Hello friends and welcome to the continuation
in this calm reading of "Little Women". Tonight I shall be reading for you chapter
27 "Literary Lessons", as well as chapter 28 "Domestic Experiences". I want to thank all those of you who are active
supporters of the chanel. You have my deepest gratitude. If you would like to become a supporter, you
can join me on Patreon, or click the "join" button at the bottom of the screen. I thank you! And now, let us relax. Find that spot where you can settle
down,
and unwind. Ease yourself into that spot. Take a deep breath, and you can feel the tension
leaving you as you exhale. Let's begin thses chapters. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LITERARY LESSONS Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped
a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if
half a million would have given more real happiness then did the little sum that came
to her in this wise. Every few weeks she would shut herself up
in her room, put on her scribbling suit,
and ‘fall into a vortex’, as she expressed
it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished
she could find no peace. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black
woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material,
adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared
for action. This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes
of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, mere
ly popping in their heads
semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, “Does genius burn, Jo?” They did not always venture even to ask this
question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn
low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments
it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off,
and cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew,
and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address
Jo. She did not think herself a genius by any
means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon,
and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and
happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the
flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted,
day and night were all too short to en
joy the happiness which blessed her only at such
times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week
or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent. She was just recovering from one of these
attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for
her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People’s Course, the lecture on
the Pyramids, and Jo rather wond
ered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience,
but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want
supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with
the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles
than that of the Sphinx. They were early, and while Miss Crocker set
the heel of her stocking, Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied
the
seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive
foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing Women’s Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly
holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and
an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a studious
looking lad absorbed in a newspaper. It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined
the work of art nearest her,
idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances
needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling over
a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally
small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was
flying away in the background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking
and, with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntl
y, “want to read
it? That’s a first-rate story.” Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never
outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of
love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which
the passions have a holiday, and when the author’s invention fails, a grand catastrophe
clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult
over their downfall. “Prime, isn’t it?” asked the b
oy, as
her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion. “I think you and I could do as well as that
if we tried,” returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash. “I should think I was a pretty lucky chap
if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories,
they say.” and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale. “Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden
interest. “No, but I read all her pieces, and I know
a fellow who works in the office where t
his paper is printed.” “Do you say she makes a good living out
of stories like this?” and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly
sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page. “Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid
well for writing it.” Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very
little of it, for while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei,
and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and b
oldly
resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the audience
awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded on paper),
and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether
the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder. She said nothing of her plan at home, but
fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looke
d a little
anxious when ‘genius took to burning’. Jo had never tried this style before, contenting
herself with very mild romances for The Spread Eagle. Her experience and miscellaneous reading were
of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair
as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having
located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earth
quake, as a striking and appropriate
denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied
by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn’t get the prize, which the writer hardly
dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth. Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still
longer time for a girl to keep a secret, but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give
up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost
too
k her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her
lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had
been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly
note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, I think he
would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for Jo valued the
letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it
was so p
leasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write
a sensation story. A prouder young woman was seldom seen than
she, when, having composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the
letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when
the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that
the language was good, the romance fresh an
d hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he
shook his head, and said in his unworldly way... “You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money.” “I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?” asked
Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye. “Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for
a month or two,” answered Jo promptly. To the seaside they went, after much discussion,
and though Beth didn’t come home as plump an
d rosy as could be desired, she was much
better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of
her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful
checks. She did earn several that year, and began
to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned
into comforts for them all. The Duke’s Daughter paid the butcher’s
bill, A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Cu
rse of the Coventrys proved the
blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns. Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing,
but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine
satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of
necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and
ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge tha
t she could supply
her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny. Little notice was taken of her stories, but
they found a market, and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for
fame and fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time,
read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three
publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third,
and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.
“Now I must either bundle it back in to
my tin kitchen to mold, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and
get what I can for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house,
but cash is more convenient, so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important
subject,” said Jo, calling a family council. “Don’t spoil your book, my girl, for there
is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,” was her father’s
advice, and he prac
ticed what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit
of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and
mellow. “It seems to me that Jo will profit more
by taking the trial than by waiting,” said Mrs. March. “Criticism is the best test of such work,
for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next
time. We are too partial, but the praise and blame
of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but litt
le money.” “Yes,” said Jo, knitting her brows, “that’s
just it. I’ve been fussing over the thing so long,
I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial
persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it.” “I wouldn’t leave a word out of it. You’ll spoil it if you do, for the interest
of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be
all a muddle if you don’t explain as you go on,” said Meg,
who firmly believed that
this book was the most remarkable novel ever written. “But Mr. Allen says, ‘Leave out the explanations,
make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story’,” interrupted Jo, turning
to the publisher’s note. “Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a good, popular book, and get as much
money as you can. By-and-by, when you’ve got a name, you can
afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels,”
said A
my, who took a strictly practical view of the subject. “Well,” said Jo, laughing, “if my people
are ‘philosophical and metaphysical’, it isn’t my fault, for I know nothing about
such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I’ve got some of his wise ideas jumbled
up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?” “I should so like to see it printed soon,”
was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it. But there was an unconscious emphasis on the
last word, and a
wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which
chilled Jo’s heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture
‘soon’. So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress
laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing everyone, she took
everyone’s advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody. Her father liked the metaphysical streak which
had unconsciously got i
nto it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts
about it. Her mother thought that there was a trifle
too much description. Out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary
links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy, so Jo piled up the
agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life,
Jo quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story. Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down
one third, and confidingly sen
t the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the
big, busy world to try its fate. Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred
dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected
that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover. “You said, Mother, that criticism would
help me. But how can it, when it’s so contradictory
that I don’t know whether I’ve written a promising book or broken all the ten co
mmandments?” cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices,
the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next. “This man says, ‘An exquisite book, full
of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is sweet, pure, and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress. “The next, ‘The theory of the book is
bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don’t
believe in Spiritualism, and copied my char
acters from life, I don’t see how this critic can
be right. Another says, ‘It’s one of the best American
novels which has appeared for years.’ (I know better than that), and the next asserts
that ‘Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous
book.’ ’Tisn’t! Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and
nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure
and the money. I wish I’d printed the whole or not at all,
for I do h
ate to be so misjudged.” Her family and friends administered comfort
and commendation liberally. Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited
Jo, who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those whose opinion
had real value gave her the criticism which is an author’s best education, and when
the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it
still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had receive
d. “Not being a genius, like Keats, it won’t
kill me,” she said stoutly, “and I’ve got the joke on my side, after all, for the
parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,
and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced ‘charmingly natural,
tender, and true’. So I’ll comfort myself with that, and when
I’m ready, I’ll up again and take another.” CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES Like most other young matrons, Meg began her
m
arried life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. John should find home a paradise, he should
always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness
to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles. Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the
little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered
with many cares. She was too ti
red, sometimes, even to smile,
John grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare. As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder
where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make
him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any
better than hers. They were very happy, even after they discovered
that they couldn’t live on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished,
though s
he beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the
daily parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, “Shall
I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling?” The little house ceased to be a glorified
bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for
the better. At first they played keep-house, and frolicked
over it like children. Then John took steadily to business, feeling
the cares of
the head of a family upon his shoulders, and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers,
put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion. While the cooking mania lasted she went through
Mrs. Cornelius’s Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems
with patience and care. Sometimes her family were invited in to help
eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or Lotty would be privately dispatched with
a batch of failures, which were to
be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of
the little Hummels. An evening with John over the account books
usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue,
during which the poor man was put through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over
coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however,
Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on lon
g without,
a family jar. Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom
stocked with homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly. John was requested to order home a dozen or
so of little pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and
were to be attended to at once. As John firmly believed that ‘my wife’
was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should
be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by i
n a most pleasing form for winter
use. Home came four dozen delightful little pots,
half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little
cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite
of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn’t
she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times? The array of pots rather amazed her at first,
but John was so fond of jelly, and t
he nice little jars would look so well on the top
shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling, straining,
and fussing over her jelly. She did her best, she asked advice of Mrs.
Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone, she
reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn’t ‘jell’. She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask
Mother to lend her a hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never
annoy anyone
with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that last word as if
the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but they had held to their resolve, and
whenever they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for Mrs. March
had advised the plan. So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory
sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o’clock sat down in her topsy-turvey
kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and
wept. Now, in the first flush of the new life, she
had often said, “My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever
he likes. I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no
discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite
whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me.” How charming that was, to be sure! John quite glowed with pride to hear her say
it, and felt what a blessed thing it was
to have a superior wife. But, although they had had company from time
to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish
herself till now. It always happens so in this vale of tears,
there is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore, and
bear as we best can. If John had not forgotten all about the jelly,
it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in
the year, to bring a friend home
to dinner unexpectedly. Congratulating himself that a handsome repast
had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and
indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his
pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with
the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband. It is a world of disappointments, as John
discovered when he reached the Dovecote. The front door usually stood
hospitably open. Now it was not only shut, but locked, and
yesterday’s mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained,
no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little
bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared
but a sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes. “I’m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, whi
le I look
up Mrs. Brooke,” said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude. Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent
smell of burned sugar, and Mr. Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face. He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke
disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect
mightily. In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot
to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burnin
g gaily on the stove. Lotty, with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating
bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while
Mrs. Brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally. “My dearest girl, what is the matter?” cried John, rushing in, with awful visions
of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of
the guest in the garden. “Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross
and worried! I’ve been at it till I’m all wo
rn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!” and
the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in
every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the
floor. “What worries you dear? Has anything dreadful happened?” asked the
anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew. “Yes,” sobbed Meg despairingly. “Tell me quick, then. Don’t cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love.” “The.
.. The jelly won’t jell and I don’t know
what to do!” John Brooke laughed then as he never dared
to laugh afterward, and the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty
peal, which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg’s woe. “Is that all? Fling it out of the window, and don’t bother
any more about it. I’ll buy you quarts if you want it, but
for heaven’s sake don’t have hysterics, for I’ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner,
and...” John got no further, for Meg cast him off,
and cla
sped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a
tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay... “A man to dinner, and everything in a mess! John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?” “Hush, he’s in the garden! I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can’t
be helped now,” said John, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye. “You ought to have sent word, or told me
this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy I was,” continued Meg petulantly,
for ev
en turtledoves will peck when ruffled. “I didn’t know it this morning, and there
was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out. I never thought of asking leave, when you
have always told me to do as I liked. I never tried it before, and hang me if I
ever do again!” added John, with an aggrieved air. “I should hope not! Take him away at once. I can’t see him, and there isn’t any dinner.” “Well, I like that! Where’s the beef and vegetables I sent home,
and the pudding you promised?” cried
John, rushing to the larder. “I hadn’t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother’s. I’m sorry, but I was so busy,” and Meg’s
tears began again. John was a mild man, but he was human, and
after a long day’s work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house,
an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner. He restrained himself however, and the little
squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word. “It’s a scrape, I acknowl
edge, but if
you will lend a hand, we’ll pull through and have a good time yet. Don’t cry, dear, but just exert yourself
a bit, and fix us up something to eat. We’re both as hungry as hunters, so we shan’t
mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese. We won’t ask for jelly.” He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but
that one word sealed his fate. Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about
her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke. “You must get yoursel
f out of the scrape
as you can. I’m too used up to ‘exert’ myself for
anyone. It’s like a man to propose a bone and vulgar
bread and cheese for company. I won’t have anything of the sort in my
house. Take that Scott up to Mother’s, and tell
him I’m away, sick, dead, anything. I won’t see him, and you two can laugh at
me and my jelly as much as you like. You won’t have anything else here.” and having delivered her defiance all on one
breath, Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the f
ield to bemoan herself in her own
room. What those two creatures did in her absence,
she never knew, but Mr. Scott was not taken ‘up to Mother’s’, and when Meg descended,
after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which
filled her with horror. Lotty reported that they had eaten “a much,
and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the
pots.” Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense
of shame at her own short-comings,
of loyalty to John, “who might be cruel, but nobody
should know it,” restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she dressed herself
prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven. Unfortunately, John didn’t come, not seeing
the matter in that light. He had carried it off as a good joke with
Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably
that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but John was angry,
thou
gh he did not show it, he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need. “It wasn’t fair to tell a man to bring
folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame
up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn’t! And Meg must know it.” He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but
when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off, a milder mood came
over him. “Poor little thing! It was har
d upon her when she tried so heartily
to please me. She was wrong, of course, but then she was
young. I must be patient and teach her.” He hoped she had not gone home—he hated
gossip and interference. For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere
thought of it, and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart,
and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm,
and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse. Meg likewise resolv
ed to be ‘calm and kind,
but firm’, and show him his duty. She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon,
and be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing
of the sort, and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, as she rocked
and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor. John was a little disappointed not to find
a tender Niobe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none,
only came leisurely in and laid hims
elf upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark,
“We are going to have a new moon, my dear.” “I’ve no objection,” was Meg’s equally
soothing remark. A few other topics of general interest were
introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed by Mrs. Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper,
and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window, and sewed as
if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither sp
oke. Both looked quite ‘calm and firm’, and
both felt desperately uncomfortable. “Oh, dear,” thought Meg, “married life
is very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.” The word ‘Mother’ suggested other maternal
counsels given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests. “John is a good man, but he has his faults,
and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own. He is very decided, but never will be obstinate,
if you reason kindly, not opp
ose impatiently. He is very accurate, and particular about
the truth—a good trait, though you call him ‘fussy’. Never deceive him by look or word, Meg, and
he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need. He has a temper, not like ours—one flash
and then all over—but the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is
hard to quench. Be careful, be very careful, not to wake his
anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch y
ourself, be the first to ask pardon
if you both err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words
that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret.” These words came back to Meg, as she sat sewing
in the sunset, especially the last. This was the first serious disagreement, her
own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger
looked childish now, and thoughts of poor John coming home to such a scene quite melted
her heart. She gl
anced at him with tears in her eyes,
but he did not see them. She put down her work and got up, thinking,
“I will be the first to say, ‘Forgive me’”, but he did not seem to hear her. She went very slowly across the room, for
pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head. For a minute she felt as if she really couldn’t
do it, then came the thought, “This is the beginning. I’ll do my part, and have nothing to reproach
myself with,” and stooping down, she softly kissed h
er husband on the forehead. Of course that settled it. The penitent kiss was better than a world
of words, and John had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly... “It was too bad to laugh at the poor little
jelly pots. Forgive me, dear. I never will again!” But he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of
times, and so did Meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made,
for family peace was preserved in that little family jar. After this, Meg had Mr. Scott to dinner by
special
invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first
course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly,
that Mr. Scott told John he was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood
all the way home. In the autumn, new trials and experiences
came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship, was
always running out for a dish of gossip at the little house, or inviting ‘that poor
dear’ to come in an
d spend the day at the big house. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often
felt lonely. All were busy at home, John absent till night,
and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about. So it naturally fell out that Meg got into
the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made her long
for such, and pity herself because she had not got them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her
the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn
’t like it, and
then this foolish little woman went and did what John disliked even worse. She knew her husband’s income, and she loved
to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value
more—his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what
she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once
a month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she had done well, been prudent and
exact, kept her little
account books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg’s
paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress. Meg didn’t like to be pitied and made to
feel poor. It irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess
it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that
Sallie needn’t think she had to economize. She always felt wicked after it, for the pretty
things were seldom necessari
es, but then they cost so little, it wasn’t worth worrying
about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no
longer a passive looker-on. But the trifles cost more than one would imagine,
and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her. John was busy that month and left the bills
to her, the next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling
up, and Meg never forgot it. A few days before she ha
d done a dreadful
thing, and it weighed upon her conscience. Sallie had been buying silks, and Meg longed
for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and
thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls. Aunt March usually gave the sisters a present
of twenty-five dollars apiece at New Year’s. That was only a month to wait, and here was
a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take
it. John always said wha
t was his was hers, but
would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another
five-and-twenty out of the household fund? That was the question. Sallie had urged her to do it, had offered
to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted Meg beyond her strength. In an evil moment the shopman held up the
lovely, shimmering folds, and said, “A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.” She answered, “I’ll take it,” and it
was cut off and paid for, and Sallie
had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing
of no consequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police
were after her. When she got home, she tried to assuage the
pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn’t
become her, after all, and the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped like a pattern down
each breadth. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully
as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the
ghost of a folly that was not easily laid. When John got out his books that night, Meg’s
heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked as if they could
be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn’t
mean to let her know it. The house bills were all paid, the books all
in order. John had praised her, and was undoing the
old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when Meg, knowing tha
t it was quite empty,
stopped his hand, saying nervously... “You haven’t seen my private expense book
yet.” John never asked to see it, but she always
insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things
women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight,
or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings,
could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars. That night he loo
ked as if he would like the
fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he
often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife. The little book was brought slowly out and
laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair under pretense of
smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic
increasing with every word... “John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my
book, for I’ve really been dreadfully extravagant lately
. I go about so much I must have things, you
know, and Sallie advised my getting it, so I did, and my New Year’s money will partly
pay for it, but I was sorry after I had done it, for I knew you’d think it wrong in me.” John laughed, and drew her round beside him,
saying goodhumoredly, “Don’t go and hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair
of killing boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and
don’t mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.” That ha
d been one of her last ‘trifles’,
and John’s eye had fallen on it as he spoke. “Oh, what will he say when he comes to that
awful fifty dollars!” thought Meg, with a shiver. “It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk
dress,” she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over. “Well, dear, what is the ‘dem’d total’,
as Mr. Mantalini says?” That didn’t sound like John, and she knew
he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet
and answ
er with one as frank till now. She turned the page and her head at the same
time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the fifty, but which
was appalling to her with that added. For a minute the room was very still, then
John said slowly—but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure—. . . “Well, I don’t know that fifty is much
for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days.” “It isn’t made or trimmed,” sig
hed Meg,
faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed
her. “Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good
deal to cover one small woman, but I’ve no doubt my wife will look as fine as Ned
Moffat’s when she gets it on,” said John dryly. “I know you are angry, John, but I can’t
help it. I don’t mean to waste your money, and I
didn’t think those little things would count up so. I can’t resist them when I see Sallie buying
all she wants, and pitying me because I don
’t. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and
I’m tired of being poor.” The last words were spoken so low she thought
he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself
many pleasures for Meg’s sake. She could have bitten her tongue out the minute
she had said it, for John pushed the books away and got up, saying with a little quiver
in his voice, “I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg.” If he had scolded her, or even shaken her,
it would not have broken
her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying,
with repentant tears, “Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy. I didn’t mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful,
how could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!” He was very kind, forgave her readily, and
did not utter one reproach, but Meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would
not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again. She had promised to love him for better or
worse, and
then she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings
recklessly. It was dreadful, and the worst of it was John
went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town
later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick, and
the discovery that John had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her
to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simpl
y said, in answer to her surprised
inquiries as to the change, “I can’t afford it, my dear.” Meg said no more, but a few minutes after
he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart
would break. They had a long talk that night, and Meg learned
to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him,
given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience
with which to bear and comfort th
e natural longings and failures of those he loved. Next day she put her pride in her pocket,
went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did
so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat, and when
John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he
received his present, and what a blissful sta
te of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gadded no more,
and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at
night by a most devoted little wife. So the year rolled round, and at midsummer
there came to Meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman’s life. Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the
Dovecote one Saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals,
for Hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and
the cover in the other. “How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you tell me before I came home?” began Laurie in a loud whisper. “Happy as a queen, the dear! Every soul of ’em is upstairs a worshipin’. We didn’t want no hurrycanes round. Now you go into the parlor, and I’ll send
’em down to you,” with which somewhat involved reply Hannah vanished, chuckling
ecstatically. Presently Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel
bundle laid forth upon a large pillow. Jo’s face was very so
ber, but her eyes twinkled,
and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort. “Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,”
she said invitingly. Laurie backed precipitately into a corner,
and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture. “No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate.” “Then you shan’t see your nevvy,” said
Jo decidedly, turning as if to go. “I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.” and obeying orders, Lau
rie heroically shut
his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peal of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March,
Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with
two babies instead of one. No wonder they laughed, for the expression
of his face was droll enough to convulse a Quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from
the unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that Jo sat down
on the floor and screamed. “Twins, by Jupiter!” was all
he said for a minute, then turning
to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, “Take ’em
quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall drop ’em.” Jo rescued his babies, and marched up and
down, with one on each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending,
while Laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. “It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t
it? I wouldn’t have told you, for I set my heart
on surprising you, and I flatter myself I’ve
done it,” said Jo, when she got her breath. “I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let’s have another look. Hold me up, Jo, for upon my life it’s one
too many for me,” returned Laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent
Newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens. “Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa, beaming upon the little
red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels. “Most remar
kable children I ever saw. Which is which?” and Laurie bent like a
well-sweep to examine the prodigies. “Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a
pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. Kiss them, Uncle Teddy,” said wicked Jo. “I’m afraid they mightn’t like it,”
began Laurie, with unusual timidity in such matters. “Of course they will, they are used to it
now. Do it this minute, sir!” commanded Jo, fearing he might propose a proxy. Laurie
screwed up his face and obeyed with
a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies
squeal. “There, I knew they didn’t like it! That’s the boy, see him kick, he hits out
with his fists like a good one. Now then, young Brooke, pitch into a man of
your own size, will you?” cried Laurie, delighted with a poke in the
face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about. “He’s to be named John Laurence, and the
girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall ca
ll her Daisey, so as not to have
two Megs, and I suppose the mannie will be Jack, unless we find a better name,” said
Amy, with aunt-like interest. “Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for
short,” said Laurie. “Daisy and Demi, just the thing! I knew Teddy would do it,” cried Jo clapping
her hands. Teddy certainly had done it that time, for
the babies were ‘Daisy’ and ‘Demi’ to the end of the chapter.
Comments
Thank you once again Marcus!
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❤❤❤ Beautiful flowers and such a great story segment once again, Marcus. 🎉🎉🎉 😢I would love to financially support your efforts, but hubby is fighting leukemia and expenses keep going up.