Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Louisa May Alcott

  From your faithful Jo

  P.S. On reading over my letter it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to write about. Bless you!

  DECEMBER

  MY PRECIOUS BETSEY,

  As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on; for though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what Amy would call Herculaneumhq efforts, in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun!

  We are very good friends now, and I’ve begun to take lessons. I really couldn’t help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as I passed Mr. Bhaer’s room where she was rummaging.

  “Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these books to rights, for I’ve turned everything upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not long ago.”

  I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was “a den,” to be sure. Books and papers everywhere; a broken meerschaum,hr and an old flute over the mantelpiece as if done with; a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other; half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts; dirty little boots stood drying before the fire; and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three of the missing articles were found—one over the bird cage, one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.

  “Such a man!” laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in the rag bag. “I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite tails. It’s dreadful, but I can’t scold him: he’s so absent-minded and good-natured, he lets those boys ride over him roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes.”

  “Let me mend them,” said I. “I don’t mind it, and he needn’t know. I’d like to—he’s so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending books.”

  So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks—for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn’t find it out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him.

  “So!” he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, “you peep at me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?”

  “Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,” I blundered out, as red as a peony.

  “Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness; for, look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay.” And he pointed to my work. “ ‘Yes,’ they say to one another, these so kind ladies, ‘he is a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never opserve that his sock heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.’ Ah! But I haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the thanks for this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy works for me and mine.”

  Of course I couldn’t say anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he’d look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and when it came to a sniff of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn’t blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I’d covered myself with glory.

  “Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little Märchenhs together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble.”

  He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen’s fairy tales so invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to the inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out, in his hearty way, “Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I do him in German, gif me your ear.” And away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the Constant Tin Soldier,ht which is droll, you know, so I could laugh—and I did—though I didn’t understand half he read, for I couldn’t help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so comical.

  After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn’t seem tired of it yet—which is very good of him, isn’t it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.

  I’m glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I’m not jealous, dear, do your best, only don’t make a saint of him. I’m afraid I couldn’t like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven’t time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.

  JANUARY

  A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn’t get it till night and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise; so I was disappointed, for I’d had a “kind of a feeling” that you wouldn’t forget me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea, and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought. Beth’s new “ink bib” was capital, and Hannah’s box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I’ll be sure and wear the nice flannels hu you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

  Speaking of books reminds me that I’m getting rich in that line, for on New Year’s Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespea
re. It is one he values much, and I’ve often admired it, set up in the place of honor with his German Bible, Plato, Homer,hv and Milton; so you may imagine how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my name in it, “from my friend Friedrich Bhaer.”

  “You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one, for between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen.”

  I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about “my library,” as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me. Now don’t laugh at his horrid name; it isn’t pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I’m glad you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new “friend Friedrich Bhaer.”

  Not having much money, or knowing what he’d like, I got several little things, and put them about the room, where he would find them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny—a new standish‡ on his table, a little vase for his flower—he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says—and a holder for his blower, so that he needn’t burn up what Amy calls “mouchoirs.”hw I made it like those Beth invented—a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantelpiece as an article of virtu,hx so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn’t forget a servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French laundrywoman to Miss Norton, forgot him. I was so glad of that.

  They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year’s Eve. I didn’t mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool, most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a “nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the Nile.” I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell another that he knew I’d been an actress; in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titaniahy—a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance was “quite a landscape,” to use a Teddyism.

  I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many failures; for I’m cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all!

  Ever your loving Jo

  34

  A Friend

  Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that money conferred power: money and power, therefore, she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than self.

  The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo’s most cherished castle in the air.

  The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful château en Espagne.hz But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely of the giant’s treasures, if I remember rightly. But the “up again and take another” spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.

  She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a “thrilling tale,” and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood,ia editor of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus,ib but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment—

  “Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to see Mr. Dashwood.”

  Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.

  “A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this suits.”

  While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

  “Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure sign of a novice.

  “No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the Blameystone Banner.”

  “Oh, did she?” And Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots. “Well, you can leave it, if you like. We’ve more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, but I’ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week.”

  Now, Jo did not like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn’t suit her at all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little fiction of “my friend” was considered a good joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long for next week.

  When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr. Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr. Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners: so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

  “We’ll take this (editors never say I), if you don’t object to a few alterations. It’s too long, but omitting the passages I’ve marked will make it just the right length,” he said, in a businesslike tone.

  Jo hardly knew her own MS.ic again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent mig
ht on being asked to cut off her baby’s legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find that all the moral reflections—which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romanceid—had been stricken out.

  “But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I took care to have a few of my sinners repent.”

  Mr. Dashwood’s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had forgotten her “friend,” and spoken as only an author could.

  “People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don’t sell nowadays;” which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

  “You think it would do with these alterations, then?”

  “Yes, it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up—language good, and so on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply.

  “What do you—that is, what compensation—” began Jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.

  “Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort. Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

  “Very well, you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay.

  “Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.

  “Well, we’ll look at it; can’t promise to take it. Tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend like to put to it?” in a careless tone.

  “None at all, if you please, she doesn’t wish her name to appear and has no nom de plume,”ie said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

  “Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.