“Shouldn’t ask you, if I didn’t;” and Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.
“What would Meg say to this?” thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home.
“Hey! why what the dickens has come to the fellow?” said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running down stairs, and brought up with a start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather.
“I didn’t know you’d come, sir,” he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.
“That’s evident, by the way you racket down stairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman;” and having pulled the boy’s hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo.
The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light and life in the boy’s face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.
“She’s right; the lad is lonely. I’ll see what these little girls can do for him,” thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.
If the Laurences had been what Jo called “prim and poky,” she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward; but finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairy-like to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side,—the soft light, the damp, sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung above her,—while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full; then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, “Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much.”
They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing-room, but Jo’s attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano which stood open.
“Do you play?” she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression.
“Sometimes,” he answered, modestly.8
“Please do now; I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth.”
“Won’t you first?”
“Don’t know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly.”
So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses.9 Her respect and regard for the “Laurence boy” increased very much, for he played remarkably well, and didn’t put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so; only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to the rescue. “That will do, that will do, young lady; too many sugar-plums are not good for him. His music isn’t bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? Well, I’m much obliged to you, and I hope you’ll come again. My respects to your mother; good-night, Doctor Jo.”
He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said anything amiss; he shook his head.
“No, it was me; he don’t like to hear me play.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can’t.”
“No need of that; I ain’t a young lady, and it’s only a step. Take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“Yes, but you will come again, I hope?”
“If you promise to come and see us after you are well.”
“I will.”
“Good-night, Laurie.”
“Good-night, Jo, good-night.”
When all the afternoon’s adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him; Meg longed to walk in the conservatory; Beth sighed for the grand piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.
“Mother, why didn’t Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?” asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.
“I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie’s father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician; at any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he ‘glowered,’ as Jo said.”10
“Dear me, how romantic!” exclaimed Meg.
“How silly,” said Jo; “let him be a musician, if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go.”
“That’s why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose; Italians are always nice,” said Meg, who was a little sentimental.
“What do you know about his eyes and his manners? you never spoke to him, hardly;” cried Jo, who was not sentimental.
“I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother sent him.”
“He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose.”
“How stupid you are, child; he meant you, of course.”
“Did he?” and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before.
“I never saw such a girl! You don’t know a compliment when you get it,” said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.
“I think they are great nonsense, and I’ll thank you not to be silly, and spoil my fun. Laurie’s a nice boy, and I like him, and I won’t have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We’ll all be good to him, because he hasn’t got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn’t he, Marmee?”
“Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can.”
“I don’t call myself a child, and I’m not in my teens yet,” observed Amy. “What do you say, Beth?”
“I was thinking about our ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ ” answered Beth, who had not heard a word. “How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill, by trying; and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful.”11
“We have got to get by the lions, first,” said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect.
1. “Ivanhoe.” Published by Sir Walter Scott in 1819, Ivanhoe: A Romance is a historical novel of medieval knighthood. At his Temple School, Bronson Alcott adorned the four corners of his handsome classroom with busts of four great thinkers and writers. Scott was the only writer of fiction whom he chose to enshrine.
2. quiet streets. During their adolescence, the Alcott girls lived in Concord, Massachusetts, which lies about twenty miles west of Boston. However, Alcott never expressly identifies Concord as the setting for Little Women, and she freely alters details to fit her story. For instance, there was no stone mansion next door to any of the places where the Alcotts lived in Concord.
3. “Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.” Here Alcott playfully switches the sex roles in a classic fairy-tale trope. Laurie plays the imprisoned damsel, and Jo is the gallant rescuer.
4. “blanc-mange.” A sweet dessert that
typically combines gelatin or cornstarch with sugar and milk or cream. Frequently flavored with almonds, it is reminiscent of vanilla pudding. The Alcott family might have had access to a recipe like the following one, published the year Louisa turned twelve:
BLANC-MANGE
Put into a bowl an ounce of isinglass [A transparent gelatin obtained from the dried swim bladders of sturgeon and other fish]; (in warm weather you must take an ounce and a quarter;) pour on as much rose water as will cover the isinglass, and set it on hot coals to dissolve. Blanch a quarter of a pound of shelled almonds (half sweet and half bitter,) and beat them to a paste in a mortar, (one at a time,) moistening them all the while with a little rose water. Stir the almonds by degrees into a quart of cream, alternately with half a pound of powdered white sugar; add a large tea-spoonful of beaten mace. Put in the malted isinglass, and stir the whole very hard. Then put it into a porcelain skillet, and let it boil fast for a quarter of an hour. Then strain it into a pitcher, and pour it into your moulds, which must first be wetted with cold water. Let it stand in a cool place undisturbed, till it has entirely congealed, which will be in about five hours. Then wrap a cloth dipped in hot water round the moulds, loosen the blanc-mange round the edges with a knife, and turn out into glass dishes. It is best to make it the day before it is wanted (Leslie, Directions for Cookery, p. 327).
5. geranium. In the Victorian language of flowers, geraniums signified friendship—Amy’s choice of flower to send Laurie is demure and appropriate.
6. parrot that talked Spanish. Parrots came to New England in large numbers thanks to commercial sailors who brought them home as souvenirs. They were expensive to purchase and properly maintain. Thus Aunt March’s bird is something of a status symbol. Alcott, who composed the stories that made up her first book, Flower Fables, for Emerson’s daughters Edith and Ellen, was unquestionably acquainted with Polly, a small green parrot kept by the Emerson girls for at least eleven years (Grier, Pets in America, 50).
7. Sleepy-Hollow chairs. Named for the valley near Tarrytown, New York, that inspired Washington Irving’s story of Ichabod Crane, Sleepy-Hollow chairs were large, comfortable armchairs with hollowed seats, high backs, and low arms.
8. “Sometimes,” he answered, modestly. Laurie’s prowess at the piano is one of the traits he takes from Louisa’s “Polish boy” Ladislas (“Laddie”) Wisniewski, who “played beautifully.” Louisa enjoyed Laddie’s impromptu recitals during her stay in Vevey (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, pp. 144–45).
9. heliotrope and tea roses. Heliotropes are traditional emblems of faithfulness. Tea roses are linked to remembrance.
10. “and so he ‘glowered,’ as Jo said.” Frequently in Alcott’s fiction, characters of Mediterranean origins stand as emblems of exotic intrigue and seduction. Here, although the southern temptation has created a rift in the Laurence family, the Italian influence is made to feel mostly benign, for, as Meg soon informs us, “Italians are always nice.”
11. “the Slough . . . our Palace Beautiful.” The Slough, the Wicket Gate, and the Palace Beautiful all allude to The Pilgrim’s Progress. In Bunyan, the Wicket Gate represents the “strait gate” of Matthew 7: 13–14 and Luke 13: 24, the narrow moral path that leads to salvation. The Palace Beautiful is guarded by lions, who stand as a test of faith to spiritual travels. They frighten off the pilgrims Mistrust and Timorous, but Christian remains steadfast and discovers that the lions are restrained by invisible chains and can harm only those travelers who leave the path.
CHAPTER VI.
Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful.1
THE big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one; but, after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich; for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. But after a while they found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March’s motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs; so they soon forgot their pride, and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.
All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that “the Marches were regularly splendid girls.” With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary boy into their midst, and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him; and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of books, and found people so interesting now, that Mr. Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports; for Laurie was always playing truant, and running over to the Marches.
“Never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward,” said the old gentleman. “The good lady next door says he is studying too hard, and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that I’ve been coddling the fellow as if I’d been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy; he can’t get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can.”
What good times they had, to be sure! Such plays and tableaux; such sleigh-rides and skating frolics; such pleasant evenings in the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked, and revel in bouquets; Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms; Amy copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart’s content, and Laurie played lord of the manor in the most delightful style.
But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the “mansion of bliss,” as Meg called it. She went once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said “hey!” so loud, that he frightened her so much her “feet chattered on the floor,” she told her mother; and she ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or enticements could overcome her fear, till the fact coming to Mr. Laurence’s ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes, that Beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped, and stood listening with her great eyes wide open, and her cheeks red with the excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie’s lessons and teachers; and presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March,—
A demure Beth March (Claire Danes) peers at the viewer in the 1994 film. (Photofest)
“The boy neglects his music now, and I’m glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use; wouldn’t some of your girls like to run over, and practise on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma’am?”
Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together, to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation; and the thought of practising on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile,—
“They needn’t see or speak to any one, but run in at any time, for I’m shut up in my study at the other end of the house. Laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing-room after nine o’clock.” Here he rose, as if g
oing, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired. “Please tell the young ladies what I say, and if they don’t care to come, why, never mind;” here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest, yet timid way,—
“Oh, sir! they do care, very, very much!”
“Are you the musical girl?” he asked, without any startling “hey!” as he looked down at her very kindly.
“I’m Beth; I love it dearly, and I’ll come if you are quite sure nobody will hear me—and be disturbed,” she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.
“Not a soul, my dear; the house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you.”
“How kind you are, sir.”
Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the big hand a grateful squeeze, because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed her, saying in a tone few people ever heard,—
“I had a little girl once with eyes like these; God bless you, my dear; good-day, madam,” and away he went, in a great hurry.
Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not at home. How blithely she sung that evening, and how they all laughed at her, because she woke Amy in the night, by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side-door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing-room, where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and, with trembling fingers, and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend.
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