The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “Nor I; but your writing?”

  “All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and, even if I haven’t much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish.”

  “I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?”

  “No, mother.”

  “May I know the others?”

  Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks, “It may be vain and wrong to say it, but—I’m afraid—Laurie is getting too fond of me.”

  “Then you don’t care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?” and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

  “Mercy, no! I love the dear boy as I always have, and am immensely proud of him; but as for anything more, it’s out of the question.”

  “I’m glad of that, Jo!”

  “Why, please?”

  “Because, dear, I don’t think you suited to one another. As friends, you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike, and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love.”

  “That’s just the feeling I had, though I couldn’t express it. I’m glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy; for I couldn’t fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?”

  “You are sure of his feeling for you?”

  The color deepened in Jo’s cheeks, as she answered with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers,—

  “I’m afraid it is so, mother; he hasn’t said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything.”

  “I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go.”

  Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said,—smiling,—

  “How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will rejoice that Annie still may hope.”

  “Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all—the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I said no more, for I think I know it;” and Jo told her little story.

  Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie’s sake, Jo should go away for a time.

  “Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I’ll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think I’m going to please myself, as I am, for I can’t talk about Laurie to her; but she can pet and comfort him after I’m gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He’s been through so many little trials of the sort, he’s used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity.”

  Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this “little trial” would be harder than the others, and that Laurie would not get over his “love-lornity” as easily as heretofore.

  The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect, and was eager to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie; but, to her surprise, he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered, soberly, “So I am; and I mean this one shall stay turned.”

  Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,—for Beth seemed more cheerful,—and hoped she was doing the best for all.

  “One thing I leave to your especial care,” she said, the night before she left.

  “You mean your papers?” asked Beth.

  “No—my boy; be very good to him, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will; but I can’t fill your place, and he’ll miss you sadly.”

  “It won’t hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order.”

  “I’ll do my best, for your sake,” promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.

  When Laurie said “Good-by,” he whispered, significantly, “It won’t do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I’ll come and bring you home.”

  1. “I’m your man.” Alcott’s versatility in the playing of family roles would eventually grow to exceed Jo’s. By the time of Little Women, Alcott had already served as the family breadwinner, and had been her father’s “only son” when she went to war. In later years she would care for her aging parents and become surrogate father to her sister Anna’s sons after the death of John Pratt in 1870. Alcott also became the adoptive mother of young Louisa May Nieriker after May Alcott Nieriker’s sudden passing in 1879. In 1887, she even legally adopted Anna’s son John so that he might inherit her copyrights.

  2. “Olympia’s Oath.” Another made-up name for a story Alcott never wrote.

  3. Byronic fits of gloom. The English Romantic poet George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824), created the archetypal Byronic hero in the title character of his poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. The historian and poet Thomas Babington Macaulay typified the Byronic hero as “a man proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow, and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection.”

  George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824), an unsurpassed icon of British Romanticism. (Photograph by Culture Club / Getty Images)

  4. intelligible to her as Sanscrit. The game of cricket has its own extensive lexicon. A tice is a fast pitch thrown close to the batsman, intended to travel just underneath the bat. To be “at stumps” means to have reached the end of the day’s play. A leg hit is a hit that sends the ball “to leg,” that is, to the left of a right-handed batsman.

  5. dared disturb it. Alcott in fact had a dark red rectangular bolster pillow, which, if set on its side, signaled that she would allow no interruptions. If the pillow stood on end, intruders were welcome to converse.

  Alcott’s bolster pillow in its accustomed welcoming position in the parlor at Orchard House. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association; photograph by James E. Coutré)

  6. “must have a went.” Laurie tries to lighten the mood with a Wellerism, à la The Pickwick Papers. See Part First, Chapter X, Note 7.

  7. “regular talent for it.” In her unpublished journal for 1863, May Alcott wrote, “I wish I had any real talent for anything but flirting, it certainly is an art in its way & as I am never wicked & malicious about it I have no prickings of conscience after an interesting season of this harmless occupation” (Manuscript journal, Houghton Library, Harvard University bMS Am 1817 [57]). Given May’s later flourishings as a painter, her supposition that she had no other talents comes as a remarkable statement of humility.

  8. “ ‘Bold-faced jig!’ ” In a Mother Goose rhyme, Jenny Wren falls ill, and Robin Redbreast nurses her back to health with “sops and wine,” assuming that she will be his when she gets better. When Jenny gets well, she tells Robin “plainly that she loved him not.” Infuriated, Robin cries out, “Out
upon you, fie upon you, bold-faced jig!”

  9. “bonnie Dundee.” Alcott quotes from the folk song “The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee,” written by Sir Walter Scott and embedded in his 1830 melodrama The Doom of Devorgoil. The song concludes:

  Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,

  Come saddle the horses and call up the men,

  Come open your gates, and let me gae free,

  For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.

  10. “Mrs. Kirke.” Mrs. Kirke’s name, which approximates the word “church” in German, suggests the eventual return to moral values that Jo will experience while in New York.

  CHAPTER X.

  Jo’s Journal.

  “NEW YORK, NOV.

  “DEAR MARMEE AND BETH:1

  “I’m going to write you a regular volume, for I’ve got lots to tell, though I’m not a fine young lady travelling on the continent. When I lost sight of father’s dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn’t diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar.

  “Soon the sun came out; and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.

  “Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky-parlor—all she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view, and a church tower opposite, atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke’s private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children—rather spoilt, I guess, but they took to me after telling them ‘The Seven Bad Pigs’;2 and I’ve no doubt I shall make a model governess.

  Jo (Winona Ryder) seeks her fortune in New York. (Photofest)

  “I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it.

  “ ‘Now my dear, make yourself at home,’ said Mrs. K. in her motherly way; ‘I’m on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose, with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house, if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There’s the tea-bell; I must run and change my cap’; and off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.

  “As I went down stairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a queer-looking man come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent,—

  “ ‘It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such heaviness.’

  “Wasn’t it good of him? I like such things; for, as father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said,—

  “ ‘That must have been Professor Bhaer;3 he’s always doing things of that sort.’

  “Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I’ll tell you how he looks. He’s most forty, so it’s no harm, Marmee.

  “After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow.”

  “Tuesday Eve.

  “Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the children acted like Sancho;4 and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, ‘with a willing mind.’5 I was thanking my stars that I’d learned to make nice button-holes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and some one began to hum,—

  ‘Kennst du das land,’6

  like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn’t resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German—rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, droll nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one’s ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn’t a handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked him, for he had a fine head; his linen was spandy nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat, and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs7 toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone,—

  “ ‘Herein!’8

  “I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on.

  “ ‘Me wants my Bhaer,’ said the mite, slamming down her book, and running to meet him.

  “ ‘Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina,’ said the Professor, catching her up, with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.

  “ ‘Now me mus tuddy my lessin,’ went on the funny little thing; so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly, that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German.

  Professor Bhaer (Gabriel Byrne) admires Jo’s (Winona Ryder’s) literary handiwork in the 1994 film. (Photofest)

  “Another knock, and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying ‘Now Professor,’ in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.

  “Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I heard him say, emphatically, ‘No, no, it is not so; you haf not attend to what I say’; and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, ‘Prut!9 it all goes bad this day.’

  “Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut, till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and, taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I guess he has a hard life of it.

  “Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn’t go down to the five-o’clock dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself r
espectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke; but as she is short, and I’m tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner—the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men, absorbed in themselves; young couples absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don’t think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.

  “Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she’d have turned her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified ‘her ladyship.’ I didn’t mind, for I like ‘to see folks eat with a relish,’ as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food, after teaching idiots all day.

  “As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their beavers before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, ‘Who’s the new party?’

  “ ‘Governess, or something of that sort.’

  “ ‘What the deuce is she at our table for?’

  “ ‘Friend of the old lady’s.’

  “ ‘Handsome head, but no style.’

  “ ‘Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.’

  “I felt angry at first, and then I didn’t care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I’ve got sense, if I haven’t style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!”