The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view.” Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back with her head on one side, observing graciously, “Yes, you’ll do, your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There’s one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl—I can’t; but it’s very nice to see you, and I’m so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one; it’s simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn’t.”

  “You are a thing of beauty, and a joy forever,” 4 said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the gold hair. “Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please ma’am?”

  “Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven’t half buttoned one cuff; do it at once. You’ll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole.”

  Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as “pretty as picters,” Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.

  “Now, Jo dear, the Chesters are very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don’t make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool and quiet,—that’s safe and lady-like; and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes,” said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.

  “Let me see; ‘Calm, cool and quiet’! yes, I think I can promise that. I’ve played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I’ll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in your mind, my child.”

  Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for, during the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snow-bank, and as silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her “charming novel,” and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the Opera and the fashions; each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure “Yes” or “No,” with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word “Talk,” tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot; Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like “Maud’s” face,5 “Icily regular, splendidly null.”

  “What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!” was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo.

  “How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs; gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress, and flirtations, and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn’t fail to make a good impression there for anything.”

  “I’ll be agreeable; I’ll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I’ll imitate what is called ‘a charming girl’; I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I’ll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don’t say, ‘What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!’ ”

  Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy’s face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia’s last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the old lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on; for broken sentences filled her with alarm, round eyes and uplifted hands tormented her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:—

  “She rides splendidly,—who taught her?”

  “No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she don’t know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have horses cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she can be a pretty horse-breaker, and get her living so.”

  At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done Jo was off again, making more droll revelations, and committing still more fearful blunders.

  “Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn’t it?”

  “Which did she choose?” asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject.

  “None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farm-house over the river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn, to the utter amazement of the old man!”

  A skilled and enthusiastic horsewoman, May Alcott told her journal that owning a horse would be her “idea of perfect happiness.” Here, Frank Merrill imagines Amy March in an equestrian scene.

  “Did she ride the horse?”

  “Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party.”

  “Well, I call that plucky!” and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable.

  She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary frankness, “Oh, Amy painted it; you can’t buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It’s a great comfort to have an artistic sister.”

  “Isn’t that an original idea?” cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.

  “That’s nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There’s nothing the child can’t do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie’s party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,” added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister’s accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her card-case at her.

  “We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,” observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her “works” always had a bad effect
upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. “Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells,6 and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?”

  As Miss Lamb had “enjoyed” the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake; but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.

  “Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear; do come and see us; we are pining for a visit. I don’t dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb; but if you should come, I don’t think I shall have the heart to send you away.”

  Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester’s gushing style, that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.

  “Didn’t I do that well?” asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they walked away.

  “Nothing could have been worse,” was Amy’s crushing reply. “What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?”

  “Why, it’s funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it’s no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do.”

  “You needn’t go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven’t a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue, and when to speak,” said Amy despairingly.

  Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.

  “How shall I behave here?” she asked, as they approached the third mansion.

  “Just as you please; I wash my hands of you,” was Amy’s short answer.

  “Then I’ll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we’ll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution,” returned Jo, gruffly, being disturbed by her failures to suit.

  An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children, speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks, and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that “Tom Brown was a brick,”7 regardless of the improper form of praise; and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an alacrity which caused mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap, which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs,—bear-like but affectionate,—and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.

  Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart’s content. Mr. Tudor’s uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect. For, in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us,—that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in a ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie,8 some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old,—like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time; and, when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo,—fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March.

  It might have been worse; but Amy considered it bad, for Jo sat on the grass with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie’s pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy’s cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo’s best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, “it was such fun to hear about Laurie’s larks.”

  On October 5, 1860, Edward Albert, Prince of Wales (1841–1910) paid his respects at the resting place of George Washington. Painter James Rossiter captured the scene in his Visit of the Prince of Wales, President Buchanan, and Dignitaries to the Tomb of Washington at Mount Vernon, October 1860. (Smithsonian American Art Museum, Washington DC / Art Resource, NY)

  “Capital boys, aren’t they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that,” said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.

  “Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?” asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo’s dilapidated appearance.

  “Don’t like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and don’t speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don’t consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let him alone.”

  “You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right,” said Amy, reprovingly.

  “No it wouldn’t,” returned perverse Jo; “I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather’s uncle’s nephew’s niece was third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor, and bashful, and good, and very clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels.”

  “It’s no use trying to argue with you,” began Amy.

  “Not the least, my dear,” cut in Jo; “so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I’m deeply grateful.”

  The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged.

  “Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run down there any time, and it’s really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers,9 when we are tired and cross.”

  “Speak for yourself, if you please; aunt likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it’s a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don’t believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet.”

  “What a good girl you are, Amy,” said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. “I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people, as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a big favor, and let the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I guess.”

  Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,—

  “Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you’d remember that, and practise it, you’d be better liked than I am, because there is more of you.”

  “I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be; but I’m willing to own that you are right; only it’s easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to them when I don’t feel like it. It’s a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a greater not to be able to hide them. I don’t mind saying tha
t I don’t approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I’m not called upon to tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is.”

  “But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men; and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching don’t do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I’ve had Teddy to manage; but there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can.”

  “Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can’t be taken as a sample of other boys,” said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the “remarkable boy,” if he had heard it. “If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps; but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen, because we don’t approve of them, and smile upon another set, because we do, wouldn’t have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and Puritanical.”

  “So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That’s a nice sort of morality.”

  “I can’t argue about it, I only know that it’s the way of the world; and people who set themselves against it, only get laughed at for their pains. I don’t like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be one.”

  “I do like them, and I shall be one if I can;10 for in spite of the laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can’t agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new; you will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think.”

  “Well, compose yourself now, and don’t worry aunt with your new ideas.”

  “I’ll try not to, but I’m always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her; it’s my doom, and I can’t help it.”

  They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both the aunts “my dear’d” her affectionately, looking what they afterwards said emphatically,—“That child improves every day.”