Little Women
old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of
several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a
dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her
pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one
would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now
regretted more than any of them.
When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable
that it took all Amy’s courage to say meekly...
“Please forgive me, Jo. I’m very, very sorry.”
“I never shall forgive you,” was Jo’s stern answer, and from that
moment she ignored Amy entirely.
No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had
learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted,
and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own
generous nature, softened Jo’s resentment and healed the breach. It was
not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother
read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and
the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing
time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy
broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts
to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as
well as usual, and all felt out of tune.
As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, “My
dear, don’t let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other,
help each other, and begin again tomorrow.”
Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her
grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she
felt so deeply injured that she really couldn’t quite forgive yet. So
she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was
listening, “It was an abominable thing, and she doesn’t deserve to be
forgiven.”
With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or
confidential gossip that night.
Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed,
and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured
than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which
was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud,
and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she
dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack
of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful
when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were
always talking about being good and yet wouldn’t even try when other
people set them a virtuous example.
“Everybody is so hateful, I’ll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always
kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself,
and off she went.
Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient
exclamation.
“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we
shall have. But it’s no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.”
“Don’t say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the
loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and
I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go
after them. Don’t say anything till Jo has got good-natured with
Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind
thing, and I’m sure she’ll be friends again with all her heart.”
“I’ll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to
get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over
the hill.
It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached
them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for
he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm
spell had preceded the cold snap.
“I’ll go on to the first bend, and see if it’s all right before we
begin to race,” Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a
young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on
her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and
went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of
satisfaction in her sister’s troubles. She had cherished her anger till
it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and
feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend,
he shouted back...
“Keep near the shore. It isn’t safe in the middle.” Jo heard, but Amy
was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over
her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...
“No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.”
Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy,
far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the
river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart,
then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round,
just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden
crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo’s
heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice
was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no
strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless,
staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the
black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie’s voice cried
out...
“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!”
How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked
as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed,
and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged
a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more
frightened than hurt.
“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on
her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping
his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed
so intricate before.
Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an
exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot
fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking
pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands
cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was
comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed,
she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.
“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the
golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever
under the treacherous ice.
“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won’t even take cold, I think,
you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,” replied
her mother cheerfully.
“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it
would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of
penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her
hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the
heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
“It’s my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it
breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I
do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.
“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is
impossible to conquer your fault,” said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy
head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo
cried even harder.
“You don’t know, you can’t guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could
do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone
and enjoy it. I’m afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and
spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help
me!”
“I will, my child, I will. Don’t cry so bitterly, but remember this
day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another
like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than
yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think
your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like
it.”
“Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!” And for the moment Jo forgot
remorse in surprise.
“I’ve been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded
in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I
have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it,
though it may take me another forty years to do so.”
The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a
better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She
felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The
knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it,
made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it,
though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a
girl of fifteen.
“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go
out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?”
asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
“Yes, I’ve learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and
when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away
for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and
wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed
and fastened up Jo’s disheveled hair.
“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the
sharp words fly out before I know what I’m about, and the more I say
the worse I get, till it’s a pleasure to hurt people’s feelings and say
dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”
“My good mother used to help me...”
“As you do us...” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.
“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years
had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to
anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears
over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on.
Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be
good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we
were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by
nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything.”
“Poor Mother! What helped you then?”
“Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains,
but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed
to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me
that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little
girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your
sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you
when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done,
and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest
reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them
copy.”
“Oh, Mother, if I’m ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied,”
cried Jo, much touched.
“I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch
over your ‘bosom enemy’, as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not
spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with
heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you
greater sorrow and regret than you have known today.”