“DEAR MOTHER:
“There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies6 from the root I have been keeping safe in the house, for father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with father’s tune. I can’t sing ‘Land of the Leal’7 now; it makes me cry. Every one is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn’t forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
“Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving
“LITTLE BETH.”
“MA CHERE MAMMA:
“We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls—Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out and Meg put in new ones but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buck wheats every day. Can’t she? Didn’t I make that interrigation point nice. Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do I can’t stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa.
“Your affectionate daughter,
“AMY CURTIS MARCH.”
“DEAR MIS MARCH:
“I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is goin to make a proper good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don’t stop to cal’k’late fust, and you never know where she’s like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur; I don’t let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes8 as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent; but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev full swing. The old man sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he’s seen the last of his Pewmonia.
“Yours respectful,
“HANNAH MULLET.”
“HEAD NURSE OF WARD II.:
“All serene on the Rappahannock,9 troops in fine condition, commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander-in-chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullett keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at head-quarters. Commander-in-chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by
“COLONEL TEDDY.”
“DEAR MADAM:
“The little girls are all well; Beth and my boy report daily; Hannah is a model servant, guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don’t let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending.
“Your sincere friend and servant,
“JAMES LAURENCE.”
During the time in which this chapter is set, Major General Ambrose E. Burnside, near right, (1824–1881) commanded the Army of the Potomac, in which Mr. March was serving. On December 13, 1862, Burnside ordered an all-out attack on the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, led by master tactician General Robert E. Lee (1807–1870). The assault on Lee’s strongly defended position proved futile and horrifically costly, resulting in more than 12,000 Union casualties. (Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division)
1. kitchen roller. A towel on a roller.
2. “Hope, and keep busy.” Young Louisa recorded her mother’s advice “Hope, and keep busy,” in her journal in 1845 (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 55).
3. “Mr. Greatheart.” In Part Two of The Pilgrim’s Progress, Great-heart guides Christian’s wife, Christiana, and their children toward the Celestial City.
4. “train.” A New England figure of speech for acting up or carrying on.
5. “ever your own MEG.” The signature lines of the girls’ four letters tell much about their understandings of themselves. Meg, who signs only her name, sees herself as beyond childish, self-descriptive embellishments. Alcott actually did describe herself in family letters as “topsey turvey,” and Jo carries on the practice here (Louisa May Alcott, Selected Letters, p. 14). Beth, as always, leans toward smallness and self-deprecation. Amy, brandishing her middle name, aspires to high formality and importance.
6. “pansies.” Both Jo’s allusion to heart’s-ease and Beth’s gift of pressed pansies convey loving thoughts through the Victorian language of flowers.
7. “ ‘Land of the Leal.’ ” “Land o’ the Leal” is a lyric by Scottish songwriter Lady Carolina Nairne, née Carolina Oliphant (1766–1845). “Leal” may be translated as loyal or faithful. The full lyric is printed below. Beth’s fondness for the song gently underscores her romantic attachment to death and her yearning toward heaven, though the fact that her deep emotions prevent her from singing it also reveals her simultaneous fear of mortality.
I’m wearing awa’, Jean,
Like snaw when its thaw, Jean,
I’m wearin awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, Jean,
There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is aye fair
In the land o’ the leal.
Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task’s ended noo, Jean,
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
O we grudged her right sair
To the land o’ the leal!
Then dry that tearfu’ e’e Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me
To the land o’ the leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld’s care is vain, Jean;
We’ll meet and aye be fain
In the land o’ the leal.
8. “didoes.” Antics and mischief.
9. “the Rappahannock.” The Rappahannock, a river that flows through northern Virginia, was of key strategic importance in late 1862. In December, it was the scene of the Battle of Fredericksburg, which produced most of the casualties to whom Alcott attended during her brief service as an army nurse. Laurie’s letter both expresses and lampoons his boyish desire to see combat.
CHAPTER XVII.
Little Faithful.
FOR a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into the old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier; and, after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
Jo caught a bad cold through neglecting to cover the shorn head enough, a
nd was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn’t like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on to the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum1 and books. Amy found that house-work and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her kingdom, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington despatches over and over. Beth kept on with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters’ also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock, whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for mother, or fears for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan, and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.
All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character; and, when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well, and deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
“Meg, I wish you’d go and see the Hummels; you know mother told us not to forget them,” said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March’s departure.
“I’m too tired to go this afternoon,” replied Meg, rocking comfortably, as she sewed.
“Can’t you, Jo?” asked Beth.
“Too stormy for me, with my cold.”
“I thought it was most well.”
“It’s well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels,” said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
“Why don’t you go yourself?” asked Meg.
“I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don’t know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it; but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go.”2
Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow.
“Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air will do you good;” said Jo, adding apologetically, “I’d go, but I want to finish my story.”
“My head aches, and I’m tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go,” said Beth.
“Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us,” suggested Meg.
“Well, I’ll rest a little, and wait for her.”
So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed, Amy did not come; Meg went to her room to try on a new dress; Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head, and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother’s room. Half an hour after Jo went to “mother’s closet” for something, and there found Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes, and a camphor3 bottle in her hand.
“Christopher Columbus! what’s the matter?” cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly,—
“You’ve had scarlet fever, haven’t you?”4
“Years ago, when Meg did. Why?”
“Then I’ll tell you—oh, Jo, the baby’s dead!”
“What baby?”
“Mrs. Hummel’s; it died in my lap before she got home,” cried Beth, with a sob.
“My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone,” said Jo, taking her sister in her lap as she sat down in her mother’s big chair, with a remorseful face.
“It wasn’t dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute that it was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it gave a little cry, and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn’t stir, and I knew it was dead.”
“Don’t cry, dear! what did you do?”
“I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have got sore throats. ‘Scarlet fever, ma’am; ought to have called me before,’ he said, crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others, and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna5 right away, or I’d have the fever.”
“No you won’t!” cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. “Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What shall we do?”
“Don’t be frightened, I guess I shan’t have it badly; I looked in mother’s book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel better,” said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead, and trying to look well.
“If mother was only at home!” exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said, gravely, “You’ve been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it, so I’m afraid you’re going to have it, Beth. I’ll call Hannah; she knows all about sickness.”
“Don’t let Amy come; she never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can’t you and Meg have it over again?” asked Beth, anxiously.
“I guess not; don’t care if I do; serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!” muttered Jo, as she went to consult Hannah.
The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring Jo that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died; all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg.
“Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth; “we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right; then we’ll send Amy off to Aunt March’s, for a spell, to keep her out of harm’s way,6 and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two.”
“I shall stay, of course, I’m oldest;” began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful.
“I shall, because it’s my fault she is sick; I told mother I’d do the errands, and I haven’t,” said Jo, decidedly.
“Which will you have, Beth? there ain’t no need of but one,” said Hannah.
“Jo, please;” and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a contented look, which effectually settled that point.
“I’ll go and tell Amy,” said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved, on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did.7
Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go; and Meg left her in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled; but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, “Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don’t cry, but hear what a jolly plan I’ve got. You go to Aunt March’s, and I’ll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we’ll have capital times. Won’t that be
better than moping here?”
“I don’t wish to be sent off as if I was in the way,” began Amy, in an injured voice.
“Bless your heart, child! it’s to keep you well. You don’t want to be sick, do you?”
“No, I’m sure I don’t; but I dare say I shall be, for I’ve been with Beth all this time.”
“That’s the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say; or, if it don’t entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss.”
(Library of Congress. Prints and Photographs Division)
“But it’s dull at Aunt March’s, and she is so cross,” said Amy, looking rather frightened.
“It won’t be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I’ll be as clever as possible to her, so she won’t peck at us, whatever we do.”
“Will you take me out in the trotting wagon8 with Puck?”
“On my honor as a gentleman.”
“And come every single day?”
“See if I don’t.”
“And bring me back the minute Beth is well?”
“The identical minute.”
“And go to the theatre, truly?”
“A dozen theatres, if we may.”
“Well—I guess—I will,” said Amy, slowly.
“Good girl! Sing out for Meg, and tell her you’ll give in,” said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the “giving in.”
Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought; and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill.
“How is the little dear?” asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
“She is lying down on mother’s bed, and feels better. The baby’s death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she thinks so; but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety,” answered Meg.
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