Little Women
They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was
always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.
Somehow it seemed as if they couldn’t have got through the day without
that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that
motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
“If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
seen,” cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
bitter wind.
“Don’t use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg from the depths of
the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the
world.
“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo, catching
her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away
altogether.
“Call yourself any names you like, but I am neither a rascal nor a
wretch and I don’t choose to be called so.”
“You’re a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can’t
sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make
my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and
high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”
“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt
better in spite of herself.
“Lucky for you I am, for if I put on crushed airs and tried to be
dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can
always find something funny to keep me up. Don’t croak any more, but
come home jolly, there’s a dear.”
Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted
for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm
turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,
hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.
When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate
friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something
toward their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin
too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their
parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will
which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.
Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her
small salary. As she said, she was ‘fond of luxury’, and her chief
trouble was poverty. She found it harder to bear than the others
because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of
ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown. She tried not to be
envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl
should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a
happy life. At the Kings’ she daily saw all she wanted, for the
children’s older sisters were just out, and Meg caught frequent
glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about
theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds,
and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to
her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel
bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know
how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.
Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active
person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt
one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because
her offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had
lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady’s will, but
the unworldly Marches only said...
“We can’t give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will
keep together and be happy in one another.”
The old lady wouldn’t speak to them for a time, but happening to meet
Jo at a friend’s, something in her comical face and blunt manners
struck the old lady’s fancy, and she proposed to take her for a
companion. This did not suit Jo at all, but she accepted the place
since nothing better appeared and, to every one’s surprise, got on
remarkably well with her irascible relative. There was an occasional
tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn’t bear it
longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to
come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her
heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,
which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo
remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads
and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer
pictures in his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever
he met her in the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring
down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of
all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked,
made the library a region of bliss to her.
The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo
hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair,
devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular
bookworm. But, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as
she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a
song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice
called, “Josy-phine! Josy-phine!” and she had to leave her paradise to
wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read Belsham’s Essays by the hour
together.
Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had
no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found
her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn’t read, run, and
ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless
spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series
of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training
she received at Aunt March’s was just what she needed, and the thought
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite
of the perpetual “Josy-phine!”
Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home
with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to
devote her skill and energy to Soldiers’ Aid Societies, Beth went
faithfully on by herself and did the best she could. She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be
loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy
bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for
Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one
whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till Beth took them
in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her
because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the
more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm
dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words
or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of
the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed
with an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of dollanity
had belonged to Jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck
in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth and
taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat
little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these
deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to
this chronic invalid. If anyone had known the care lavished on that
dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they
laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out
to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and
never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering
tenderly, “I hope you’ll have a good night, my poor dear.”
Beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but
a very human little girl, she often ‘wept a little weep’ as Jo said,
because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She
loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so
patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if
someone (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did,
however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that
wouldn’t keep in tune, when she was all alone. She sang like a little
lark about her work, never was too tired for Marmee and the girls, and
day after day said hopefully to herself, “I know I’ll get my music some
time, if I’m good.”
There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the
sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and
the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow
behind.
If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she
would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had
accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the
fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big nor red, like poor
‘Petrea’s’, it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world
could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,
and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console
herself.
“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her
teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her
slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps
on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering
out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as
well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of
deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being
good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.
Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,
crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of
the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When Papa was rich we
did so-and-so,” which was very touching, and her long words were
considered ‘perfectly elegant’ by the girls.
Amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her
small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,
however, rather quenched the vanities. She had to wear her cousin’s
clothes. Now Florence’s mama hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was
good, well made, and little worn, but Amy’s artistic eyes were much
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple with yellow dots and no trimming.
“My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, “is that
Mother doesn’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria
Parks’s mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful, for sometimes she
is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school.
When I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my