Little Women (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Louisa May Alcott

“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 everyone 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 hardhearted 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 a 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 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 gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.

  “Shall we see you this evening, mon frère?”jz asked Amy, as they parted at her aunt’s door.

  “Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, mademoiselle.”ka 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 handshake 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 handshake 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.*

  *In Homer’s Odyssey, Odysseus’s son, Telemachus, searches for his missing father.

  “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!”

  40

  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 his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.

  The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was gathered everything that she most loved—flowers, pictures, her piano, the little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father’s best books found their way there, Mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s finest 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.

  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 schoolchildren daily passing to and fro—to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebookkb for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks,kc scrapbooks 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 godmother, 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.

  The first few months were very happy ones, 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 ne
ar, 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; 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. 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 Oneskd coming to receive her when she crossed the river.

  Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said, “I feel stronger when you are here.” 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. Precious 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,” 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.

  MY BETH

  Sitting patient in the shadow

  Till the blessed light shall come,

  A serene and saintly presence

  Sanctifies our troubled home.

  Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows

  Break like ripples on the strandke

  Of the deep and solemn river

  Where her willing feet now stand.

  O my sister, passing from me,

  Out of human care and strife,

  Leave me, as a gift, those virtues

  Which have beautified your life.

  Dear, bequeath me that great patience

  Which has power to sustain

  A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit

  In its prison-house of pain.

  Give me, for I need it sorely,

  Of that courage, wise and sweet,

  Which has made the path of duty

  Green beneath your willing feet.

  Give me that unselfish nature,

  That with charity divine

  Can pardon wrong for love’s dear sake—

  Meek heart, forgive me mine!

  Thus our parting daily loseth

  Something of its bitter pain,

  And while learning this hard lesson,

  My great loss becomes my gain.

  For the touch of grief will render

  My wild nature more serene,

  Give to life new aspirations,

  A new trust in the unseen.

  Henceforth, safe across the river,

  I shall see forevermore

  A beloved, household spirit

  Waiting for me on the shore.

  Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,

  Guardian angels shall become,

  And the sister gone before me

  By their hands shall lead me home.

  Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth’s face, for her one regret had been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

  “Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn’t care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?” she asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.

  “Oh, Beth, so much, so much!” And Jo’s head went down upon the pillow beside her sister’s.

  “Then I don’t feel as if I’d wasted my life. I’m not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right; and now, when it’s too late to begin even to do better, it’s such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I’d helped them.”

  “More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn’t let you go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t lose you, that you’ll be more to me than ever, and death can’t part us, though it seems to.”

  “I know it cannot, and I don’t fear it any longer, for I’m sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I’m gone. They will turn to you, don’t fail them; and if it’s hard to work alone, remember that I don’t forget you, and that you’ll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world; for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy.”

  “I’ll try, Beth.” And then and there Jo renounced her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love.

  So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fair and early, and the birds came back in time to say good-by to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

  Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that
to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the “tide went out easily,” and in the dark hour before the dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.

  With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.

  When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out, Jo’s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over the placid face upon the pillow—a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.

  41

  Learning to Forget

  Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till long afterward; men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the lords of creation don’t take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do; then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it; if it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had received; pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression, “I despise you.” “Go and do something splendid that will make her love you.”

  Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn’t love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl’s no had not spoiled his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy’s advice was quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred; that being done, he felt that he was ready to “hide his stricken heart, and still toil on.”