The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “I’ll be hanged if I do!” and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the bare idea.

  “Yes you will!” persisted Jo; “you’ll get over this after a while, and find some lovely, accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn’t. I’m homely, and awkward, and odd, and old, and you’d be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel,—we can’t help it even now, you see,—and I shouldn’t like elegant society and you would, and you’d hate my scribbling, and I couldn’t get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn’t done it,—and everything would be horrid!”

  “Anything more?” asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst.

  “Nothing more,—except that I don’t believe I shall ever marry; I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up for any mortal man.”

  “I know better!” broke in Laurie, “you think so now; but there’ll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you’ll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will,—it’s your way,—and I shall have to stand by and see it”—and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragical.

  “Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can,” cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. “I’ve done my best, but you won’t be reasonable, and it’s selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can’t give. I shall always be fond of you,—very fond indeed, as a friend,—but I’ll never marry you; and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us,—so now.”

  That speech was like fire to gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute, as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying, in a desperate sort of tone,—

  “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.”

  “Oh, where are you going?” she cried, for his face frightened her.

  “To the devil!” was the consoling answer.

  For a minute Jo’s heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank, toward the river; but it takes much folly, sin, or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort, who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in many a race. Jo drew a long breath, and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.

  “That will do him good, and he’ll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan’t dare to see him,” she said; adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves,—

  “Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he’d love Beth; perhaps he may, in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! how can girls like to have lovers, and refuse them. I think it’s dreadful.”

  Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility, that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo, that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly, and resolved to carry his boy out of harm’s way; for Young Impetuosity’s parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess.

  When Laurie came home, dead tired, but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully, for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year’s success, which to him now seemed love’s labor lost.3 He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano, and began to play. The windows were open; and Jo, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the “Sonata Pathetique,”4 and played it as he never did before.

  “That’s very fine, I dare say, but it’s sad enough to make one cry; give us something gayer, lad,” said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show, but knew not how.

  Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if, in a momentary lull, Mrs. March’s voice had not been heard calling,—

  “Jo, dear, come in; I want you.”

  Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place; the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.

  “I can’t stand this,” muttered the old gentleman—up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman,—

  “I know, my boy, I know.”

  No answer for an instant; then Laurie asked, sharply,—

  “Who told you?”

  “Jo herself.”

  “Then there’s an end of it!” and he shook off his grandfather’s hands with an impatient motion; for, though grateful for the sympathy, his man’s pride could not bear a man’s pity.

  “Not quite; I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it,” returned Mr. Laurence, with unusual mildness. “You won’t care to stay at home, just now, perhaps?”

  “I don’t intend to run away from a girl. Jo can’t prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like,” interrupted Laurie, in a defiant tone.

  “Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I’m disappointed, but the girl can’t help it; and the only thing left for you to do, is to go away for a time. Where will you go?”

  “Anywhere; I don’t care what becomes of me;” and Laurie got up, with a reckless laugh, that grated on his grandfather’s ear.

  “Take it like a man, and don’t do anything rash, for God’s sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you’ve been wild to go, and I promised you should, when you got through college.”

  “Ah, but I didn’t mean to go alone!” and Laurie walked fast through the room, with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.

  “I don’t ask you to go alone; there’s some one ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world.”

  “Who, sir?” stopping to listen.

  “Myself.”

  Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily,—

  “I’m a selfish brute; but—you know—grandfather—”

  “Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I’ve been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down, and hear my plan. It’s all settled, and can be carried out at once,” said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away, as his father had done before him.

  “Well, sir, what is it?” and Laurie sat down without a sign of interest in face or voice.

  “There is business in London that needs looking after; I meant you should attend to it; but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything; I’m merely holding on till you take my place, and can be off at any time.”

  “But you hate travelling, sir; I can’t ask it of you at your age,” began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.

  The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent it; for the mood in which he found his grandson, assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices.
So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said, stoutly,—

  “Bless your soul, I’m not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea; it will do me good, and my old bones won’t suffer, for travelling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair.”

  A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add, hastily,—

  “I don’t mean to be a marplot5 or a burden; I go because I think you’d feel happier than if I were left behind. I don’t intend to gad about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I’ve friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them; meantime, you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery and adventures, to your heart’s content.”

  Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken, and the world a howling wilderness; but, at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,—

  “Just as you like, sir; it doesn’t matter where I go, or what I do.”

  “It does to me—remember that, my lad; I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie.”

  “Anything you like, sir.”

  “Good!” thought the old gentleman; “you don’t care now, but there’ll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I’m much mistaken.”

  Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot; and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentlemen usually do in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns; lost his appetite, neglected his dress, and devoted much time to playing tempestously on his piano; avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragical face that haunted her dreams by night, and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation, or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends; but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and every one rejoiced that the “poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy.” Of course he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by, with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity, like his love, was unalterable.

  When the parting came he affected high spirits to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gayety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did, for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude; then, feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran down stairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her, as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal both eloquent and pathetic.

  “Oh, Jo, can’t you?”

  “Teddy, dear, I wish I could!”

  That was all, except a little pause; then Laurie straightened himself up, said “It’s all right, never mind,” and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn’t all right, and Jo did mind; for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he left her, without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

  1. Phillips . . . Demosthenes. Among white abolitionists, Wendell Phillips (1811–84) perhaps ranked second in influence only to William Lloyd Garrison. Alcott deeply admired Phillips for his “splendid speaking” against the prosecution of Thomas Sims, an African-American man who, in 1851, was sent back into slavery under the provisions of the newly enacted Fugitive Slave Law of 1850 (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 65). Demosthenes (384?–322 BCE) remains the most renowned of ancient Greek orators.

  2. “on a jews-harp.” “See, the Conqu’ring Hero Comes!” is a choral excerpt from the 1747 oratorio Judas Maccabaeus by George Frideric Handel (1685–1759). The piece celebrates Judas Maccabeus, or “Judah the Hammer,” who led a revolt against the Seleucid Empire and was one of the great warriors in ancient Jewish history. A Jew’s harp is a simple instrument that dates from antiquity. It consists of a metal or bamboo tongue attached to a frame. Placed in the mouth and plucked with a finger, it produces a twangy tone. It has no particular connection to Judaism or the Jewish people. Though Jo uses the term innocently, the name “Jew’s harp” is now sometimes thought offensive.

  3. love’s labor lost. A passing allusion to Shakespeare’s 1598 comedy Love’s Labour’s Lost.

  4. “Sonata Pathetique.” The Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Opus 13 (“Grande Sonate Pathétique”) was composed by Ludwig van Beethoven in 1798. As suits Laurie’s mood, it is an emotional, urgent work, heavy with a sense of tragedy.

  5. marplot. Someone who defeats or fouls up a plan by officiously interfering. The term first surfaced as the name of an interfering character in The Busie Body, a 1709 play by British playwright Susanna Centlivre (ca. 1667–1723).

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Beth’s Secret.

  WHEN Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it, or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily; but to eyes sharpened by absence it was very plain, and a heavy weight fell on Jo’s heart as she saw her sister’s face. It was no paler, and but little thinner than in the autumn; yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty.1 Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy,—no one appeared to doubt that she was better; and, presently, in other cares, Jo for a time forgot her fear.

  But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven; but when she showed her savings and proposed the mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and, as grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea-breezes2 blow a little color into her pale cheeks.

  It was not a fashionable place, but, even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapt up in her to care for any one else; so they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them,—who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away.

  They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it; for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth’s; but when she put out her hand to lift it up there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw; and, during the quiet weeks, when the shadow grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo’s lap, while the winds blew h
ealthfully over her, and the sea made music at her feet.

  This striking ocean view from Lynn, Massachusetts, near the place where Abba Alcott took the ailing Lizzie in 1857, was painted just two years earlier by William Bradford. (The Lynn Museum & Historical Society)

  One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still; and, putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes,—trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth’s cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her,—for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been gathering. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and, when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly, that there was hardly any need for her to say,—

  “Jo, dear, I’m glad you know it. I’ve tried to tell you, but I couldn’t.”

  There was no answer except her sister’s cheek against her own,—not even tears,—for when most deeply moved Jo did not cry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her with her arms about her, and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.

  “I’ve known it for a good while, dear, and now I’m used to it, it isn’t hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don’t be troubled about me, because it’s best; indeed it is.”

  “Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?” asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth’s trouble.

  “Yes; I gave up hoping then, but I didn’t like to own it; I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble any one. But when I saw you all so well, and strong, and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you,—and then I was miserable, Jo.”