“Where is Laurie?”
“Shut up in his room, and he won’t answer, though I’ve been a-tapping. I don’t know what’s to become of the dinner, for it’s ready, and there’s no one to eat it.”
“I’ll go and see what the matter is. I’m not afraid of either of them.”
Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie’s little study.
“Stop that, or I’ll open the door and make you!” called out the young gentleman, in a threatening tone.
Jo immediately pounded again; the door flew open, and in she bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and, going artistically down upon her knees, said, meekly, “Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can’t go away till I have.”
“It’s all right; get up, and don’t be a goose, Jo,” was the cavalier reply to her petition.
“Thank you; I will. Could I ask what’s the matter? You don’t look exactly easy in your mind.”
“I’ve been shaken, and I won’t bear it!” growled Laurie, indignantly.
“Who did it?” demanded Jo.
“Grandfather; if it had been any one else I’d have—” and the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
“That’s nothing; I often shake you, and you don’t mind,” said Jo, soothingly.
“Pooh! you’re a girl, and it’s fun; but I’ll allow no man to shake me.”
“I don’t think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?”
“Just because I wouldn’t say what your mother wanted me for. I’d promised not to tell, and of course I wasn’t going to break my word.”
“Couldn’t you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?”
“No; he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’d have told my part of the scrape, if I could, without bringing Meg in. As I couldn’t, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I should forget myself.”
“It wasn’t nice, but he’s sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I’ll help you.”
“Hanged if I do! I’m not going to be lectured and pummelled by every one, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man; but I won’t do it again, when I wasn’t in the wrong.”
“He didn’t know that.”
“He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It’s no use, Jo; he’s got to learn that I’m able to take care of myself, and don’t need any one’s apron-string to hold on by.”
“What pepper-pots6 you are!” sighed Jo. “How do you mean to settle this affair?”
“Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can’t tell him what the row’s about.”
“Bless you! he won’t do that.”
“I won’t go down till he does.”
“Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I’ll explain what I can. You can’t stay here, so what’s the use of being melodramatic?”
“I don’t intend to stay here long, any-way. I’ll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he’ll come round fast enough.”
“I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him.”
“Don’t preach. I’ll go to Washington and see Brooke; it’s gay there, and I’ll enjoy myself after the troubles.”
“What fun you’d have! I wish I could run off too!” said Jo, forgetting her part of Mentor7 in lively visions of martial life at the capital.
“Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I’ll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let’s do it, Jo! We’ll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I’ve got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father.”
For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
“If I was a boy, we’d run away together, and have a capital time; but as I’m a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don’t tempt me, Teddy, it’s a crazy plan.”
“That’s the fun of it!” began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him, and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
“Hold your tongue!” cried Jo, covering her ears. “ ‘Prunes and prisms’8 are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of.”
“I knew Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit,” began Laurie, insinuatingly.
“Bad boy, be quiet. Sit down and think of your own sins, don’t go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?” asked Jo, seriously.
“Yes, but you won’t do it,” answered Laurie, who wished to “make up,” but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
“If I can manage the young one I can the old one,” muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his head propped up on both hands.
“Come in!” and Mr. Laurence’s gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door.
“It’s only me, sir, come to return a book,” she said, blandly, as she entered.
“Want any more?” asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it.
“Yes, please, I like old Sam so well, I think I’ll try the second volume,” returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of “Boswell’s Johnson,” as he had recommended that lively work.9
The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and, sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly, that “Rasselas”10 tumbled face downward on the floor.
“What has that boy been about? Don’t try to shield him, now! I know he has been in mischief, by the way he acted when he came home. I can’t get a word from him; and, when I threatened to shake the truth out of him, he bolted up stairs, and locked himself into his room.”
“He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to any one,” began Jo, reluctantly.
“That won’t do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you soft-hearted girls. If he’s done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo! I won’t be kept in the dark.”
Mr. Laurence looked so alarming, and spoke so sharply, that Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out.
“Indeed, sir, I cannot tell, mother forbid it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don’t keep silence to shield him, but some one else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don’t; it was partly my fault, but it’s all right now, so let’s forget it, and talk about the ‘Rambler,’11 or something pleasant.”
“Hang the ‘Rambler!’ come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn’t done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I’ll thrash him with my own hands.”
The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old man would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might sa
y to the contrary. She obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg, or forgetting the truth.
“Hum! ha! well, if the boy held his tongue because he’d promised, and not from obstinacy, I’ll forgive him. He’s a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage,” said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he’d been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.
“So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t,”12 said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.
“You think I’m not kind to him, hey?” was the sharp answer.
“Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don’t you think you are?”
Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the table with a rattle, and exclaimed, frankly,—
“You’re right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I don’t know how it will end, if we go on so.”
“I’ll tell you,—he’ll run away.” Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad.
Mr. Laurence’s ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was Laurie’s father, who had run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man’s will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.
“He won’t do it, unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for India.”
She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke.
“You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? where’s your respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! what torments they are; yet we can’t do without them,” he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly.
“Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it’s all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather; I won’t bear it.”
“He won’t come, sir; he feels badly because you didn’t believe him when he said he couldn’t tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much.”
Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
“I’m sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?” and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
“If I was you, I’d write him an apology, sir. He says he won’t come down till he has one; and talks about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way is better than talking. I’ll carry it up, and teach him his duty.”
Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying, slowly, “You’re a sly puss! but I don’t mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense.”
The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurence’s bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie’s door, advising him, through the keyhole, to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance, “What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?” he added, laughing.
“No; he was pretty clever,13 on the whole.”
“Ah! I got it all round! even you cast me off over there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce,”14 he began, apologetically.
“Don’t talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my son.”
“I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end,” he said, dolefully.
“Go and eat your dinner; you’ll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry,” and Jo whisked out at the front door after that.
“That’s a ‘label’ on my ‘sect,’ ” answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper, and overwhelmingly respectful in manner, all the rest of the day.
Every one thought the matter ended, and the little cloud blown over; but the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and, once, Jo, rummaging her sister’s desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, “Mrs. John Brooke;” whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie’s prank had hastened the evil day for her.
1. if she did not ask. Alcott was fond of saying that things went “by contraries” with her. She borrowed the phrase from the self-pitying Mrs. Gummidge in Dickens’s David Copperfield but tended to put it to more lighthearted use. Alcott also makes this observation regarding two of her most autobiographical fictional heroines: Tribulation Periwinkle in Hospital Sketches and the older version of Jo March Bhaer in Jo’s Boys. Alcott meant, for instance, that the stories she thought would be least popular tended to rank among her greatest successes and that the books she wrote most hastily were bound to bring back a “cargo of gold and glory.” Looking back on her career, Alcott cited as examples of the “contraries” principle her first novel for adults, Moods, over which she labored ceaselessly but which was a commercial failure, and Little Women itself, which she wrote hastily and with few hopes, but which won her lasting fame and fortune.
2. “ ‘the silver-voiced brook.’ ” No song containing the quotation “the silver-voiced brook” has been identified. However, the phrase appears in Emily Chubbuck Judson’s short story “Miss Follansbe’s First Love,” published under the penname Fanny Forrester in Graham’s Magazine, February 1845.
3. “so mean.” To call one’s sister “mean” was taken as a particularly sharp insult in the Alcott family. At the age of twelve, Alcott told her journal, “I got angry and called Anna mean. Father told me to look out the word in the Dic[tionary], and it meant ‘base,’ ‘contemptible.’ I was so ashamed to have called my dear sister that, and I cried over my bad tongue and temper” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 54).
4. “I’d have done it better than this.” There is a note of irony in Jo’s self-defense. She insists that the forgery cannot be hers because it is not sly and devious enough to have been her work and must therefore have been made by some less gifted prankster.
5. “almost equal to Caroline Percy.” In Mrs. Edgeworth’s novel Patronage (1814), Miss Caroline Percy is described as “beautiful, and of an uncommon style of beauty. Ingenuous, unaffected, and with all the simplicity of youth, there was a certain dignity and graceful self-possession in her manner, which gave the idea of a superior character.” Jo’s comparison of Meg with the fictional Caroline is meant as warm praise.
6. “pepper-pots.” A pepper-pot is a hot-tempered person.
7. forgetting her part of Mentor. In Homer’s Odyssey, the goddess Athena assumes the human form of Mentor, the better to accompany and give sage advice to the absent Odysseus’s son Telemachus. The name has come to be synonymous with fatherly counsel and teaching.
; 8. “ ‘Prunes and prisms.’ ” Jo alludes to Dickens’s novel Little Dorrit, in which the excruciatingly correct Mrs. General, hired by Mr. Dorrit to give social polish to his children, opines that it “gives a pretty form to the lips” to say words like “Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism.” “Prunes and prism” becomes Dickens’s narrator’s shorthand for the kind of stilted propriety and politeness that young ladies are expected to observe.
9. second dose of “Boswell’s Johnson.” Samuel Johnson (1709–84) was arguably the preeminent English author of the eighteenth century. He was, with varying degrees of success, a poet, a dramatist, a novelist, an essayist, a literary critic, and a biographer. His Dictionary of the English Language ranks among one of the great scholarly achievements of all time. James Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson (1791) is widely regarded as the greatest biography in the English language. Alcott’s mother was especially fond of Johnson’s works. Alcott herself visited his house in London in June 1866.
10. “Rasselas.” Johnson published his philosophical novella The Prince of Abissinia: A Tale in 1759 and republished it as The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia in 1768. Often compared with Voltaire’s Candide, the novella tells of Rasselas’s quest to discover the nature of happiness in a world of sorrow and suffering.
11. “the ‘Rambler.’ ” The Rambler was a series of 208 essays published biweekly by Johnson from 1750 to 1752.
12. “when all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t.” Jo alludes to the classic nursery rhyme “Humpty Dumpty.”
13. “clever.” Jo uses an unusual meaning of the word, suggesting “nice” or “agreeable.”
14. “the deuce.” The devil.
CHAPTER XXII.
Pleasant Meadows.
LIKE sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats, at first, and, in time, with doll’s sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the house, in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her white hands cooking delicate messes for “the dear;” while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.
The Annotated Little Women Page 37