style, intending to do the pathetic; but
before I saw the family, I was so angry I could hardly control
myself. Through the indolence of Monsieur the young master, no
carriage was sent for me, and I intend he shall atone for that
rudeness by-and-by. The younger son, the mother, and the girl
received me patronizingly, and I understood the simple souls at
once. Monsieur (as I shall call him, as names are unsafe) was
unapproachable, and took no pains to conceal his dislike of
governesses. The cousin was lovely, but detestable with her pride,
her coldness, and her very visible adoration of Monsieur, who let
her worship him, like an inanimate idol as he is. I hated them both,
of course, and in return for their insolence shall torment her with
jealousy, and teach him how to woo a woman by making his heart ache.
They are an intensely proud family, but I can humble them all, I
think, by captivating the sons, and when they have committed
themselves, cast them off, and marry the old uncle, whose title
takes my fancy.
“What do girls do who havent any mothers to help them through their troubles?”
It’s
nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid
us goodbye like a gentleman,” she said to herself, with a despairing
look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one
dull afternoon.
“You’d better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain,” said
her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding
to the fact.
“Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I’ve got to run in and get
some paper,” returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the
glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
“Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and
two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on,
and something warm under your cloak?”
“I believe so,” answered Jo absently.
“If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long
to see the dear man,” added Mrs. March.
Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk
rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her
heartache, “How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven’t any
mothers to help them through their troubles?”
The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks,
and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo
found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand,
loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering
instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most
unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by
descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as
if they wondered ‘how the deuce she got there’. A drop of rain on her
cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For
the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she
felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her
bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten
to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing
could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at
the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black,
forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind,
at a certain grimy warehouse, with ‘Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.
“Love is a great beautifier.”
March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we
saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg’s affairs that the
hospitals and homes still full of wounded ‘boys’ and soldiers’ widows,
decidedly miss the motherly missionary’s visits.
John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent
home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he
deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love
are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to
his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for
business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy
independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence’s more
generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better
satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any
risks with borrowed money.
Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly
in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for
love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes,
and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life
must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg
couldn’t help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts,
and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have
the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she
thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little
home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking
over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright
that she forgot Sallie’s splendor and felt herself the richest,
happiest girl in Christendom.
Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to
Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of
the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would
have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty,
her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.
