Little Women
nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only
wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I’d printed the whole
or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged.”
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally.
Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so
well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those
whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an
author’s best education, and when the first soreness was over, she
could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel
herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
“Not being a genius, like Keats, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly,
“and I’ve got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were
taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,
and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
‘charmingly natural, tender, and true’. So I’ll comfort myself with
that, and when I’m ready, I’ll up again and take another.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the
determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a
paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously
every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much
love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but
succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil
one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and
bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too
tired, sometimes, even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of
dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she
soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the
carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself,
and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better
than hers.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t
live on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though
she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss
any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up
his kiss with the tender inquiry, “Shall I send some veal or mutton for
dinner, darling?” The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but
it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change
for the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it
like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares
of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric
wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with
more energy than discretion.
While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs. Cornelius’s
Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the
problems with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in
to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be
privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be
concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little
Hummels. An evening with John over the account books usually produced a
temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would
ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread
pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although
he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was
found, however, Meg added to her domestic possessions what young
couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.
Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with
homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John
was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra
quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be
attended to at once. As John firmly believed that ‘my wife’ was equal
to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that
she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most
pleasing form for winter use. Home came four dozen delightful little
pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for
her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the
elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the
bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her
success, for hadn’t she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array
of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly, and
the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg
resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling,
straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked
advice of Mrs. Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah
did that she left undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but
that dreadful stuff wouldn’t ‘jell’.
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand,
but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with
their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over
that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one,
but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on
without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had
advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats
all that hot summer day, and at five o’clock sat down in her
topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and
wept.
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, “My
husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he
likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no
scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good
dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please,
and be sure of a welcome from me.”
How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear
her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior
wife. But, although they had had company from time to time, it never
happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to
distinguish herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of
tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only
wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
If John had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have
been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the
year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating
himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling
sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant
anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty
wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his
mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and
husband.
It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached
the Dovecote. The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was
not only shut, but locked, and yesterday’s mud still adorned the steps.
The parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty
wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in
her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she
greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a
sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.
“I’m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while
I look up Mrs. Brooke,” said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and
Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused
discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see
and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was
trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was
burning gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly
eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly
liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat
sobbing dismally.
“My dearest girl, what is the matter?” cried John, rushing in, with
awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret
consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
“Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried! I’ve been at it
till I’m all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!” and the
exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet
welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized
at the same time as the floor.
“What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?” asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was
all askew.
“Yes,” sobbed Meg despairingly.
“Tell me quick, then. Don’t cry. I can bear anything better than that.
Out with it, love.”
“The... The jelly won’t jell and I don’t know what to do!”
John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the
derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which
put the finishing stroke to poor Meg’s woe.
“Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don’t bother any more
about it. I’ll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven’s sake
don’t have hysterics, for I’ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and...”
John got no further, for Meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a
tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of
mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay...
“A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you
do such a thing?”
“Hush, he’s in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can’t
be helped now,” said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
“You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to
have remembered how busy I was,” continued Meg petulantly, for even
turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
“I didn’t know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for
I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you
have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang
me if I ever do again!” added John, with an aggrieved air.
“I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can’t see him, and there
isn’t any dinner.”
“Well, I like that! Where’s the beef and vegetables I sent home, and
the pudding you promised?” cried John, rushing to the larder.
“I hadn’t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother’s. I’m
sorry, but I was so busy,” and Meg’s tears began again.
John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day’s work to
come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty
table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or
manner. He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have
blown over, but for one unlucky word.
“It’s a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we’ll pull
through and have a good time yet. Don’t cry, dear, but just exert
yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We’re both as hungry as
hunters, so we shan’t mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread
and cheese. We won’t ask for jelly.”
He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his
fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and
the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
“You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I’m too used up to