“I beg pardon; I thought—” and there she paused diplomatically.
“No, you didn’t; you knew perfectly well I never cared for any one but Jo.” Laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face away as he spoke.
“I did think so; but as they never said anything about it, and you came away, I supposed I was mistaken. And Jo wouldn’t be kind to you? Why, I was sure she loved you dearly.”
“She was kind, but not in the right way; and it’s lucky for her she didn’t love me, if I’m the good-for-nothing fellow you think me. It’s her fault, though, and you may tell her so.”
The hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled Amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.
“I was wrong; I didn’t know; I’m very sorry I was so cross, but I can’t help wishing you’d bear it better, Teddy, dear.”
May Alcott painted this watercolor during her visit to Europe with Louisa in 1870–71. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association)
“Don’t! that’s her name for me,” and Laurie put up his hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in Jo’s half-kind, half-reproachful tone. “Wait till you’ve tried it yourself,” he added, in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.
“I’d take it manfully, and be respected if I couldn’t be loved,” cried Amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.
Now Laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well,—making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live it down alone. Amy’s lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference. He felt as if suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream, and found it impossible to go to sleep again. Presently he sat up, and asked, slowly,—
“Do you think Jo would despise me as you do?”
“Yes, if she saw you now. She hates lazy people. Why don’t you do something splendid, and make her love you?”
“I did my best, but it was no use.”
“Graduating well, you mean? That was no more than you ought to have done, for your grandfather’s sake. It would have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and money, when every one knew you could do well.”
“I did fail, say what you will, for Jo wouldn’t love me,” began Laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.
“No you didn’t, and you’ll say so in the end,—for it did you good, and proved that you could do something if you tried. If you’d only set about another task of some sort, you’d soon be your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble.”
“That’s impossible!”
“Try it and see. You needn’t shrug your shoulders, and think ‘Much she knows about such things.’ I don’t pretend to be wise, but I am observing, and I see a great deal more than you’d imagine. I’m interested in other people’s experiences and inconsistencies; and, though I can’t explain, I remember and use them for my own benefit. Love Jo all your days, if you choose,—but don’t let it spoil you,—for it’s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can’t have the one you want. There,—I won’t lecture any more, for I know you’ll wake up, and be a man in spite of that hard-hearted girl.”
Neither spoke for several minutes. Laurie sat turning the little ring on his finger, and Amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked. Presently she put it on his knee, merely saying,—
“How do you like that?”
He looked and then he smiled,—as he could not well help doing, for it was capitally done. The long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer’s head.
“How well you draw!” he said, with genuine surprise and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh,—
“Yes, that’s me.”
“As you are,—this is as you were,” and Amy laid another sketch beside the one he held.
It was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young man’s face as he looked. Only a rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse; hat and coat were off, and every line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude, was full of energy and meaning. The handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching his neck under the tightly-drawn rein, with one foot impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had mastered him. In the ruffled mane, the rider’s breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the “Dolce far niente” sketch. Laurie said nothing; but, as his eye went from one to the other, Amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little lesson she had given him. That satisfied her; and, without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way,—
“Don’t you remember the day you played ‘Rarey’13 with Puck, and we all looked on? Meg and Beth were frightened, but Jo clapped and pranced, and I sat on the fence and drew you. I found that sketch in my portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you.”
“Much obliged! You’ve improved immensely since then, and I congratulate you. May I venture to suggest in ‘a honeymoon Paradise,’ that five o’clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?” Laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow, and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures should have an end. He tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now,—for the rousing had been more efficacious than he would confess. Amy felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself,—
“Now I’ve offended him. Well, if it does him good, I’m glad,—if it makes him hate me, I’m sorry; but it’s true, and I can’t take back a word of it.”
They laughed and chatted all the way home; and little Baptiste, up behind, thought that Monsieur and Mademoiselle were in charming spirits. But both felt ill at ease; the friendly frankness was disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and, despite their apparent gayety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.
“Shall we see you this evening, mon frere?” asked Amy, as they parted at her aunt’s door.
“Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, Mademoiselle,” and Laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became him better than many men. Something in his face made Amy say, quickly and warmly,—
“No; be yourself with me, Laurie, and part in the good old way. I’d rather have a hearty English hand-shake than all the sentimental salutations in France.”
“Good-by, dear,” and, with these words, uttered in the tone she liked, Laurie left her, after a hand-shake almost painful in its heartiness.
Next morning, instead of the usual call, Amy received a note which made her smile at the beginning, and sigh at the end:—
“MY DEAR MENTOR:
“Please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself, for ‘Lazy Laurence’ has gone to his grandpa, like the best of boys. A pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful honeymoon at Valrosa. I think Fred would be benefited by a rouser. Tell him so, with my congratulations.
“Yours gratefully,
TELEMACHUS.”14
“Good boy! I’m glad he’s gone,” said Amy, with an approving smile; the next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding, with an involuntary sigh,—
“Yes, I am glad,—but how I shall miss him.”
1. Lazy Laurence. Alcott took the title for this chapter from a short story of the same name in Mrs. Edgeworth’s 1800 collection The Parent’s Assistant.
2. “munching.” A shortening of the phrase “being made much over.”
3. “Monaco.” The independent
principality of Monaco covers less than a square mile and is the second-smallest country in the world. It sits on the Mediterranean coastline, just ten miles from Nice.
4. Valrosa. Valrose is a grand estate to the north of Nice. Alcott visited it repeatedly during her stay in Nice and called it “a lovely villa buried in roses” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 150). Stunningly extravagant, the current Château de Valrose was under construction as Alcott was writing Little Women and was complete by the time she paid her second visit to Europe in 1870–71.
5. panniers . . . capaline . . . distaff. A pannier is a pair of baskets slung on either side of a beast of burden. “Capaline” is probably a corruption of one of two Spanish words. A capelina is a wide-brimmed straw hat, typically worn by a woman for protection from the sun. A capellina is a large scarf or cape worn as a hood or bonnet. A distaff is a cloven staff on which wool or flax is wound in a traditional kind of spinning.
6. red rose . . . pale roses. Here, in a literal valley of roses, Alcott returns again to the language of flowers. The red roses that Laurie associates with Jo stand for passionate love, though they also represent respect. The pale roses he accepts from Amy connote a more chaste and proper friendship.
7. “Natural depravity, I suppose.” Laurie here makes light of a doctrine of Calvinist Christianity. Calvinists believe that human beings are innately sinful and can be saved from their wickedness only by the grace of God. Both sides of Alcott’s family believed in the natural goodness of humankind and stoutly rejected the Calvinist dogma regarding natural depravity.
8. “ ‘Dolce far niente.’ ” “The sweetness of doing nothing” (Italian).
9. how like an Italian he looked. Amy’s mission is not only to deliver Laurie from sloth, but to save him from losing his American identity.
10. “Saint Laurence on a gridiron.” Tradition, very likely based on a mistranslation, has it that Saint Lawrence (ca. 225–58) was martyred by being grilled to death on an iron grid. He is, for this rather macabre reason, considered a patron saint of cooks and chefs. Laurie punningly expresses his resentment at being grilled by Amy.
11. “Jouvin’s best gloves.” Xavier Jouvin (1801–44) was a French master of glove-making whose innovative techniques for producing a close fit long outlived him. Amy’s commentary on Laurie’s hand offers a counterpoint to Mr. March’s examination of Meg’s hand in Part First, Chapter XXII. Meg’s once-smooth white hand has been nobly coarsened by work; Laurie’s has yet to make a similar transformation.
12. “no diamonds or big seal rings on it.” A seal ring was used to press an emblem into hot sealing wax when closing an envelope. Alcott despised showiness and affectation in men’s accessories and manners. Attending a reading by Dickens in London in June 1866, she was repelled by his gaudy rings and foppish curls and commented that his voice and mannerisms reminded her of “a worn-out actor” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 155).
13. “played ‘Rarey.’ ” Named for American horse tamer John Solomon Rarey (1827–66), the Rarey technique is a method of calming horses that have become fearful of human beings. Rarey was so accomplished in his work that he gave lessons in numerous countries and was summoned to Windsor Castle to calm a horse belonging to Queen Victoria. He remains known to some as the original horse whisperer.
14. “ ‘TELEMACHUS.’ ” In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus’s son Telemachus goes on a long voyage in an attempt to find his long-lost father. Under the guidance of the goddess Athena, who disguises herself as the wise and avuncular Mentor, Telemachus fails to find Odysseus but discovers his own strength of character.
CHAPTER XVII.
The Valley of the Shadow.
WHEN the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble. They put away their grief, and each did their part toward making that last year a happy one.
The pleasantest room1 in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was gathered everything that she most loved—flowers, pictures, her piano, the little work-table, and the beloved pussies. Father’s best books found their way there, mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s loveliest sketches; and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for; old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked; and, from across the sea, came little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.2
Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and busy as ever; for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature; and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to and fro. To drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needle-book for some small mother of many dolls, pen-wipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pot-hooks,3 scrap-books for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers up the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy god-mother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.4
The first few months were very happy ones,5 and Beth often used to look round, and say “How beautiful this is,” as they all sat together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books, which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago—a little chapel, where a paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who listened; for the father’s heart was in the minister’s religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.
It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come; for, by and by, Beth said the needle was “so heavy,” and put it down forever;6 talking wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry, “Help me, help me!” and to feel that there was no help.7 A sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death; but both were mercifully brief, and then, the natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck of her frail body, Beth’s soul grew strong; and, though she said little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, trying to see the Shining Ones8 coming to receive her when she crossed the river.
Lizzie Alcott’s sewing kit was a gift from her father. As her final illness worsened, she found the needle too heavy to lift. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association)
Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, “I feel stronger when you are here.”9 She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and “tried not to be a trouble.” All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Pr
ecious and helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed; lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her, that she could not fail to learn them; charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
Often when she woke, Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the transparent fingers; and Jo would lie watching her, with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.
Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter; for, with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister’s life—uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which “smell sweet, and blossom in the dust”;10 the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible to all.
One night, when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite Pilgrim’s Progress, she found a little paper scribbled over, in Jo’s hand. The name caught her eye, and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.
“Poor Jo, she’s fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to ask leave; she shows me all her things, and I don’t think she’ll mind if I look at this,” thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.
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