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all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Little Women/section_10_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 35

part 2, chapter 35

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap35-37", "summary": "Jo came home to see Laurie graduate from college. Afterwards, they went for a walk and Laurie, though Jo begged him not to, profess his love for her. He asked her to marry him, but Jo refused telling him that she did not love him. He was heartbroken, and Jo was too for him because she did not want to break his heart. Laurie asked her if she was in love with Professor Bhaer and she said that she was not and did not want to love anyone. Laurie left her and went rowing to ease his pain. Jo then went to Mr. Laurence and told him what had transpired. When Laurie came home that night, Mr. Laurence acted gently towards him then finally told him that Jo had told him the story. He suggested to Laurie that they take a trip to Europe so he could forget his troubles. Laurie consented and spent the next few weeks while they prepared for the trip pining after Jo. He watched her from his window, but other than that, he avoided her. On the day of their departure, he said good bye to her and asked her one last time to be his. She again said no knowing that she should not marry him if she did not love him, and he left. From that day forward Jo knew that she would never have \"her boy\" again. Laurie would forever be lost to her", "analysis": ""}

Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs. "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said 'girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly... "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp." Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?" Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away. "Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance. "I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like. She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!" "I intend to." Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!" "I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once. "Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience. Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady... "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer." "I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand..." began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected. "I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact. "I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could." "I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough..." Here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his 'confounded throat'. "You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't know why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't." "Really, truly, Jo?" He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget. "Really, truly, dear." They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened. "Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help it. You know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago. "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the decided answer. There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something." He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear it now!" "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence. "That you love that old man." "What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather. "That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes. Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else." "But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?" "You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble." "I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love. Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..." Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression. "Marry--no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like." "No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash." "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously. "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end. "I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes it harder. I don't believe you've got any heart." "I wish I hadn't." There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!" Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. "I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly. "I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea. "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see--and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!" "Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst. "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man." "I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic. "Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us--so now!" That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo." "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her. "To the devil!" was the consoling answer. For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart. "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's dreadful." Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess. When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the '_Sonata Pathetique_', and played it as he never did before. "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry. Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how. Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling, "Jo, dear, come in. I want you." Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark. "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I know, my boy, I know." No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who told you?" "Jo herself." "Then there's an end of it!" And he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity. "Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. "You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?" "I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone. "Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?" "Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me," and Laurie got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear. "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?" "I can't." "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got through college." "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see. "I don't ask you to go alone. There's someone ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world." "Who, Sir?" stopping to listen. "Myself." Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--Grandfather--" "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him. "Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice. "There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at any time." "But you hate traveling, Sir. I can't ask it of you at your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all. The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly, "Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair." A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content." Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone, "Just as you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do." "It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie." "Anything you like, Sir." "Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm much mistaken." Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the 'poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable. When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic. "Oh, Jo, can't you?" "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!" That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

part 2, Chapter 35

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap35-37

Jo came home to see Laurie graduate from college. Afterwards, they went for a walk and Laurie, though Jo begged him not to, profess his love for her. He asked her to marry him, but Jo refused telling him that she did not love him. He was heartbroken, and Jo was too for him because she did not want to break his heart. Laurie asked her if she was in love with Professor Bhaer and she said that she was not and did not want to love anyone. Laurie left her and went rowing to ease his pain. Jo then went to Mr. Laurence and told him what had transpired. When Laurie came home that night, Mr. Laurence acted gently towards him then finally told him that Jo had told him the story. He suggested to Laurie that they take a trip to Europe so he could forget his troubles. Laurie consented and spent the next few weeks while they prepared for the trip pining after Jo. He watched her from his window, but other than that, he avoided her. On the day of their departure, he said good bye to her and asked her one last time to be his. She again said no knowing that she should not marry him if she did not love him, and he left. From that day forward Jo knew that she would never have "her boy" again. Laurie would forever be lost to her

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Little Women/section_10_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 36

part 2, chapter 36

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap35-37", "summary": "Jo took the money she had made writing for the paper and she and Beth went to the seashore. When she had come back from New York, Jo realized that she saw a change in Beth. She also realized that what she thought the previous fall was not true. Beth was not in love with Laurie. The thing that was making her act differently was that she knew she was dying. After being away with her, Jo knew this too, and one day they talked about it. Beth told Jo to tell their mother and father and Jo agreed to do it when they got home. Beth also told her that she always knew that she would never reach adulthood because she never dreamed the dreams of the other girls such as marriage. Jo agreed with her, and pledged to give her heart and soul to Beth while she was alive. When they returned home at the end of the summer, their parents did see the truth in Beth and everyone was devastated", "analysis": ""}

When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot her fear. But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks. It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away. They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet. One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't." There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear. "I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is." "Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble. "Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo." "Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?" Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully. "Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then." "And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth. Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while." "Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime." "Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well." "I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped." "It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's. Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, "I try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together. By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this when we go home?" "I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day. "Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and Mother, won't you Jo?" "If I can. But, Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true." said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully. Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, because I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven." Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed. "Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away." "She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time," began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth. "Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me." Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth. She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word.

part 2, Chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap35-37

Jo took the money she had made writing for the paper and she and Beth went to the seashore. When she had come back from New York, Jo realized that she saw a change in Beth. She also realized that what she thought the previous fall was not true. Beth was not in love with Laurie. The thing that was making her act differently was that she knew she was dying. After being away with her, Jo knew this too, and one day they talked about it. Beth told Jo to tell their mother and father and Jo agreed to do it when they got home. Beth also told her that she always knew that she would never reach adulthood because she never dreamed the dreams of the other girls such as marriage. Jo agreed with her, and pledged to give her heart and soul to Beth while she was alive. When they returned home at the end of the summer, their parents did see the truth in Beth and everyone was devastated

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Little Women/section_10_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 37

part 2, chapter 37

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap35-37", "summary": "The following Christmas Laurie met up with Amy in Europe and both they went driving together. Laurie would not talk about his experiences, but noticed Amy was as mature as ever. Both noticed other pleasant changes in the other, and when a Christmas ball came along, Amy made special care to look nice for Laurie. When he saw her Laurie was entranced and hovered over her as much as he could. He tried complimenting her, but Amy preferred that he be blunt as he usually was, and at the end of the night, both had different thoughts about the other", "analysis": ""}

At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind. Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her. "Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these 'mad English'. "I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am." "How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?" "Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were out." "I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company. Flo's saving up for tonight." "What happens then, a ball?" "A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt will be charmed." "Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her infinite satisfaction. "I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there?" "Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it." "Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin." "Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally." "That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what. "Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city. "The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It's going to the Church of St. John." While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church. "Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad. "That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an admiring look. She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was 'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look. "If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay. At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June. "Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say 'stay'. So I do, for I shall never have another chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page. "I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear." He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'. Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him. "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish. Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh collar of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene. As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?" "I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm. "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also. "Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight. "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk. But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening. It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman. Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities. "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head. "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded. Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself. "My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said, surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand. In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away. She seldom ran--it did not suit her style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue. "Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her. "Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart. "Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay'," said Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window. "How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty as this, I'm afraid." "Thank you. It isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Please don't." "I thought you liked that sort of thing." "Not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better." "I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home. The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their Christmas ball. A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters. Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to dance?" "One usually does at a ball." Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible. "I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?" "I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with. "Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support... A daughter of the gods, Divinely tall, and most divinely fair," was all the satisfaction she got, however. The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka redowa. But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief. That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that 'little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'. It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he 'carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses. Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment. It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that would do him good!" "You look like Balzac's '_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_'," he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other. "My rouge won't come off." and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright. "What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee. "Illusion." "Good name for it. It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?" "It's as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now--stupide!" "I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see." "None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous." Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having 'little Amy' order him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection. "Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical look. "As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable. "Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession, the--the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word. Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self. I study as well as play, and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things." Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.

part 2, Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap35-37

The following Christmas Laurie met up with Amy in Europe and both they went driving together. Laurie would not talk about his experiences, but noticed Amy was as mature as ever. Both noticed other pleasant changes in the other, and when a Christmas ball came along, Amy made special care to look nice for Laurie. When he saw her Laurie was entranced and hovered over her as much as he could. He tried complimenting her, but Amy preferred that he be blunt as he usually was, and at the end of the night, both had different thoughts about the other

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Little Women/section_11_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 38

part 2, chapter 38

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap38-40", "summary": "As Meg began her life with her children, she made the mistake of forgetting life with her husband. She neglected John and her housework to take care of the babies, and after a while John began spending his evenings away from home at the Scott's house. Six months went by and nothing seemed to improve. Finally, Marmee came over one day to find Meg crying. She asked what was the matter and Meg told her that John never spent any time at home or with her anymore. Marmee made her see that it was partly her fault for neglecting him, and told her eldest daughter to let John help more with the kids. She also offered Hannah's services as a nurse so Meg could get a break from the babies. Meg consented and when John came home, he found a prettily dressed and attentive wife. Demi, however, made the evening difficult by refusing to go bed. John stepped in however, and used his authority as father and made him go to bed. Meg was thankful for the help, and that evening she tried discussing politics with him, which he was passionate about, and he was grateful for her interest. She then told him about her conversation with her mother, and after that, the house became a much happier place for the both of them", "analysis": ""}

In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when 'Vive la liberte!' becomes their motto. In America, as everyone knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married." Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever. As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life 'aisy', kept him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! They are just asleep after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided--"Leave my children for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his paper of an evening, Demi's colic got into the shipping list and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news. The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual 'hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style. John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society. Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle. "Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly. John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the babies love me, they don't care if I am thin and pale and haven't time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?" To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation. "I wouldn't tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib with an injured air. "Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously. "He's away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the best of them." "So are women. Don't blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself." "But it can't be right for him to neglect me." "Don't you neglect him?" "Why, Mother, I thought you'd take my part!" "So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours, Meg." "I don't see how." "Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure time?" "No, but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend." "I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's Mother who blames as well as Mother who sympathizes?" "Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for everything." Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever. "You have only made the mistake that most young wives make--forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time." "I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous, and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him without words." "Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you, and you are always in the nursery." "Oughtn't I to be there?" "Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies. Don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all." "You really think so, Mother?" "I know it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together, always." "It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours. Show me how, I'll do anything you say." "You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours." "John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and things." "I don't believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers." "I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I thought I was right, and he never said anything." "He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it. And no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given to them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all." Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character, we won't call it obstinacy, and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to 'wrastle' with 'Parpar', he always got the worst of it, yet like the Englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all Mamma's love pats. A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance. "Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives poor Papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room. "Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel. "No, but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?" "Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the desired day. Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise, "Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight. Do you expect company?" "Only you, dear." "Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?" "No, I'm tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why shouldn't I when I have the time?" "I do it out of respect for you, my dear," said old-fashioned John. "Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot. "Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes right. I drink your health, dear." and John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently... "Opy doy. Me's tummin!" "It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said Meg, answering the call. "Mornin' now," announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the 'cakies' with loving glances. "No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it." "Me loves Parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to Meg... "If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you." "Yes, of course. Come, Demi," and Meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery. Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till morning. "Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful. Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, "More sudar, Marmar." "Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg." "He won't stay there, he never does unless I sit by him." "I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma bids you." "S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted 'cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity. "You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don't go yourself." "Go 'way, me don't love Parpar." and Demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection. But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the 'big dark' which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for 'Marmar', as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly... "Let me stay with him, he'll be good now, John." "No, my dear. I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he must, if I stay here all night." "But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy. "No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't interfere, I'll manage him." "He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness." "He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me." When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted her docility. "Please let me kiss him once, John?" "Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day." Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind. "Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep. But he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now." Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held, John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work. As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, "I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me." When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what we are coming to." John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken. "She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding aloud, "That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?" "My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet." "I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?" "These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so," and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible. "It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin. "I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you, please?" "Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?" "Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less care, so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I hope?" Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike again, and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and everyone found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant here, it does me good, Meg," she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her. This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the 'house-band', and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.

part 2, Chapter 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap38-40

As Meg began her life with her children, she made the mistake of forgetting life with her husband. She neglected John and her housework to take care of the babies, and after a while John began spending his evenings away from home at the Scott's house. Six months went by and nothing seemed to improve. Finally, Marmee came over one day to find Meg crying. She asked what was the matter and Meg told her that John never spent any time at home or with her anymore. Marmee made her see that it was partly her fault for neglecting him, and told her eldest daughter to let John help more with the kids. She also offered Hannah's services as a nurse so Meg could get a break from the babies. Meg consented and when John came home, he found a prettily dressed and attentive wife. Demi, however, made the evening difficult by refusing to go bed. John stepped in however, and used his authority as father and made him go to bed. Meg was thankful for the help, and that evening she tried discussing politics with him, which he was passionate about, and he was grateful for her interest. She then told him about her conversation with her mother, and after that, the house became a much happier place for the both of them

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Little Women/section_11_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 39

part 2, chapter 39

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap38-40", "summary": "Laurie spent a few months with Amy in Europe and through all that time, Amy began to like him less and less. Because she was a lady however, she did not show her annoyance and spent the majority of her time with him. One day they took a drive together so Amy could draw, and she brought up her problems with him. She told him he was lazy, and that he was wasting his life away. He shrugged her comments off for a moment until they actually started hurting him, and he realized then that the way he was living his life was wrong. Amy discerned that his problems stemmed from a broken heart, and finally realized Jo was the one who had broken it. They talked about it, and Laurie, still unhappy with but grateful to Amy for her comments, said he would change. The next morning Amy found a note from him, saying he had neglected his duties long enough and he had gone back to his grandfather. Amy was happy he was getting his life back on track, but sad to lose his company", "analysis": ""}

Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part. He rather missed the 'petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society and were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise. "All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to sketch, will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon. "Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without. "I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie. "Then I'll go with pleasure." and he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp... "Don't trouble yourself. It's no exertion to me, but you don't look equal to it." Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch. The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring air. She answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable manner. It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky. Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled city on its shore. "This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by. "No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just beyond his reach. "Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself, but the next instant his American common sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came. "It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech amused him. "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest. "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat. "Very soon." "You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks." "I dare say, short answers save trouble." "He expects you, and you really ought to go." "Hospitable creature! I know it." "Then why don't you do it?" "Natural depravity, I suppose." "Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked severe. "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently," and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade. Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture 'that boy' and in a minute she began again. "What are you doing just now?" "Watching lizards." "No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?" "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me." "How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars and I will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a figure." "With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it 'Dolce far niente'." "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard," said Amy in her most energetic tone. "What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction. "What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name. "As usual, 'Go away, Teddy. I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie. "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone. "Wish I was!" "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech. Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am." That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said... "I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and 'let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa corner and told secrets." Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay there. "I'm all ready for the secrets." and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes. "I've none to tell. You may begin." "Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home.." "You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I fancied Jo would send you volumes." "She's very busy. I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it. "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair." "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?" "That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more." "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?" "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the chance." It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting. "Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy." Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?" "I don't promise to answer." "Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private opinion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it, hey?" "That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge. "You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden. "No." "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees, won't you?" "Very likely." "Then you are fond of old Fred?" "I could be, if I tried." "But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied you'd like." "He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions. "I understand. Queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's girls." "True, nevertheless." A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay. "I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said sharply. "Do it for me, there's a dear girl." "I could, if I tried." and she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style. "Try, then. I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime. "You'd be angry in five minutes." "I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are as cool and soft as snow." "You don't know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good stirring up would prove it." "Stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees with you." Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and began. "Flo and I have got a new name for you. It's Lazy Laurence. How do you like it?" She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies." "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?" "Pining to be told." "Well, I despise you." If she had even said 'I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, accent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly... "Why, if you please?" "Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable." "Strong language, mademoiselle." "If you like it, I'll go on." "Pray do, it's quite interesting." "I thought you'd find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about themselves." "Am I selfish?" the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity. "Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as effective just then as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends." "Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?" "You don't look as if you'd had much. At any rate, you are none the better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it's the truth, so I can't help saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you ought to be, you are only..." there she stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it. "Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former indifference. "I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating martyr at her feet. In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, "I will be good, oh, I will be good!" But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best gloves and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!" "So do I!" The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so. "I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps they would understand the change better than I do." "I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as touching as a broken one. "They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time. "Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady. "I beg pardon, I thought..." and there she paused diplomatically. "No, you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone 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." "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," said 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 everyone knew that 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 effacious 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 madamoiselle 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 frere?" asked Amy, as they parted at her aunt's door. "Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle," 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." "Goodbye, 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 "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."

part 2, Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap38-40

Laurie spent a few months with Amy in Europe and through all that time, Amy began to like him less and less. Because she was a lady however, she did not show her annoyance and spent the majority of her time with him. One day they took a drive together so Amy could draw, and she brought up her problems with him. She told him he was lazy, and that he was wasting his life away. He shrugged her comments off for a moment until they actually started hurting him, and he realized then that the way he was living his life was wrong. Amy discerned that his problems stemmed from a broken heart, and finally realized Jo was the one who had broken it. They talked about it, and Laurie, still unhappy with but grateful to Amy for her comments, said he would change. The next morning Amy found a note from him, saying he had neglected his duties long enough and he had gone back to his grandfather. Amy was happy he was getting his life back on track, but sad to lose his company

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Little Women/section_11_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 40

part 2, chapter 40

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 40", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap38-40", "summary": "The family gave the brightest room in the house to Beth and filled with the things she loved. Beth spent her last happy days giving away her things to little children who walked by the house, and in the warmth and love of her family. Finally, however, she lost the strength to even sew and took to her bed. Jo never left her side after this point, and slept on the couch or on the carpet of her room. While Jo was sleeping there on evening, Beth opened a book by her bedside, and out fell a poem that Jo had written about her. Beth read it, astonished that she meant so much to her sister, and that her life helped someone. Jo awoke, and Beth asked her about it. Jo told her that everything she said in the poem was true, and this more than anything, touched Beth. Early in the morning, Beth drew her last breath, and died peacefully in her mother's arms", "analysis": ""}

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 school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of 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 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. 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 Ones 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, Pilgrims'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 strand 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 forever more 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 fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye 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 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.

part 2, Chapter 40

https://web.archive.org/web/20201204114018/https://www.novelguide.com/little-women/summaries/chap38-40

The family gave the brightest room in the house to Beth and filled with the things she loved. Beth spent her last happy days giving away her things to little children who walked by the house, and in the warmth and love of her family. Finally, however, she lost the strength to even sew and took to her bed. Jo never left her side after this point, and slept on the couch or on the carpet of her room. While Jo was sleeping there on evening, Beth opened a book by her bedside, and out fell a poem that Jo had written about her. Beth read it, astonished that she meant so much to her sister, and that her life helped someone. Jo awoke, and Beth asked her about it. Jo told her that everything she said in the poem was true, and this more than anything, touched Beth. Early in the morning, Beth drew her last breath, and died peacefully in her mother's arms

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_0_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 1

chapter 1

{"name": "chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide04.html", "summary": "The March family consists of Marmee and her four girls, Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy and Father who is off working as a chaplain in the Civil War. We meet the girls first in Chapter 1 as they sit around the living room bemoaning the fact that they will not be having Christmas presents this year. They each have one dollar which seems too little to help any social cause. The girls discuss what they are going to buy for themselves with their money. The girls are in the process of warming their mothers ragged slippers before the fire when Beth decides that she will use her dollar to get her mother a pair of new ones. This brings animated discussion as each girl thinks about what she might be able to buy her mother. They all agree to go shopping the next day to buy gifts for Marmee. Planning and discussion takes place for other Christmas festivities. The girls will be putting on a play, something which seems to be a family tradition. At the end of the chapter, Marmee comes home bringing a letter from Father who sends them news and his love, but reveals that he will be away from home for at least another year.", "analysis": ""}

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. "It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress. "I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff. "We've got Father and Mother, and each other," said Beth contentedly from her corner. The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly, "We haven't got Father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of Father far away, where the fighting was. Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone, "You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't," and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted. "But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy _Undine and Sintran_ for myself. I've wanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm. "I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder. "I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing pencils; I really need them," said Amy decidedly. "Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner. "I know I do--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again. "You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out the window or cry?" "It's naughty to fret, but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all." And Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time. "I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy, "for you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice." "If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if Papa was a pickle bottle," advised Jo, laughing. "I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned Amy, with dignity. "Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money Papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! How happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times. "You said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money." "So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are. For though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say." "Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. "Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!" "That's why I do it." "I detest rude, unladylike girls!" "I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!" "Birds in their little nests agree," sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time. "Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady." "I'm not! And if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China Aster! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with Papa. And I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room. "Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped. So you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch. "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang." "If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture. "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the 'Mouse' was the pet of the family. As young readers like to know 'how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her 'Little Miss Tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. A regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for Mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. "They are quite worn out. Marmee must have a new pair." "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "No, I shall!" cried Amy. "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, "I'm the man of the family now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of Mother while he was gone." "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth, "let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves." "That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo. Everyone thought soberly for a minute, then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves." "Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo. "Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth. "I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy. "How will we give the things?" asked Meg. "Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo. "I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time. "Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, Meg. There is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air. "I don't mean to act any more after this time. I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about 'dressing-up' frolics. "You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse tonight. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that." "I can't help it. I never saw anyone faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop. If I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful. I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. "Do it this way. Clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, 'Roderigo! Save me! Save me!'" and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest. "It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me. Come on, Meg." Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break. Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect. Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, "Ha! Ha!" "It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows. "I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things. "Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think _The Witches Curse, an Operatic Tragedy_ is rather a nice thing, but I'd like to try _Macbeth_, if we only had a trapdoor for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?" muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do. "No, it's the toasting fork, with Mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter. "Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a 'can I help you' look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world. "Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby." While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea table, Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched. Beth trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while Amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper." A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!" "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in Father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a vivan--what's its name? Or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, Mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered. It was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. "Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I am a selfish girl! But I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me by-and-by." "We all will," cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it." "I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South. Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that Father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home. Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrims Progress when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a Celestial City." "What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were," said Jo. "I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs," said Meg. "I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve. "We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before Father comes home." "Really, Mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady. "Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth. I rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother. "Yes, I have. Mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people." Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. "Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do our best." "We were in the Slough of Despond tonight, and Mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty. "Look under your pillows Christmas morning, and you will find your guidebook," replied Mrs. March. They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them. At nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp... Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar, and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby.

chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide04.html

The March family consists of Marmee and her four girls, Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy and Father who is off working as a chaplain in the Civil War. We meet the girls first in Chapter 1 as they sit around the living room bemoaning the fact that they will not be having Christmas presents this year. They each have one dollar which seems too little to help any social cause. The girls discuss what they are going to buy for themselves with their money. The girls are in the process of warming their mothers ragged slippers before the fire when Beth decides that she will use her dollar to get her mother a pair of new ones. This brings animated discussion as each girl thinks about what she might be able to buy her mother. They all agree to go shopping the next day to buy gifts for Marmee. Planning and discussion takes place for other Christmas festivities. The girls will be putting on a play, something which seems to be a family tradition. At the end of the chapter, Marmee comes home bringing a letter from Father who sends them news and his love, but reveals that he will be away from home for at least another year.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_1_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide04.html", "summary": "The girls wake up on Christmas morning to find no stockings hanging by the fireplace, but instead a small Bible under each girls pillow. Following Megs example they vow to read a little every day. Their mother has already gone somewhere; Amy disappears for a while and returns with a larger, prettier bottle of cologne for Marmees present. She says she felt guilty about buying the small one in order to save a little money for herself, and now she will be giving Marmee the best present of all. Mrs. March returns to tell the girls about a family who has a new baby and six other children huddled in a bed trying to keep warm without heat or food. She asks if the girls would be willing to give up their breakfast to which they almost immediately agree. After making the family as comfortable as they can, the return home to a breakfast of bread and milk, then continue with their Christmas plans, putting on a play for a dozen friends. Christmas dinner is ample reward for their morning sacrifice. Mr. Laurence, their next door neighbor has sent over cake and ice cream along with flowers for decoration. The note says he heard of their generosity and wanted to send a few \"trifles\" of appreciation. The girls decide they would like to become better acquainted with Mr. Laurence and his grandson Laurie.", "analysis": ""}

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good and help me through the day." Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters' example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. "Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear. "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers. "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! She's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M. March'. How funny!" cried Jo, taking one up. "Isn't that right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M., and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her 'a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?" They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm so glad you came before we began!" "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth eagerly. "I shall take the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime." They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in. "Ach, mein Gott! It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy. "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a 'Sancho' ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of it. And when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning. "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table. "She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit. There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work. The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels. No gentleman were admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart's content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society. On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the _operatic tragedy_ began. "A gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred for Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding, "What ho, minion! I need thee!" Out came Meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter. Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew? Bring me here, with elfin speed, The fragrant philter which I need. Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song! A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang... Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon. Take the magic spell, And use it well, Or its power will vanish soon! And dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play. A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when "Alas! Alas for Zara!" she forgot her train. It caught in the window, the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins. A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside... "Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!" and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara. She also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. Act third was the castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little servant, "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the 'minion', carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody. This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the effect of the villain's death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together. Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his lady love. Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace. Tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper." This was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers. It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely. "Is it fairies?" asked Amy. "Santa Claus," said Beth. "Mother did it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows. "Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration. "All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March. "The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg. "Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast." "That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction. "You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?" asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls." "Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly. "I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I've no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own." "It's a mercy you didn't, Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots. "But we'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?" "I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers with great interest. "They are lovely. But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are."

chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide04.html

The girls wake up on Christmas morning to find no stockings hanging by the fireplace, but instead a small Bible under each girls pillow. Following Megs example they vow to read a little every day. Their mother has already gone somewhere; Amy disappears for a while and returns with a larger, prettier bottle of cologne for Marmees present. She says she felt guilty about buying the small one in order to save a little money for herself, and now she will be giving Marmee the best present of all. Mrs. March returns to tell the girls about a family who has a new baby and six other children huddled in a bed trying to keep warm without heat or food. She asks if the girls would be willing to give up their breakfast to which they almost immediately agree. After making the family as comfortable as they can, the return home to a breakfast of bread and milk, then continue with their Christmas plans, putting on a play for a dozen friends. Christmas dinner is ample reward for their morning sacrifice. Mr. Laurence, their next door neighbor has sent over cake and ice cream along with flowers for decoration. The note says he heard of their generosity and wanted to send a few "trifles" of appreciation. The girls decide they would like to become better acquainted with Mr. Laurence and his grandson Laurie.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_2_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide05.html", "summary": "Meg and Jo get their chance to meet the Laurence boy at a New Years Eve dance. The chapter begins with a great deal of discussion about costume although the girls only have one outfit each. Jos dress is burned in the back because she has a habit of standing too close to the fire place and her gloves are stained. She would go without gloves, but Meg wont hear of it as she thinks it isnt proper to dance without gloves on. They solve the problems by deciding that Jo wont dance at all but will simply stand with her back to people so her dress wont show and that each of them will wear a good glove and carry a stained one. After a variety of minor mishaps, such as burning Megs hair with the curling tongs, the girls are ready to go. Jo, who often forgets herself and behaves like a tomboy agrees to watch Meg for signs. Meg will raise her eyebrows if Jo seems about to do anything foolish or improper. Meg is whisked away to dance nearly as soon as they arrive, but when a red-headed boy looks as though he about to approach Jo, she slips into a curtained recess. There she finds the Laurence boy who is hiding out of shyness. They are soon chatting merrily as Laurie has all sorts of stories about of his travels and education. Eventually he asks Jo to dance, and she confesses that she cant because of the burned dress. Laurie solves the problem by offering to dance in a long hallway connected to the ballroom. The evening is brought to an early end when Meg sprains her ankle; getting her home is a problem at first, but Laurie overhears Jo asking someone for a carriage and offers to have his grandfather take them home in his carriage.", "analysis": ""}

"Jo! Jo! Where are you?" cried Meg at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! Only see! A regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight. "'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? The burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight. The front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You must have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing. It's no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. That's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one. Don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book. "You may have it, you may! Only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher Columbus!' will you?" "Don't worry about me. I'll be as prim as I can and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story." So Meg went away to 'accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of 'getting ready for the party'. Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth from her perch on the bed. "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo. "What a queer smell! It's like burned feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! What have you done? I'm spoiled! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! You shouldn't have asked me to do it. I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret. "It isn't spoiled. Just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly. "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly. "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine". Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die. "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window... "Girls, girls! Have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake." "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little 'aristocratic tastes' of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? And does my hair look very bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to anyone. It isn't the thing." "How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?" Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie and was at her ease very soon, but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the 'Laurence boy'. "Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, "Don't mind me, stay if you like." "Shan't I disturb you?" "Not a bit. I only came here because I don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know." "So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather." The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy, "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don't you?" "Next door." And he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home. That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way, "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present." "Grandpa sent it." "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?" "How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober while his black eyes shone with fun. "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo," returned the young lady. "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie." "Laurie Laurence, what an odd name." "My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead." "I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?" "I thrashed 'em." "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it." And Jo resigned herself with a sigh. "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her. "I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?" "Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here." "Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels." Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin, but Jo's eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers. "Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?" "We spent last winter there." "Can you talk French?" "We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay." "Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce." "Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" "How nicely you do it! Let me see ... you said, 'Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?" "Oui, mademoiselle." "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?" "Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady." Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off, for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the 'Laurence boy' better than ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. "Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?" It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way. "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books, no, I mean studying hard." And Jo blushed at the dreadful 'pegging' which had escaped her. Laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug. "Not for a year or two. I won't go before seventeen, anyway." "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already. "Sixteen, next month." "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it." "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country." "What do you like?" "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way." Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?" "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow. "I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because..." There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because, what?" "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know." But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, "Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come." Jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at Heidelberg when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain. "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. "I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send." "I'll go." "No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can." "I'll ask Laurie. He will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. "Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes." "They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you. I'd rather." "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired I can't stir." So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back. "Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it. "Can I help you?" said a friendly voice. And there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. "I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and someone shook me, and here I am in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove. "Too bad! I was looking for someone to give this to. May I take it to your sister?" "Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did." Jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a 'nice boy'. They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of _Buzz_, with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood and Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said. "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer. "I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say." That settled it, and telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. "I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when Sallie does. She is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid, if Mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. "I saw you dancing with the red headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?" "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him." "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?" "No, but it was very rude. What were you about all that time, hidden away there?" Jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home. With many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out... "Tell about the party! Tell about the party!" With what Meg called 'a great want of manners' Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening. "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed her hair. "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them." And I think Jo was quite right.

chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide05.html

Meg and Jo get their chance to meet the Laurence boy at a New Years Eve dance. The chapter begins with a great deal of discussion about costume although the girls only have one outfit each. Jos dress is burned in the back because she has a habit of standing too close to the fire place and her gloves are stained. She would go without gloves, but Meg wont hear of it as she thinks it isnt proper to dance without gloves on. They solve the problems by deciding that Jo wont dance at all but will simply stand with her back to people so her dress wont show and that each of them will wear a good glove and carry a stained one. After a variety of minor mishaps, such as burning Megs hair with the curling tongs, the girls are ready to go. Jo, who often forgets herself and behaves like a tomboy agrees to watch Meg for signs. Meg will raise her eyebrows if Jo seems about to do anything foolish or improper. Meg is whisked away to dance nearly as soon as they arrive, but when a red-headed boy looks as though he about to approach Jo, she slips into a curtained recess. There she finds the Laurence boy who is hiding out of shyness. They are soon chatting merrily as Laurie has all sorts of stories about of his travels and education. Eventually he asks Jo to dance, and she confesses that she cant because of the burned dress. Laurie solves the problem by offering to dance in a long hallway connected to the ballroom. The evening is brought to an early end when Meg sprains her ankle; getting her home is a problem at first, but Laurie overhears Jo asking someone for a carriage and offers to have his grandfather take them home in his carriage.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/05.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_4_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide06.html", "summary": "Jo visits Laurie one snowy afternoon when she has nothing else to do and Laurie is shut up in his house with a cold. The two teens spend a while getting acquainted. Laurie reveals that he knows quite a bit about the sisters including their names as he often watches them through his windows. Laurie describes his grandfather as kind and generous even though he doesnt look it. He takes Jo on a tour of the house ending in the library where she is enchanted by all the books. Lauries opinion is that one cant live on books. His doctor calls, so Laurie leaves Jo in the library to wait his return. While waiting for Laurie, Jo examines the picture of his grandfather that is hanging on the wall. She talks aloud to herself, saying that she doesnt think she would be afraid of him even though he looks strong willed, for he has kind eyes. She decides that she likes him although he isnt as handsome as her own grandfather. Unknown to Jo, Mr. Laurence has come into the house and is standing in the doorway to the library when Jo makes her comments. He tells her that he knew and was a friend to her grandfather, and inquires as to her intentions in visiting his grandson. She explains that she was just being neighborly as Laurie seemed lonely. Mr. Laurence is surprised at her effect on Laurie and asks her to stay for tea. After tea, the two explore more of the house whereupon Jo finds a gand piano. Laurie plays a bit for her, which seems to displease his grandfather. When Jo returns home, her mother explains that Mr. Laurences objection to Lauries music is related to an old disagreement between Mr. Laurence and his son, Lauries father. That man had married an Italian musician whom Mr. Laurence did not like. He never saw his son again after they were married, and he fears losing Laurie if he should learn to like music too well. After Jos descriptions, Marmee decides that it would be okay to pursue a friendship with the Laurences. Beth suggests, upon recalling their Pilgrims Progress play-acting, that perhaps the big house with all of its beautiful things will be a Palace Beautiful for them.", "analysis": ""}

"What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other. "Going out for exercise," answered Jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It's cold and dull out, and I advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as I do," said Meg with a shiver. "Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some." Meg went back to toast her feet and read _Ivanhoe_, and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the Laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of 'going over' was not forgotten. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "Poor boy! All alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him." Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out... "How do you do? Are you sick?" Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven... "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week." "I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?" "Nothing. It's dull as tombs up here." "Don't you read?" "Not much. They won't let me." "Can't somebody read to you?" "Grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time." "Have someone come and see you then." "There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak." "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet and like to play nurse." "Don't know any." "You know us," began Jo, then laughed and stopped. "So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie. "I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come." With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready, for as Mrs. March said, he was 'a little gentleman', and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, than a decided voice, asking for 'Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady. "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens in the other. "Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something." It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing, for in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once. "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium. "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea. It's so simple you can eat it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cozy room this is!" "It might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me though." "I'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so--and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so--and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now then, you're fixed." And so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully... "How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company." "No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by. "Thank you! I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. "Not a bit. I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop." "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie with interest. "Yes, that's Beth. She's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too." "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?" "How did you find that out?" Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are. And when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all around the table with your mother. Her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know." And Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control. The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said... "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if I begged her to, and Amy would dance. Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not look so, and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more. "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We want to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you." "You see, Grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can." "That's bad. You ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful. It won't last long if you keep going." Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in Jo it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school, I'm a businessman--girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she reveled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter. "Oh! That does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment. Much elated with her success, Jo did 'tell on', all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for Father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. "If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up. "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head. "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods. The atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy. And so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and Sleepy Hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace with quaint tiles all round it. "What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively. "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite. Before he could more, a bell rang, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! It's your grandpa!" "Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know," returned the boy, looking wicked. "I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door. "I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully. "The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke. "Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him," said Laurie. "Don't mind me. I'm happy as a cricket here," answered Jo. Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him." "Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones, and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after the dreadful pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?" "Not much, sir." "And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?" "Not quite, sir." "And I've got a tremendous will, have I?" "I only said I thought so." "But you like me in spite of it?" "Yes, I do, sir." That answer pleased the old gentleman. He gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." "Thank you, sir," And Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly. "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir." And Jo told how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir." And off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account. Come down and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't." And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What would Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of Jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman." And having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called 'prim and poky', she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward. But finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full. Then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much." They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open. "Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression. "Sometimes," he answered modestly. "Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth." "Won't you first?" "Don't know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly." So Laurie played and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses. Her respect and regard for the 'Laurence' boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his rescue. "That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo." He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something amiss. He shook his head. "No, it was me. He doesn't like to hear me play." "Why not?" "I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't." "No need of that. I am not a young lady, and it's only a step. Take care of yourself, won't you?" "Yes, but you will come again, I hope?" "If you promise to come and see us after you are well." "I will." "Good night, Laurie!" "Good night, Jo, good night!" When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him, Meg longed to walk in the conservatory, Beth sighed for the grand piano, and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues. "Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition. "I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician. At any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered' as Jo said." "Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg. "How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go." "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little sentimental. "What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was not sentimental. "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine Mother sent him." "He meant the blanc mange, I suppose." "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course." "Did he?" And Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before. "I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter. "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?" "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can." "I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy. "What do you say, Beth?" "I was thinking about our '_Pilgrim's Progress_'," answered Beth, who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful." "We have got to get by the lions first," said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect.

chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide06.html

Jo visits Laurie one snowy afternoon when she has nothing else to do and Laurie is shut up in his house with a cold. The two teens spend a while getting acquainted. Laurie reveals that he knows quite a bit about the sisters including their names as he often watches them through his windows. Laurie describes his grandfather as kind and generous even though he doesnt look it. He takes Jo on a tour of the house ending in the library where she is enchanted by all the books. Lauries opinion is that one cant live on books. His doctor calls, so Laurie leaves Jo in the library to wait his return. While waiting for Laurie, Jo examines the picture of his grandfather that is hanging on the wall. She talks aloud to herself, saying that she doesnt think she would be afraid of him even though he looks strong willed, for he has kind eyes. She decides that she likes him although he isnt as handsome as her own grandfather. Unknown to Jo, Mr. Laurence has come into the house and is standing in the doorway to the library when Jo makes her comments. He tells her that he knew and was a friend to her grandfather, and inquires as to her intentions in visiting his grandson. She explains that she was just being neighborly as Laurie seemed lonely. Mr. Laurence is surprised at her effect on Laurie and asks her to stay for tea. After tea, the two explore more of the house whereupon Jo finds a gand piano. Laurie plays a bit for her, which seems to displease his grandfather. When Jo returns home, her mother explains that Mr. Laurences objection to Lauries music is related to an old disagreement between Mr. Laurence and his son, Lauries father. That man had married an Italian musician whom Mr. Laurence did not like. He never saw his son again after they were married, and he fears losing Laurie if he should learn to like music too well. After Jos descriptions, Marmee decides that it would be okay to pursue a friendship with the Laurences. Beth suggests, upon recalling their Pilgrims Progress play-acting, that perhaps the big house with all of its beautiful things will be a Palace Beautiful for them.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/07.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_6_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 7

chapter 7

{"name": "chapter 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide07.html", "summary": "Meg performs a kindness for Amy by giving money she needs to participate in a school fad, but the deed backfires, leaving Amy too humiliated to return to the school. Pickled limes are the current fad. The girls treat each other to them and trade off pencils and various trinkets for a lime to suck on. Amys predicament is that she has accepted limes from other girls but has not had the means to pay them back. Meg gives her a quarter which is more than enough to buy a dozen limes. Amy takes the limes to school and hides them in her desk, but cant resist flaunting them a little before tucking them away until recess. The word gets around and a certain Miss Snow who has treated Amy badly suddenly becomes very polite in hopes of getting her share. When Amy tells her that she wont get any, Miss Snow finds a way to report the limes to the teacher, Mr. Davis, who has declared the limes a contraband article and vowed to punish any girl caught with them. Amy is forced to take her limes to the teachers desk, then toss them out the window. After that, Mr. Davis slaps her hand with his ruler, then makes her stand on a platform until recess. Too humiliated to finish the day, Amy goes home and reports the incident to her mother. Marmee is not entirely sympathetic with Amy as she believes Amy should not have broken the rules. However, she does not agree with Mr. Daviss method of correction either. Jo goes to the school to get Amys things and wipes the mud off her boots onto the floor mat before leaving. Marmee agrees to let Amy have a temporary vacation from school as long as she studies each day with Beth.", "analysis": ""}

"That boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed. "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? And very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend. "I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding." "Oh, my goodness! That little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. "You needn't be so rude, it's only a 'lapse of lingy', as Mr. Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. "Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder. "I need it so much. I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag money for a month." "In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" And Meg looked sober. "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop." "Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls." And Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important. "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime. If she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck. They treat by turns, and I've had ever so many but haven't returned them, and I ought for they are debts of honor, you know." "How much will pay them off and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse. "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes?" "Not much. You may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know." "Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering for one." Next day Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to treat circulated through her 'set', and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about 'some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed 'that Snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any." A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! Pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretense of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved. Therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a schoolgirl, "He was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear". The word 'limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity. "Young ladies, attention, if you please!" At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance. "Miss March, come to the desk." Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience. "Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat. "Don't take all." whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind. Amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath. "Is that all?" "Not quite," stammered Amy. "Bring the rest immediately." With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed. "You are sure there are no more?" "I never lie, sir." "So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window." There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This--this was too much. All flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears. As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner... "Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand." Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with 'old Davis', as, of course, he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate. "Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received, and too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down. "You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun. That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong and the thought of Jenny Snow helped her to bear it, and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic figure before them. During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought, "I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!" The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last, and the word 'Recess!' had never seemed so welcome to her before. "You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable. He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay, and Hannah shook her fist at the 'villain' and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle. No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates, but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother, then collected Amy's property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet. "Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth," said Mrs. March that evening. "I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else." "That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr. "I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy. "Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?" cried Amy. "I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her mother, "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a bolder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty." "So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told her." "I wish I'd known that nice girl. Maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly. "You do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery. Jo let Laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, "Is Laurie an accomplished boy?" "Yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent. He will make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her mother. "And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy. "Not in the least. That is why he is so charming and we all like him so much." "I see. It's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully. "These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display them," said Mrs. March. "Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh.

chapter 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide07.html

Meg performs a kindness for Amy by giving money she needs to participate in a school fad, but the deed backfires, leaving Amy too humiliated to return to the school. Pickled limes are the current fad. The girls treat each other to them and trade off pencils and various trinkets for a lime to suck on. Amys predicament is that she has accepted limes from other girls but has not had the means to pay them back. Meg gives her a quarter which is more than enough to buy a dozen limes. Amy takes the limes to school and hides them in her desk, but cant resist flaunting them a little before tucking them away until recess. The word gets around and a certain Miss Snow who has treated Amy badly suddenly becomes very polite in hopes of getting her share. When Amy tells her that she wont get any, Miss Snow finds a way to report the limes to the teacher, Mr. Davis, who has declared the limes a contraband article and vowed to punish any girl caught with them. Amy is forced to take her limes to the teachers desk, then toss them out the window. After that, Mr. Davis slaps her hand with his ruler, then makes her stand on a platform until recess. Too humiliated to finish the day, Amy goes home and reports the incident to her mother. Marmee is not entirely sympathetic with Amy as she believes Amy should not have broken the rules. However, she does not agree with Mr. Daviss method of correction either. Jo goes to the school to get Amys things and wipes the mud off her boots onto the floor mat before leaving. Marmee agrees to let Amy have a temporary vacation from school as long as she studies each day with Beth.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/08.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_7_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide07.html", "summary": "Laurie has invited Jo and Meg to go with him to the theater to see The Seven Castles of Diamond Lake. When Amy finds out where they are going, she begs to be taken along. Meg would relent, but Jo refuses, saying that Amy wasnt invited, and that it would not be fair to Laurie to bring along an unexpected person. Amy takes revenge on Jo by burning a book of stories she has been laboring over. Jo is outraged, and in spite of Amys plea for forgiveness, vows never to forgive her. The following day, Jo is still angry, and the rest of the family are in equally sour moods, so she decides to go ice skating with Laurie as a way to put herself \"to rights.\" Amy follows, wanting to join them, but Jo tells her to go back, then ignores her. Amy continues to follow, but is too far back to hear a warning about thin ice in the middle of the lake. She skates out and falls through the ice. Laurie and Jo rescue Amy and get her home safely. Amy is none the worse for her experience, but Jo is properly chastened, realizing that if Amy had died, she would have blamed herself all her life. Jo and Marmee discuss Jos bad temper and Marmee confides that a bad temper was once her own fault, but that she learned to control it. Jo determines to work harder on hers and asks for her mothers help.", "analysis": ""}

"Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity. "Never mind. Little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply. Now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young, it is to be told that, and to be bidden to "run away, dear" is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too, for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely." "I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg, but Jo broke in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it." "You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?" "Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering." Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket. "I know! I know! You're going to the theater to see the _Seven Castles!_" she cried, adding resolutely, "and I shall go, for Mother said I might see it, and I've got my rag money, and it was mean not to tell me in time." "Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time." "I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me. I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could. "Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother would mind, if we bundle her up well," began Meg. "If she goes I shan't, and if I don't, Laurie won't like it, and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy herself. Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it." "You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our pleasure. Or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper when you weren't asked. You shan't stir a step, so you may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry. Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. For now and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain't." "Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door. They had a charming time, for _The Seven Castles Of The Diamond Lake_ was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it. The fairy queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy, and between the acts she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her 'sorry for it'. She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble. Her anger never lasted long, and having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it. When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs. There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding breathlessly, "Has anyone taken my book?" Meg and Beth said, "No." at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a minute. "Amy, you've got it!" "No, I haven't." "You know where it is, then!" "No, I don't." "That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy. "It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't care." "You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll make you." And Jo gave her a slight shake. "Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn. "Why not?" "I burned it up." "What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?" said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously. "Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so..." Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger... "You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never forgive you as long as I live." Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone. The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her pet. Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any of them. When the tea bell rang, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly... "Please forgive me, Jo. I'm very, very sorry." "I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer, and from that moment she ignored Amy entirely. No one spoke of the great trouble, not even Mrs. March, for all had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentment and healed the breach. It was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing time came, for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and Mother sang alone. But in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune. As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently, "My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger. Forgive each other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow." Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't quite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because Amy was listening, "It was an abominable thing, and she doesn't deserve to be forgiven." With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night. Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people set them a virtuous example. "Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself, and off she went. Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation. "There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me." "Don't say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg. "Go after them. Don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart." "I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill. It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap. "I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right before we begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap. Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but Jo never turned and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back... "Keep near the shore. It isn't safe in the middle." Jo heard, but Amy was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear... "No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself." Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart, then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone. She tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out... "Bring a rail. Quick, quick!" How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt. "Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed so intricate before. Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands. "Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice. "Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied her mother cheerfully. "Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it would be my fault." And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her. "It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair. "Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried even harder. "You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when I'm in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone and enjoy it. I'm afraid I shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. Oh, Mother, help me, do help me!" "I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like it." "Yours, Mother? Why, you are never angry!" And for the moment Jo forgot remorse in surprise. "I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so." The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her. The knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it, though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a girl of fifteen. "Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before. "Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and wicked," answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's disheveled hair. "How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about, and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear." "My good mother used to help me..." "As you do us..." interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss. "But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my failures, for in spite of my efforts I never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by-and-by, when I had four little daughters round me and we were poor, then the old trouble began again, for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything." "Poor Mother! What helped you then?" "Your father, Jo. He never loses patience, never doubts or complains, but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own. A startled or surprised look from one of you when I spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy." "Oh, Mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried Jo, much touched. "I hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch over your 'bosom enemy', as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning. Remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known today." "I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you then?" asked Jo softly. "Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look." Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled as she spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, "Was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here." "My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how much I love them." "I thought I'd grieved you." "No, dear, but speaking of Father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him." "Yet you told him to go, Mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering. "I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than Father, to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of lifelong peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother." Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words. For in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control, and led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother. Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before. "I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn't forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow. As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide07.html

Laurie has invited Jo and Meg to go with him to the theater to see The Seven Castles of Diamond Lake. When Amy finds out where they are going, she begs to be taken along. Meg would relent, but Jo refuses, saying that Amy wasnt invited, and that it would not be fair to Laurie to bring along an unexpected person. Amy takes revenge on Jo by burning a book of stories she has been laboring over. Jo is outraged, and in spite of Amys plea for forgiveness, vows never to forgive her. The following day, Jo is still angry, and the rest of the family are in equally sour moods, so she decides to go ice skating with Laurie as a way to put herself "to rights." Amy follows, wanting to join them, but Jo tells her to go back, then ignores her. Amy continues to follow, but is too far back to hear a warning about thin ice in the middle of the lake. She skates out and falls through the ice. Laurie and Jo rescue Amy and get her home safely. Amy is none the worse for her experience, but Jo is properly chastened, realizing that if Amy had died, she would have blamed herself all her life. Jo and Marmee discuss Jos bad temper and Marmee confides that a bad temper was once her own fault, but that she learned to control it. Jo determines to work harder on hers and asks for her mothers help.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/09.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_8_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 9

chapter 9

{"name": "chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide08.html", "summary": "Meg spends a couple of weeks with the fashionable Moffats where she has an opportunity to party, dance and shop to her hearts content. The experience is not quite as much fun as she anticipated as the other girls exchange superior glances over Megs out-of-style, well-worn tarleton gown. A delivery of flowers from Laurie and a note from her mother enable her to shake off her embarrassment and almost enjoy an evening of dancing until she hears people talking about her on the other side of a thin divider wall. They speak of her \"dowdy tarleton,\" the \"fib about her mamma\" , and the \"plans\" of Mrs. M. Meg allows the girls to loan her a very low cut blue gown for the next party. They adorn her with jewels, flowers, and makeup, making her look like something out of a fashion magazine more than herself. Although Meg doesnt feel quite right, she tries to act the part of a fashionable lady, flirting with her fan and laughing at feeble jokes told by young men. Her discomfort is complete when Laurie appears at the dance and is obviously displeased at her appearance. She is hurt and angry at Laurie until she overhears one of the guests say that \"they have spoilt her entirely, shes nothing but a doll tonight.\" Laurie promises not to tell Marmee and the girls about Megs dress, but when Meg gets home she confesses, telling her mother that she \"drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt and was, altogether, abominable.\" Marmee and the girls discuss the problems caused by putting too much emphasis on money and fine things rather than on love, happiness and self respect.", "analysis": ""}

"I do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those children should have the measles just now," said Meg, one April day, as she stood packing the 'go abroady' trunk in her room, surrounded by her sisters. "And so nice of Annie Moffat not to forget her promise. A whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied Jo, looking like a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms. "And such lovely weather, I'm so glad of that," added Beth, tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great occasion. "I wish I was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice things," said Amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically replenished her sister's cushion. "I wish you were all going, but as you can't, I shall keep my adventures to tell you when I come back. I'm sure it's the least I can do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get ready," said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes. "What did Mother give you out of the treasure box?" asked Amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came. "A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk, but there isn't time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlaton." "It will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it," said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use. "There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but Mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want," replied Meg. "Now, let me see, there's my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth, then my poplin for Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!" "Never mind, you've got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always look like an angel in white," said Amy, brooding over the little store of finery in which her soul delighted. "It isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to do. My blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as if I'd got a new one. My silk sacque isn't a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like Sallie's. I didn't like to say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a yellowish handle. It's strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie's silk one with a gold top," sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor. "Change it," advised Jo. "I won't be so silly, or hurt Marmee's feelings, when she took so much pains to get my things. It's a nonsensical notion of mine, and I'm not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves are my comfort. You are a dear to lend me yours, Jo. I feel so rich and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common." And Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box. "Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps. Would you put some on mine?" she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah's hands. "No, I wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn't rig," said Jo decidedly. "I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes and bows on my caps?" said Meg impatiently. "You said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only go to Annie Moffat's," observed Beth in her quiet way. "So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it does seem as if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it? There now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which I shall leave for Mother to pack," said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton, which she called her 'ball dress' with an important air. The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented than she went. But she begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life. The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat's pretty things, the more she envied her and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stockings. She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were busily employed in 'having a good time'. They shopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at home in the evening, for Annie had many friends and knew how to entertain them. Her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Everyone petted her, and 'Daisey', as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned. When the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed. So out came the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside Sallie's crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud. No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to dress her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms. But in their kindness Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within. "It's for Belle, of course, George always sends her some, but these are altogether ravishing," cried Annie, with a great sniff. "They are for Miss March, the man said. And here's a note," put in the maid, holding it to Meg. "What fun! Who are they from? Didn't know you had a lover," cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise. "The note is from Mother, and the flowers from Laurie," said Meg simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her. "Oh, indeed!" said Annie with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty. Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was 'the sweetest little thing she ever saw', and they looked quite charmed with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very shabby now. She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart's content. Everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice. Major Lincoln asked who 'the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes' was, and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her because she 'didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he gracefully expressed it. So altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall... "How old is he?" "Sixteen or seventeen, I should say," replied another voice. "It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it? Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them." "Mrs. M. has made her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said Mrs. Moffat. "She told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up when the flowers came quite prettily. Poor thing! She'd be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think she'd be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?" asked another voice. "She's proud, but I don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlaton is all she has got. She may tear it tonight, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one." Here Meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had just heard. For, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "Mrs. M. has made her plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlaton," till she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard. Her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven. Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once. They treated her with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air... "Daisy, dear, I've sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it's only a proper compliment to you." Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely, "You are very kind, but I'm afraid he won't come." "Why not, Cherie?" asked Miss Belle. "He's too old." "My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!" cried Miss Clara. "Nearly seventy, I believe," answered Meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes. "You sly creature! Of course we meant the young man," exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing. "There isn't any, Laurie is only a little boy." And Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover. "About your age," Nan said. "Nearer my sister Jo's; I am seventeen in August," returned Meg, tossing her head. "It's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?" said Annie, looking wise about nothing. "Yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and Meg hoped they would say no more. "It's evident Daisy isn't out yet," said Miss Clara to Belle with a nod. "Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned Miss Belle with a shrug. "I'm going out to get some little matters for my girls. Can I do anything for you, young ladies?" asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in silk and lace. "No, thank you, ma'am," replied Sallie. "I've got my new pink silk for Thursday and don't want a thing." "Nor I..." began Meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she did want several things and could not have them. "What shall you wear?" asked Sallie. "My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night," said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable. "Why don't you send home for another?" said Sallie, who was not an observing young lady. "I haven't got any other." It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "Only that? How funny..." She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly... "Not at all. Where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't out yet? There's no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen, for I've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I've outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?" "You are very kind, but I don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does well enough for a little girl like me," said Meg. "Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there. I shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother going to the ball," said Belle in her persuasive tone. Meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the Moffats. On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid, and between them they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and Hortense would have added 'a soupcon of rouge', if Meg had not rebelled. They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for Hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show. A cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll. "Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?" cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture. "Come and show yourself," said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting. As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was 'a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies. "While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands," said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success. "You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice. I'm nowhere beside you, for Belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite French, I assure you. Let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be sure you don't trip," returned Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself. Keeping that warning carefully in mind, Margaret got safely down stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them... "Daisy March--father a colonel in the army--one of our first families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her." "Dear me!" said the old lady, putting up her glass for another observation of Meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been rather shocked at Mrs. Moffat's fibs. The 'queer feeling' did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken. She was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused, for just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on. To complete her confusion, she saw Belle nudge Annie, and both glance from her to Laurie, who, she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy. "Silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head. I won't care for it, or let it change me a bit," thought Meg, and rustled across the room to shake hands with her friend. "I'm glad you came, I was afraid you wouldn't." she said, with her most grown-up air. "Jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so I did," answered Laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her maternal tone. "What shall you tell her?" asked Meg, full of curiosity to know his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time. "I shall say I didn't know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike yourself, I'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his glove button. "How absurd of you! The girls dressed me up for fun, and I rather like it. Wouldn't Jo stare if she saw me?" said Meg, bent on making him say whether he thought her improved or not. "Yes, I think she would," returned Laurie gravely. "Don't you like me so?" asked Meg. "No, I don't," was the blunt reply. "Why not?" in an anxious tone. He glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it. "I don't like fuss and feathers." That was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and Meg walked away, saying petulantly, "You are the rudest boy I ever saw." Feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color. As she stood there, Major Lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him saying to his mother... "They are making a fool of that little girl. I wanted you to see her, but they have spoiled her entirely. She's nothing but a doll tonight." "Oh, dear!" sighed Meg. "I wish I'd been sensible and worn my own things, then I should not have disgusted other people, or felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself." She leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some one touched her, and turning, she saw Laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand out... "Please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me." "I'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said Meg, trying to look offended and failing entirely. "Not a bit of it, I'm dying to do it. Come, I'll be good. I don't like your gown, but I do think you are just splendid." And he waved his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration. Meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch the time, "Take care my skirt doesn't trip you up. It's the plague of my life and I was a goose to wear it." "Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said Laurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of. Away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff. "Laurie, I want you to do me a favor, will you?" said Meg, as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she would not own why. "Won't I!" said Laurie, with alacrity. "Please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight. They won't understand the joke, and it will worry Mother." "Then why did you do it?" said Laurie's eyes, so plainly that Meg hastily added... "I shall tell them myself all about it, and 'fess' to Mother how silly I've been. But I'd rather do it myself. So you'll not tell, will you?" "I give you my word I won't, only what shall I say when they ask me?" "Just say I looked pretty well and was having a good time." "I'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other? You don't look as if you were having a good time. Are you?" And Laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper... "No, not just now. Don't think I'm horrid. I only wanted a little fun, but this sort doesn't pay, I find, and I'm getting tired of it." "Here comes Ned Moffat. What does he want?" said Laurie, knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a pleasant addition to the party. "He put his name down for three dances, and I suppose he's coming for them. What a bore!" said Meg, assuming a languid air which amused Laurie immensely. He did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking champagne with Ned and his friend Fisher, who were behaving 'like a pair of fools', as Laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the Marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed. "You'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldn't, Meg, your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan. "I'm not Meg tonight, I'm 'a doll' who does all sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my 'fuss and feathers' and be desperately good again," she answered with an affected little laugh. "Wish tomorrow was here, then," muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her. Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did. After supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good night. "Remember!" she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun. "Silence a la mort," replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away. This little bit of byplay excited Annie's curiosity, but Meg was too tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected. She was sick all the next day, and on Saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had 'sat in the lap of luxury' long enough. "It does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time. Home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said Meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and Jo on the Sunday evening. "I'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for I was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day. For motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces. Meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried. As the clock struck nine and Jo proposed bed, Meg suddenly left her chair and, taking Beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee, saying bravely... "Marmee, I want to 'fess'." "I thought so. What is it, dear?" "Shall I go away?" asked Jo discreetly. "Of course not. Don't I always tell you everything? I was ashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but I want you to know all the dreadful things I did at the Moffats'." "We are prepared," said Mrs. March, smiling but looking a little anxious. "I told you they dressed me up, but I didn't tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate. Laurie thought I wasn't proper. I know he did, though he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll'. I knew it was silly, but they flattered me and said I was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so I let them make a fool of me." "Is that all?" asked Jo, as Mrs. March looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies. "No, I drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable," said Meg self-reproachfully. "There is something more, I think." And Mrs. March smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as Meg answered slowly... "Yes. It's very silly, but I want to tell it, because I hate to have people say and think such things about us and Laurie." Then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the Moffats', and as she spoke, Jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into Meg's innocent mind. "Well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish I ever heard," cried Jo indignantly. "Why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the spot?" "I couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me. I couldn't help hearing at first, and then I was so angry and ashamed, I didn't remember that I ought to go away." "Just wait till I see Annie Moffat, and I'll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff. The idea of having 'plans' and being kind to Laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by! Won't he shout when I tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?" And Jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke. "If you tell Laurie, I'll never forgive you! She mustn't, must she, Mother?" said Meg, looking distressed. "No, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can," said Mrs. March gravely. "I was very unwise to let you go among people of whom I know so little, kind, I dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people. I am more sorry than I can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, Meg." "Don't be sorry, I won't let it hurt me. I'll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for I did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go. I'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, Mother. I know I'm a silly little girl, and I'll stay with you till I'm fit to take care of myself. But it is nice to be praised and admired, and I can't help saying I like it," said Meg, looking half ashamed of the confession. "That is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things. Learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, Meg." Margaret sat thinking a moment, while Jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to see Meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and things of that sort. And Jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow. "Mother, do you have 'plans', as Mrs. Moffat said?" asked Meg bashfully. "Yes, my dear, I have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from Mrs. Moffat's, I suspect. I will tell you some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject. You are young, Meg, but not too young to understand me, and mothers' lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you. Jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans' and help me carry them out, if they are good." Jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair. Holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, Mrs. March said, in her serious yet cheery way... "I want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good. To be admired, loved, and respected. To have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as God sees fit to send. To be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and I sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience. It is natural to think of it, Meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy. My dear girls, I am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting. Money is a needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace." "Poor girls don't stand any chance, Belle says, unless they put themselves forward," sighed Meg. "Then we'll be old maids," said Jo stoutly. "Right, Jo. Better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said Mrs. March decidedly. "Don't be troubled, Meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover. Some of the best and most honored women I know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids. Leave these things to time. Make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not. One thing remember, my girls. Mother is always ready to be your confidant, Father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives." "We will, Marmee, we will!" cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.

chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide08.html

Meg spends a couple of weeks with the fashionable Moffats where she has an opportunity to party, dance and shop to her hearts content. The experience is not quite as much fun as she anticipated as the other girls exchange superior glances over Megs out-of-style, well-worn tarleton gown. A delivery of flowers from Laurie and a note from her mother enable her to shake off her embarrassment and almost enjoy an evening of dancing until she hears people talking about her on the other side of a thin divider wall. They speak of her "dowdy tarleton," the "fib about her mamma" , and the "plans" of Mrs. M. Meg allows the girls to loan her a very low cut blue gown for the next party. They adorn her with jewels, flowers, and makeup, making her look like something out of a fashion magazine more than herself. Although Meg doesnt feel quite right, she tries to act the part of a fashionable lady, flirting with her fan and laughing at feeble jokes told by young men. Her discomfort is complete when Laurie appears at the dance and is obviously displeased at her appearance. She is hurt and angry at Laurie until she overhears one of the guests say that "they have spoilt her entirely, shes nothing but a doll tonight." Laurie promises not to tell Marmee and the girls about Megs dress, but when Meg gets home she confesses, telling her mother that she "drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt and was, altogether, abominable." Marmee and the girls discuss the problems caused by putting too much emphasis on money and fine things rather than on love, happiness and self respect.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_9_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide08.html", "summary": "The Pickwick Club is one of the diversions the March girls have invented to occupy their time after gardening and other springtime chores. They contribute various written pieces to a weekly \"Pickwick Portfolio\" of which Jo is the editor. Each girl takes the identity of a different Dickens character with Meg taking that of the President, Mr. Pickwick. The little paper is a collection of poems, stories, and announcements of past and coming events of the March household and the community in general as it effects the March family. At this particular meeting, Jo, as Mr. Snodgrass, proposes the addition of a new member in the person of Laurie. At first the vote is split, 2 for and 2 against, but Jo reminds them of all Laurie has done for them. When they finally agree, they discover that Laurie is already present and has been waiting behind the door for their consent. Laurie introduces himself as \"Sam Weller\" and informs them that he has set up a post-office in a corner of the garden. It is actually the old martin-house, but he has fixed it up nicely to hold all sorts of packages or mail that they may wish to exchange on behalf of the paper. Later, even Mr. Laurence joins in the fun, sending bundles and mysterious messages through the little post office.", "analysis": ""}

As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, "I'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny," and so she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it. Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments. This year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed Aunt Cockle-top and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there. Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some new, all more or less original. One of these was the 'P.C.', for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big 'P.C.' in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper called, The Pickwick Portfolio, to which all contributed something, while Jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick, Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass, Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short comings. On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read: _________________________________________________ "THE PICKWICK PORTFOLIO" MAY 20, 18-- POET'S CORNER ANNIVERSARY ODE Again we meet to celebrate With badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, tonight. We all are here in perfect health, None gone from our small band: Again we see each well-known face, And press each friendly hand. Our Pickwick, always at his post, With reverence we greet, As, spectacles on nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet. Although he suffers from a cold, We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall, In spite of croak or squeak. Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high, With elephantine grace, And beams upon the company, With brown and jovial face. Poetic fire lights up his eye, He struggles 'gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow, And on his nose, a blot. Next our peaceful Tupman comes, So rosy, plump, and sweet, Who chokes with laughter at the puns, And tumbles off his seat. Prim little Winkle too is here, With every hair in place, A model of propriety, Though he hates to wash his face. The year is gone, we still unite To joke and laugh and read, And tread the path of literature That doth to glory lead. Long may our paper prosper well, Our club unbroken be, And coming years their blessings pour On the useful, gay 'P. C.'. A. SNODGRASS ________ THE MASKED MARRIAGE (A Tale Of Venice) Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on. "Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola tonight?" asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm. "Yes, is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates." "By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour. "Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old Count," said the lady, as they joined the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove, hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus: "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services." All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a murmur of amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation. "Gladly would I give it if I could, but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask and receive my blessing." But neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom replied in a tone that startled all listeners as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty. "My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more, for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife." The count stood like one changed to stone, and turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have by this masked marriage." S. PICKWICK Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel? It is full of unruly members. _________ THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became a vine and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocerman bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it with salt and butter, for dinner. And to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten by a family named March. T. TUPMAN _________ Mr. Pickwick, Sir:-- I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can't write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school time. Yours respectably, N. WINKLE [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.] _________ A SAD ACCIDENT On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well. ED. _________ THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole community. When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever. _________ A sympathizing friend sends the following gem: A LAMENT (FOR S. B. PAT PAW) We mourn the loss of our little pet, And sigh o'er her hapless fate, For never more by the fire she'll sit, Nor play by the old green gate. The little grave where her infant sleeps Is 'neath the chestnut tree. But o'er her grave we may not weep, We know not where it may be. Her empty bed, her idle ball, Will never see her more; No gentle tap, no loving purr Is heard at the parlor door. Another cat comes after her mice, A cat with a dirty face, But she does not hunt as our darling did, Nor play with her airy grace. Her stealthy paws tread the very hall Where Snowball used to play, But she only spits at the dogs our pet So gallantly drove away. She is useful and mild, and does her best, But she is not fair to see, And we cannot give her your place dear, Nor worship her as we worship thee. A.S. _________ ADVERTISEMENTS MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her famous lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION" at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances. A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside, and all are invited to attend. The DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely. Mrs. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll's Millinery next week. The latest Paris fashions have arrived, and orders are respectfully solicited. A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage. "The Greek Slave, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name of this thrilling drama!!! HINTS If S.P. didn't use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn't always be late at breakfast. A.S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T.T. please don't forget Amy's napkin. N.W. must not fret because his dress has not nine tucks. WEEKLY REPORT Meg--Good. Jo--Bad. Beth--Very Good. Amy--Middling. _________________________________________________ As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition. "Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new member--one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him." Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as Snodgrass took his seat. "We'll put it to a vote," said the President. "All in favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying, 'Aye'." A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a timid one from Beth. "Contrary-minded say, 'No'." Meg and Amy were contrary-minded, and Mr. Winkle rose to say with great elegance, "We don't wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about. This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper." "I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward," observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful. Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as a gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome if he comes." This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind. "Yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid. I say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes." This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again. Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and say, 'Aye!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly. "Aye! Aye! Aye!" replied three voices at once. "Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the fetlock', as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present the new member." And, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter. "You rogue! You traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy. "The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick, trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion, and rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said in the most engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies--I beg pardon, gentlemen--allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of the club." "Good! Good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan on which she leaned. "My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie with a wave of the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed for the base stratagem of tonight. I planned it, and she only gave in after lots of teasing." "Come now, don't lay it all on yourself. You know I proposed the cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly. "Never mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of this immortal club." "Hear! Hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a cymbal. "Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed benignly. "I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between adjoining nations, I have set up a post office in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if I may be allowed the expression. It's the old martin house, but I've stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key, and with many thanks for your favor, take my seat." Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table and subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best. So it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member. No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add 'spirit' to the meetings, and 'a tone' to the paper, for his orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or Shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought. The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real post office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, scoldings, and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah's charms, actually sent a love letter to Jo's care. How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post office would hold in the years to come.

chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide08.html

The Pickwick Club is one of the diversions the March girls have invented to occupy their time after gardening and other springtime chores. They contribute various written pieces to a weekly "Pickwick Portfolio" of which Jo is the editor. Each girl takes the identity of a different Dickens character with Meg taking that of the President, Mr. Pickwick. The little paper is a collection of poems, stories, and announcements of past and coming events of the March household and the community in general as it effects the March family. At this particular meeting, Jo, as Mr. Snodgrass, proposes the addition of a new member in the person of Laurie. At first the vote is split, 2 for and 2 against, but Jo reminds them of all Laurie has done for them. When they finally agree, they discover that Laurie is already present and has been waiting behind the door for their consent. Laurie introduces himself as "Sam Weller" and informs them that he has set up a post-office in a corner of the garden. It is actually the old martin-house, but he has fixed it up nicely to hold all sorts of packages or mail that they may wish to exchange on behalf of the paper. Later, even Mr. Laurence joins in the fun, sending bundles and mysterious messages through the little post office.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_10_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide09.html", "summary": "It is the first of June and all of the girls are looking forward to vacation. The Kings have gone to the seashore, Aunt March is gone to Plumfield to visit other family, and Beth and Amy think they should have some freedom from lessons. Each one plans to spend days in idleness, sleeping in, playing with dolls, practicing new songs and reading books-anything so long as they are entirely free from chores. Marmee allows the girls to have their workfree lives as an experiment that will last one week. The first day seems to be a success, but succeeding days become longer and more boring, and the girls are irritable with each other. On the last day of the experiment, Marmee adds to it by giving Hannah the day off and then going out herself. The situation goes from bad to worse as Beth finds her bird dead for want of food or water, and unexpected company in the person of the gossipy Mrs. Crocker shows up for a disastrous supper. Later in the evening several other callers visit the frantic little group. The girls decide that they do not wish to continue their experiment, and that life proceeds more smoothly when every member does a fair share of the work.", "analysis": ""}

"The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and I'm free. Three months' vacation--how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party. "Aunt March went today, for which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her. If she had, I should have felt as if I ought to do it, but Plumfield is about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excused. We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to part from me. I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright, for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, 'Josyphine, won't you--?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned and fled. I did actually run, and whisked round the corner where I felt safe." "Poor old Jo! She came in looking as if bears were after her," said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air. "Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy, tasting her mixture critically. "She means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn't matter. It's too warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured Jo. "What shall you do all your vacation?" asked Amy, changing the subject with tact. "I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from the depths of the rocking chair. "I've been routed up early all winter and had to spend my days working for other people, so now I'm going to rest and revel to my heart's content." "No," said Jo, "that dozy way wouldn't suit me. I've laid in a heap of books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in the old apple tree, when I'm not having l----" "Don't say 'larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the 'samphire' correction. "I'll say 'nightingales' then, with Laurie. That's proper and appropriate, since he's a warbler." "Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy. "Well, I will, if Mother doesn't mind. I want to learn some new songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer. They are dreadfully out of order and really suffering for clothes." "May we, Mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing in what they called 'Marmee's corner'. "You may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it. I think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as bad as all work and no play." "Oh, dear, no! It will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg complacently. "I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp', says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the lemonade went round. They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o'clock. Her solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and untidy, for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy's books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but 'Marmee's corner', which looked as usual. And there Meg sat, to 'rest and read', which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river with Laurie and the afternoon reading and crying over _The Wide, Wide World_, up in the apple tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet where her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she left her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle, hoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home dripping. At teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the afternoon and got a 'sweet blue muslin', had discovered, after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her slightly cross. Jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at once, and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next day and now like Flora McFlimsey, she had 'nothing to wear'. But these were mere trifles, and they assured their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said nothing, and with Hannah's help did their neglected work, keeping home pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the 'resting and reveling' process. The days kept getting longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and Satan found plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury, Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily, that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to furbish them up a la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out and she was sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell back into her old ways now and then. But something in the air affected her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear Joanna and told her she was 'a fright'. Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn't like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the time. Tea parties didn't amount to much, neither did picnics, unless very well conducted. "If one could have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz," complained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui. No one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by Friday night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner, so she gave Hannah a holiday and let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system. When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen. "Mercy on us! What has happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in dismay. Meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed. "Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can. It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like herself. But she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble but take care of ourselves." "That's easy enough, and I like the idea, I'm aching for something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo quickly. In fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke." There was plenty of food in the larder, and while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work. "I shall take some up to Mother, though she said we were not to think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who presided and felt quite matronly behind the teapot. So a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the cook's compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but Mrs. March received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after Jo was gone. "Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid, but they won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the more palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly little deception for which they were grateful. Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook at her failures. "Never mind, I'll get the dinner and be servant, you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs. This obliging offer was gladly accepted, and Margaret retired to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting. Jo, with perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to dinner. "You'd better see what you have got before you think of having company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act. "Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and I shall get some asparagus and a lobster, 'for a relish', as Hannah says. We'll have lettuce and make a salad. I don't know how, but the book tells. I'll have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you want to be elegant." "Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat. I wash my hands of the dinner party, and since you have asked Laurie on your own responsibility, you may just take care of him." "I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the pudding. You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won't you?" asked Jo, rather hurt. "Yes, but I don't know much, except about bread and a few trifles. You had better ask Mother's leave before you order anything," returned Meg prudently. "Of course I shall. I'm not a fool." And Jo went off in a huff at the doubts expressed of her powers. "Get what you like, and don't disturb me. I'm going out to dinner and can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to her. "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself." The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and reading early in the morning made Jo feel as if some unnatural phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger. "Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going downstairs. "There's Beth crying, that's a sure sign that something is wrong in this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her." Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for want of which he had died. "It's all my fault, I forgot him, there isn't a seed or a drop left. Oh, Pip! Oh, Pip! How could I be so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him. Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a coffin. "Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive," said Amy hopefully. "He's been starved, and he shan't be baked now he's dead. I'll make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and I'll never have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one," murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands. "The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don't cry, Bethy. It's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice little funeral," said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal. Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron, she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when she discovered that the fire was out. "Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders. Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the water heated. The walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure appeared, demanding tartly... "I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?" Sallie began to laugh, but Meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the sour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear departed lay in state in the domino box. A strange sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner. Now this lady was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw everything and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and had few friends. So Meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew. Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever. The bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the last. The blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully 'deaconed'. "Well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing," thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide. Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left, while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo's one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately. "Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo, trembling. "Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg with a tragic gesture. Jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic efforts. The comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did everyone else, even 'Croaker' as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun. "I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose, and Miss Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's dinner table. They did sober themselves for Beth's sake. Laurie dug a grave under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph, composed by Jo while she struggled with the dinner. Here lies Pip March, Who died the 7th of June; Loved and lamented sore, And not forgotten soon. At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up the pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper. Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success of one part of the experiment. Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was a scramble to get ready to see them. Then tea must be got, errands done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled. "What a dreadful day this has been!" began Jo, usually the first to speak. "It has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said Meg. "Not a bit like home," added Amy. "It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth, glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head. "Here's Mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you want it." As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs. "Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her and the rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun. "I don't!" cried Jo decidedly. "Nor I," echoed the others. "You think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a little for others, do you?" "Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off." "Suppose you learn plain cooking. That's a useful accomplishment, which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the recollection of Jo's dinner party, for she had met Miss Crocker and heard her account of it. "Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day. "Yes, I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy or amiable. So I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when everyone thinks only of herself. Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?" "We do, Mother, we do!" cried the girls. "Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone. It keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion." "We'll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don't," said Jo. "I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner party I have shall be a success." "I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing. That will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they are." said Meg. "I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing," was Beth's resolution, while Amy followed their example by heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts of speech." "Very good! Then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it, only don't go to the other extreme and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play, make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty." "We'll remember, Mother!" and they did.

chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide09.html

It is the first of June and all of the girls are looking forward to vacation. The Kings have gone to the seashore, Aunt March is gone to Plumfield to visit other family, and Beth and Amy think they should have some freedom from lessons. Each one plans to spend days in idleness, sleeping in, playing with dolls, practicing new songs and reading books-anything so long as they are entirely free from chores. Marmee allows the girls to have their workfree lives as an experiment that will last one week. The first day seems to be a success, but succeeding days become longer and more boring, and the girls are irritable with each other. On the last day of the experiment, Marmee adds to it by giving Hannah the day off and then going out herself. The situation goes from bad to worse as Beth finds her bird dead for want of food or water, and unexpected company in the person of the gossipy Mrs. Crocker shows up for a disastrous supper. Later in the evening several other callers visit the frantic little group. The girls decide that they do not wish to continue their experiment, and that life proceeds more smoothly when every member does a fair share of the work.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_11_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide09.html", "summary": "Laurie invites the girls to a picnic in Longmeadow where they will be joined by some of his English friends, the Vaughn's along with Mr. Brooke, the Moffats and a few others. After taking boats to the meadow, they play a round of croquet which nearly leads to a quarrel for Jo when she catches Fred cheating at the game. Eventually, however, the activities lead to a game of truth or consequences, and Jo gets Fred to admit his transgression. Frank, a crippled youth is found in friendly discussion with Beth, and Mr. Brooke spends a little time chatting with Meg.", "analysis": ""}

Beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail. One July day she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the penny post. "Here's your posy, Mother! Laurie never forgets that," she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in 'Marmee's corner', and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy. "Miss Meg March, one letter and a glove," continued Beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands. "Why, I left a pair over there, and here is only one," said Meg, looking at the gray cotton glove. "Didn't you drop the other in the garden?" "No, I'm sure I didn't, for there was only one in the office." "I hate to have odd gloves! Never mind, the other may be found. My letter is only a translation of the German song I wanted. I think Mr. Brooke did it, for this isn't Laurie's writing." Mrs. March glanced at Meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother's mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that Mrs. March smiled and was satisfied. "Two letters for Doctor Jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the whole post office and stuck outside," said Beth, laughing as she went into the study where Jo sat writing. "What a sly fellow Laurie is! I said I wished bigger hats were the fashion, because I burn my face every hot day. He said, 'Why mind the fashion? Wear a big hat, and be comfortable!' I said I would if I had one, and he has sent me this, to try me. I'll wear it for fun, and show him I don't care for the fashion." And hanging the antique broad-brim on a bust of Plato, Jo read her letters. One from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said to her... My Dear: I write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction I watch your efforts to control your temper. You say nothing about your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them but the Friend whose help you daily ask, if I may trust the well-worn cover of your guidebook. I, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit. Go on, dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than your loving... Mother "That does me good! That's worth millions of money and pecks of praise. Oh, Marmee, I do try! I will keep on trying, and not get tired, since I have you to help me." Laying her head on her arms, Jo wet her little romance with a few happy tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most valued. Feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her Apollyon, she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready for either good or bad news. In a big, dashing hand, Laurie wrote... Dear Jo, What ho! Some English girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and I want to have a jolly time. If it's fine, I'm going to pitch my tent in Longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet--have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks. They are nice people, and like such things. Brooke will go to keep us boys steady, and Kate Vaughn will play propriety for the girls. I want you all to come, can't let Beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her. Don't bother about rations, I'll see to that and everything else, only do come, there's a good fellow! In a tearing hurry, Yours ever, Laurie. "Here's richness!" cried Jo, flying in to tell the news to Meg. "Of course we can go, Mother? It will be such a help to Laurie, for I can row, and Meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some way." "I hope the Vaughns are not fine grown-up people. Do you know anything about them, Jo?" asked Meg. "Only that there are four of them. Kate is older than you, Fred and Frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (Grace), who is nine or ten. Laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys. I fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn't admire Kate much." "I'm so glad my French print is clean, it's just the thing and so becoming!" observed Meg complacently. "Have you anything decent, Jo?" "Scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me. I shall row and tramp about, so I don't want any starch to think of. You'll come, Betty?" "If you won't let any boys talk to me." "Not a boy!" "I like to please Laurie, and I'm not afraid of Mr. Brooke, he is so kind. But I don't want to play, or sing, or say anything. I'll work hard and not trouble anyone, and you'll take care of me, Jo, so I'll go." "That's my good girl. You do try to fight off your shyness, and I love you for it. Fighting faults isn't easy, as I know, and a cheery word kind of gives a lift. Thank you, Mother," And Jo gave the thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to Mrs. March than if it had given back the rosy roundness of her youth. "I had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture I wanted to copy," said Amy, showing her mail. "And I got a note from Mr. Laurence, asking me to come over and play to him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and I shall go," added Beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely. "Now let's fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play tomorrow with free minds," said Jo, preparing to replace her pen with a broom. When the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight. Each had made such preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper. Meg had an extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, Jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, Beth had taken Joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and Amy had capped the climax by putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature. It was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it was now being put. This funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that Jo woke up and roused her sisters by a hearty laugh at Amy's ornament. Sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle began in both houses. Beth, who was ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters' toilets by frequent telegrams from the window. "There goes the man with the tent! I see Mrs. Barker doing up the lunch in a hamper and a great basket. Now Mr. Laurence is looking up at the sky and the weathercock. I wish he would go too. There's Laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy! Oh, mercy me! Here's a carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys. One is lame, poor thing, he's got a crutch. Laurie didn't tell us that. Be quick, girls! It's getting late. Why, there is Ned Moffat, I do declare. Meg, isn't that the man who bowed to you one day when we were shopping?" "So it is. How queer that he should come. I thought he was at the mountains. There is Sallie. I'm glad she got back in time. Am I all right, Jo?" cried Meg in a flutter. "A regular daisy. Hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff. Now then, come on!" "Oh, Jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat? It's too absurd! You shall not make a guy of yourself," remonstrated Meg, as Jo tied down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn Laurie had sent for a joke. "I just will, though, for it's capital, so shady, light, and big. It will make fun, and I don't mind being a guy if I'm comfortable." With that Jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy faces under the jaunty hatbrims. Laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial manner. The lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a lively scene was enacted there. Meg was grateful to see that Miss Kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which American girls would do well to imitate, and who was much flattered by Mr. Ned's assurances that he came especially to see her. Jo understood why Laurie 'primmed up his mouth' when speaking of Kate, for that young lady had a standoff-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other girls. Beth took an observation of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not 'dreadful', but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account. Amy found Grace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good friends. Tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving Mr. Laurence waving his hat on the shore. Laurie and Jo rowed one boat, Mr. Brooke and Ned the other, while Fred Vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed water bug. Jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general utility. It broke the ice in the beginning by producing a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said. Miss Kate decided that she was 'odd', but rather clever, and smiled upon her from afar. Meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with uncommon 'skill and dexterity'. Mr. Brooke was a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice. Meg liked his quiet manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge. He never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion. Ned, being in college, of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it their bounden duty to assume. He was not very wise, but very good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic. Sallie Gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and chattering with the ubiquitous Fred, who kept Beth in constant terror by his pranks. It was not far to Longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets down by the time they arrived. A pleasant green field, with three wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for croquet. "Welcome to Camp Laurence!" said the young host, as they landed with exclamations of delight. "Brooke is commander in chief, I am commissary general, the other fellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company. The tent is for your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen. Now, let's have a game before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner." Frank, Beth, Amy, and Grace sat down to watch the game played by the other eight. Mr. Brooke chose Meg, Kate, and Fred. Laurie took Sallie, Jo, and Ned. The English played well, but the Americans played better, and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of '76 inspired them. Jo and Fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly escaped high words. Jo was through the last wicket and had missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal. Fred was close behind her and his turn came before hers. He gave a stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side. No one was very near, and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right side. "I'm through! Now, Miss Jo, I'll settle you, and get in first," cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow. "You pushed it. I saw you. It's my turn now," said Jo sharply. "Upon my word, I didn't move it. It rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is allowed. So, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake." "We don't cheat in America, but you can, if you choose," said Jo angrily. "Yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows. There you go!" returned Fred, croqueting her ball far away. Jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time, colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket with all her might, while Fred hit the stake and declared himself out with much exultation. She went off to get her ball, and was a long time finding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently. It took several strokes to regain the place she had lost, and when she got there, the other side had nearly won, for Kate's ball was the last but one and lay near the stake. "By George, it's all up with us! Goodbye, Kate. Miss Jo owes me one, so you are finished," cried Fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see the finish. "Yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies," said Jo, with a look that made the lad redden, "especially when they beat them," she added, as, leaving Kate's ball untouched, she won the game by a clever stroke. Laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn't do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer to whisper to his friend, "Good for you, Jo! He did cheat, I saw him. We can't tell him so, but he won't do it again, take my word for it." Meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and said approvingly, "It was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your temper, and I'm so glad, Jo." "Don't praise me, Meg, for I could box his ears this minute. I should certainly have boiled over if I hadn't stayed among the nettles till I got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue. It's simmering now, so I hope he'll keep out of my way," returned Jo, biting her lips as she glowered at Fred from under her big hat. "Time for lunch," said Mr. Brooke, looking at his watch. "Commissary general, will you make the fire and get water, while Miss March, Miss Sallie, and I spread the table? Who can make good coffee?" "Jo can," said Meg, glad to recommend her sister. So Jo, feeling that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys made a fire and got water from a spring near by. Miss Kate sketched and Frank talked to Beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to serve as plates. The commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves. Jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome appetites. A very merry lunch it was, for everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter startled a venerable horse who fed near by. There was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and plates, acorns dropped in the milk, little black ants partook of the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down from the tree to see what was going on. Three white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the river with all his might and main. "There's salt here," said Laurie, as he handed Jo a saucer of berries. "Thank you, I prefer spiders," she replied, fishing up two unwary little ones who had gone to a creamy death. "How dare you remind me of that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?" added Jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run short. "I had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven't got over it yet. This is no credit to me, you know, I don't do anything. It's you and Meg and Brooke who make it all go, and I'm no end obliged to you. What shall we do when we can't eat anymore?" asked Laurie, feeling that his trump card had been played when lunch was over. "Have games till it's cooler. I brought Authors, and I dare say Miss Kate knows something new and nice. Go and ask her. She's company, and you ought to stay with her more." "Aren't you company too? I thought she'd suit Brooke, but he keeps talking to Meg, and Kate just stares at them through that ridiculous glass of hers. I'm going, so you needn't try to preach propriety, for you can't do it, Jo." Miss Kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing room to play Rig-marole. "One person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when the next takes it up and does the same. It's very funny when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over. Please start it, Mr. Brooke," said Kate, with a commanding air, which surprised Meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other gentleman. Lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, Mr. Brooke obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed upon the sunshiny river. "Once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune, for he had nothing but his sword and his shield. He traveled a long while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till he came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a reward to anyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond. The knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely, for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new master, though he was freakish and wild. Every day, when he gave his lessons to this pet of the king's, the knight rode him through the city, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found. One day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a ruinous castle the lovely face. He was delighted, inquired who lived in this old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were kept there by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their liberty. The knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he was poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and longing to see it out in the sunshine. At last he resolved to get into the castle and ask how he could help them. He went and knocked. The great door flew open, and he beheld..." "A ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, 'At last! At last!'" continued Kate, who had read French novels, and admired the style. "'Tis she!' cried Count Gustave, and fell at her feet in an ecstasy of joy. 'Oh, rise!' she said, extending a hand of marble fairness. 'Never! Till you tell me how I may rescue you,' swore the knight, still kneeling. 'Alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain here till my tyrant is destroyed.' 'Where is the villain?' 'In the mauve salon. Go, brave heart, and save me from despair.' 'I obey, and return victorious or dead!' With these thrilling words he rushed away, and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when he received..." "A stunning blow from the big Greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a black gown fired at him," said Ned. "Instantly, Sir What's-his-name recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet below. Could swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to a little door guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads together till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, Miss March. At the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight that took his breath away and chilled his blood..." "A tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in its wasted hand," went on Meg. "It beckoned, gliding noiselessly before him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb. Shadowy effigies in armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him, showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil. They reached a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music. He sprang forward to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly before him a..." "Snuffbox," said Jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the audience. "'Thankee,' said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off. 'Ha! Ha!' laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other knights packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all rose and began to..." "Dance a hornpipe," cut in Fred, as Jo paused for breath, "and, as they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail. 'Up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard alee, and man the guns!' roared the captain, as a Portuguese pirate hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast. 'Go in and win, my hearties!' says the captain, and a tremendous fight began. Of course the British beat--they always do." "No, they don't!" cried Jo, aside. "Having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers ran blood, for the order had been 'Cutlasses, and die hard!' 'Bosun's mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he doesn't confess his sins double quick,' said the British captain. The Portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank, while the jolly tars cheered like mad. But the sly dog dived, came up under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail set, 'To the bottom of the sea, sea, sea' where..." "Oh, gracious! What shall I say?" cried Sallie, as Fred ended his rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases and facts out of one of his favorite books. "Well, they went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was curious. By-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, 'I'll give you a box of pearls if you can take it up,' for she wanted to restore the poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself. So the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to find no pearls. He left it in a great lonely field, where it was found by a..." "Little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said Amy, when Sallie's invention gave out. "The little girl was sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them. 'Your geese will tell you, they know everything.' said the old woman. So she asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed..." "'Cabbages!'" continued Laurie promptly. "'Just the thing,' said the girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden. She put them on, the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it. The knight in whom I'm interested went back to find the pretty face, and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and married, but one. He was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle to see which was left. Peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his affections picking flowers in her garden. 'Will you give me a rose?' said he. 'You must come and get it. I can't come to you, it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey. He tried to climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher. Then he tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair. So he patiently broke twig after twig till he had made a little hole through which he peeped, saying imploringly, 'Let me in! Let me in!' But the pretty princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in. Whether he did or not, Frank will tell you." "I can't. I'm not playing, I never do," said Frank, dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd couple. Beth had disappeared behind Jo, and Grace was asleep. "So the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?" asked Mr. Brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in his buttonhole. "I guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a while," said Laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his tutor. "What a piece of nonsense we have made! With practice we might do something quite clever. Do you know Truth?" "I hope so," said Meg soberly. "The game, I mean?" "What is it?" said Fred. "Why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question put by the rest. It's great fun." "Let's try it," said Jo, who liked new experiments. Miss Kate and Mr. Brooke, Meg, and Ned declined, but Fred, Sallie, Jo, and Laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to Laurie. "Who are your heroes?" asked Jo. "Grandfather and Napoleon." "Which lady here do you think prettiest?" said Sallie. "Margaret." "Which do you like best?" from Fred. "Jo, of course." "What silly questions you ask!" And Jo gave a disdainful shrug as the rest laughed at Laurie's matter-of-fact tone. "Try again. Truth isn't a bad game," said Fred. "It's a very good one for you," retorted Jo in a low voice. Her turn came next. "What is your greatest fault?" asked Fred, by way of testing in her the virtue he lacked himself. "A quick temper." "What do you most wish for?" said Laurie. "A pair of boot lacings," returned Jo, guessing and defeating his purpose. "Not a true answer. You must say what you really do want most." "Genius. Don't you wish you could give it to me, Laurie?" And she slyly smiled in his disappointed face. "What virtues do you most admire in a man?" asked Sallie. "Courage and honesty." "Now my turn," said Fred, as his hand came last. "Let's give it to him," whispered Laurie to Jo, who nodded and asked at once... "Didn't you cheat at croquet?" "Well, yes, a little bit." "Good! Didn't you take your story out of _The Sea Lion?_" said Laurie. "Rather." "Don't you think the English nation perfect in every respect?" asked Sallie. "I should be ashamed of myself if I didn't." "He's a true John Bull. Now, Miss Sallie, you shall have a chance without waiting to draw. I'll harrrow up your feelings first by asking if you don't think you are something of a flirt," said Laurie, as Jo nodded to Fred as a sign that peace was declared. "You impertinent boy! Of course I'm not," exclaimed Sallie, with an air that proved the contrary. "What do you hate most?" asked Fred. "Spiders and rice pudding." "What do you like best?" asked Jo. "Dancing and French gloves." "Well, I think Truth is a very silly play. Let's have a sensible game of Authors to refresh our minds," proposed Jo. Ned, Frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on, the three elders sat apart, talking. Miss Kate took out her sketch again, and Margaret watched her, while Mr. Brooke lay on the grass with a book, which he did not read. "How beautifully you do it! I wish I could draw," said Meg, with mingled admiration and regret in her voice. "Why don't you learn? I should think you had taste and talent for it," replied Miss Kate graciously. "I haven't time." "Your mamma prefers other accomplishments, I fancy. So did mine, but I proved to her that I had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and then she was quite willing I should go on. Can't you do the same with your governess?" "I have none." "I forgot young ladies in America go to school more than with us. Very fine schools they are, too, Papa says. You go to a private one, I suppose?" "I don't go at all. I am a governess myself." "Oh, indeed!" said Miss Kate, but she might as well have said, "Dear me, how dreadful!" for her tone implied it, and something in her face made Meg color, and wish she had not been so frank. Mr. Brooke looked up and said quickly, "Young ladies in America love independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and respected for supporting themselves." "Oh, yes, of course it's very nice and proper in them to do so. We have many most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and are employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of gentlemen, they are both well bred and accomplished, you know," said Miss Kate in a patronizing tone that hurt Meg's pride, and made her work seem not only more distasteful, but degrading. "Did the German song suit, Miss March?" inquired Mr. Brooke, breaking an awkward pause. "Oh, yes! It was very sweet, and I'm much obliged to whoever translated it for me." And Meg's downcast face brightened as she spoke. "Don't you read German?" asked Miss Kate with a look of surprise. "Not very well. My father, who taught me, is away, and I don't get on very fast alone, for I've no one to correct my pronunciation." "Try a little now. Here is Schiller's Mary Stuart and a tutor who loves to teach." And Mr. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting smile. "It's so hard I'm afraid to try," said Meg, grateful, but bashful in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her. "I'll read a bit to encourage you." And Miss Kate read one of the most beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless manner. Mr. Brooke made no comment as she returned the book to Meg, who said innocently, "I thought it was poetry." "Some of it is. Try this passage." There was a queer smile about Mr. Brooke's mouth as he opened at poor Mary's lament. Meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice. Down the page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in the beauty of the sad scene, Meg read as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen. If she had seen the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoiled for her. "Very well indeed!" said Mr. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach. Miss Kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little tableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension, "You've a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader. I advise you to learn, for German is a valuable accomplishment to teachers. I must look after Grace, she is romping." And Miss Kate strolled away, adding to herself with a shrug, "I didn't come to chaperone a governess, though she is young and pretty. What odd people these Yankees are. I'm afraid Laurie will be quite spoiled among them." "I forgot that English people rather turn up their noses at governesses and don't treat them as we do," said Meg, looking after the retreating figure with an annoyed expression. "Tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as I know to my sorrow. There's no place like America for us workers, Miss Margaret." And Mr. Brooke looked so contented and cheerful that Meg was ashamed to lament her hard lot. "I'm glad I live in it then. I don't like my work, but I get a good deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so I won't complain. I only wished I liked teaching as you do." "I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry to lose him next year," said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the turf. "Going to college, I suppose?" Meg's lips asked the question, but her eyes added, "And what becomes of you?" "Yes, it's high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed." "I am glad of that!" exclaimed Meg. "I should think every young man would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who stay at home," she added sorrowfully. "I have neither, and very few friends to care whether I live or die," said Mr. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave. "Laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all be very sorry to have any harm happen to you," said Meg heartily. "Thank you, that sounds pleasant," began Mr. Brooke, looking cheerful again, but before he could finish his speech, Ned, mounted on the old horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day. "Don't you love to ride?" asked Grace of Amy, as they stood resting after a race round the field with the others, led by Ned. "I dote upon it. My sister, Meg, used to ride when Papa was rich, but we don't keep any horses now, except Ellen Tree," added Amy, laughing. "Tell me about Ellen Tree. Is it a donkey?" asked Grace curiously. "Why, you see, Jo is crazy about horses and so am I, but we've only got an old sidesaddle and no horse. Out in our garden is an apple tree that has a nice low branch, so Jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away on Ellen Tree whenever we like." "How funny!" laughed Grace. "I have a pony at home, and ride nearly every day in the park with Fred and Kate. It's very nice, for my friends go too, and the Row is full of ladies and gentlemen." "Dear, how charming! I hope I shall go abroad some day, but I'd rather go to Rome than the Row," said Amy, who had not the remotest idea what the Row was and wouldn't have asked for the world. Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical gymnastics. Beth, who was collecting the scattered Author cards, looked up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, "I'm afraid you are tired. Can I do anything for you?" "Talk to me, please. It's dull, sitting by myself," answered Frank, who had evidently been used to being made much of at home. If he asked her to deliver a Latin oration, it would not have seemed a more impossible task to bashful Beth, but there was no place to run to, no Jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her that she bravely resolved to try. "What do you like to talk about?" she asked, fumbling over the cards and dropping half as she tried to tie them up. "Well, I like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting," said Frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength. My heart! What shall I do? I don't know anything about them, thought Beth, and forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry, she said, hoping to make him talk, "I never saw any hunting, but I suppose you know all about it." "I did once, but I can never hunt again, for I got hurt leaping a confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for me," said Frank with a sigh that made Beth hate herself for her innocent blunder. "Your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she said, turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one of the boys' books in which Jo delighted. Buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to amuse another, Beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of Beth talking away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged protection. "Bless her heart! She pities him, so she is good to him," said Jo, beaming at her from the croquet ground. "I always said she was a little saint," added Meg, as if there could be no further doubt of it. "I haven't heard Frank laugh so much for ever so long," said Grace to Amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn cups. "My sister Beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be," said Amy, well pleased at Beth's success. She meant 'facinating', but as Grace didn't know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded well and made a good impression. An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed, wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain... Alone, alone, ah! Woe, alone, and at the lines... We each are young, we each have a heart, Oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart? he looked at Meg with such a lackadiasical expression that she laughed outright and spoiled his song. "How can you be so cruel to me?" he whispered, under cover of a lively chorus. "You've kept close to that starched-up Englishwoman all day, and now you snub me." "I didn't mean to, but you looked so funny I really couldn't help it," replied Meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the Moffat party and the talk after it. Ned was offended and turned to Sallie for consolation, saying to her rather pettishly, "There isn't a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?" "Not a particle, but she's a dear," returned Sallie, defending her friend even while confessing her shortcomings. "She's not a stricken deer anyway," said Ned, trying to be witty, and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do. On the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with cordial good nights and good-byes, for the Vaughns were going to Canada. As the four sisters went home through the garden, Miss Kate looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice, "In spite of their demonstrative manners, American girls are very nice when one knows them." "I quite agree with you," said Mr. Brooke.

chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide09.html

Laurie invites the girls to a picnic in Longmeadow where they will be joined by some of his English friends, the Vaughn's along with Mr. Brooke, the Moffats and a few others. After taking boats to the meadow, they play a round of croquet which nearly leads to a quarrel for Jo when she catches Fred cheating at the game. Eventually, however, the activities lead to a game of truth or consequences, and Jo gets Fred to admit his transgression. Frank, a crippled youth is found in friendly discussion with Beth, and Mr. Brooke spends a little time chatting with Meg.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_12_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide09.html", "summary": "Laurie spots the girls dressed as if to go walking or boating and thinks they have failed to invite him. He follows them and finds them in a little grove where each girl is engaged in her own particular hobby. Amy is drawing, Beth sorting cones for crafts, Meg sewing and Jo knitting and reading simultaneously. After allowing Laurie to join them, the girls explain that they are still acting out Pilgrim's Progress, and that this little grove on the hill is their version of \"The Delectable Mountain\" because they can look far away and see the countryside where they hope to live some day. This brings a discussion of castles and dreams. Laurie wants a place to enjoy himself as a famous musician; Meg wants a house full of all sorts of luxurious things; Jo wants a stable of Arabian steeds piled with books; and Beth wants to stay at home with her parents and help care for the family. Laurie declares that he has the key to his castle but isn't allowed to use it because he has to go to college. Jo thoughtlessly advises him to \"sail away\" in one of his own ships until he has accomplished his dreams, but Meg chastises her, reminding Laurie of the kindnesses he has received from his grandfather and Mr. Brooke. Later that evening Laurie sees his grandfather in a pensive mood and resolves to give up his castle at least while the old man needs him.", "analysis": ""}

Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods, for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practicing half the afternoon, frightened the maidservants half out of their wits by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition. "What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river. "Well, that's cool," said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me! They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it. I'll take it to them, and see what's going on." Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse, he waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets. "Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already. It was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her pink dress among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile. "May I come in, please? Or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing slowly. Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly and said at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this." "I always like your games, but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away." "I've no objection, if you do something. It's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg gravely but graciously. "Much obliged. I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears. I'm ready." And Laurie sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold. "Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book. "Yes'm." was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the 'Busy Bee Society'. The story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit. "Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?" "Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters. "He'll laugh," said Amy warningly. "Who cares?" said Jo. "I guess he'll like it," added Beth. "Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid." "The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play Pilgrim's Progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer." "Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely. "Who told you?" demanded Jo. "Spirits." "No, I did. I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly. "You can't keep a secret. Never mind, it saves trouble now." "Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased. "Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle." "Yes, I should think so," and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days. "Mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring our work here and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the Delectable Mountain, for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time." Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the wood one could look cross the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hilltops, and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City. "How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind. "It's often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it. "Jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime--the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly. "There is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, by-and-by, when we are good enough," answered Meg with her sweetest voice. "It seems so long to wait, so hard to do. I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate." "You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later, no fear of that," said Jo. "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all." "You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of traveling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?" Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend, but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in, for I don't believe there are any locks on that door or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river." "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause. "I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him. "You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg. "If I tell mine, will you tell yours?" "Yes, if the girls will too." "We will. Now, Laurie." "After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me. And I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?" Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! For I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make everyone love me dearly." "Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly. "I said 'pleasant people', you know," and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face. "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books. "You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly. "Wouldn't I though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled high with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream." "Mine is to stay at home safe with Father and Mother, and help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly. "Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie. "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together, nothing else." "I have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire. "We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass like a meditative calf. "I've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously. "I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!" muttered Laurie with an impatient sigh. "Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil. "I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly. "Yes, you have," said Laurie at once. "Where?" "In your face." "Nonsense, that's of no use." "Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew. Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight. "If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo, always ready with a plan. "Bless me! How old I shall be, twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg, who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen. "You and I will be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo. "I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall dawdle, Jo." "You need a motive, Mother says, and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly." "Is she? By Jupiter, I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please Grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business. But he's set, and I've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it tomorrow." Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself. "I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called 'Teddy's Wrongs'. "That's not right, Jo. You mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard on you or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved." "What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself after his unusual outbreak. "Only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person because he wouldn't leave her. And how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be." "So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like Grandpa to find out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke." "Begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply. "How do you know I do, Miss?" "I can always tell by his face when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly. If you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better." "Well, I like that? So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph." "We haven't. Don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech. "I don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his 'high and mighty' air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report." "Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly. I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for by-and-by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid. Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven. I'm cross and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes. I thank you all the same." Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible, wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the 'Busy Bee Society'. In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea 'to draw', and they would just have time to get home to supper. "May I come again?" asked Laurie. "Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said Meg, smiling. "I'll try." "Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do. There's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers like a big blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate. That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has."

chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide09.html

Laurie spots the girls dressed as if to go walking or boating and thinks they have failed to invite him. He follows them and finds them in a little grove where each girl is engaged in her own particular hobby. Amy is drawing, Beth sorting cones for crafts, Meg sewing and Jo knitting and reading simultaneously. After allowing Laurie to join them, the girls explain that they are still acting out Pilgrim's Progress, and that this little grove on the hill is their version of "The Delectable Mountain" because they can look far away and see the countryside where they hope to live some day. This brings a discussion of castles and dreams. Laurie wants a place to enjoy himself as a famous musician; Meg wants a house full of all sorts of luxurious things; Jo wants a stable of Arabian steeds piled with books; and Beth wants to stay at home with her parents and help care for the family. Laurie declares that he has the key to his castle but isn't allowed to use it because he has to go to college. Jo thoughtlessly advises him to "sail away" in one of his own ships until he has accomplished his dreams, but Meg chastises her, reminding Laurie of the kindnesses he has received from his grandfather and Mr. Brooke. Later that evening Laurie sees his grandfather in a pensive mood and resolves to give up his castle at least while the old man needs him.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_13_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html", "summary": "Jo secretly takes a story to a newspaper publisher and shares secrets with Laurie who happened to catch her trying to get up enough nerve to go into the publishing house. Laurie's secret is that Brooke is the person who kept Meg's missing love and that Brooke is sweet on Meg. He thinks Jo will be pleased, but instead she is furious. She begins to act strangely, treating Mr. Brooke coldly and staring sadly at Meg. The concern for Meg temporarily fades when Jo's story is published. Furthermore, the editor has agreed to publish and pay for more of her stories.", "analysis": ""}

Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and threw down her pen, exclaiming... "There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better." Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons. Then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript, and putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink. She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious. If anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street. Having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came. This maneuver she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out. There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home." In ten minutes Jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod. But he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, "Did you have a bad time?" "Not very." "You got through quickly." "Yes, thank goodness!" "Why did you go alone?" "Didn't want anyone to know." "You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?" Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to laugh as if mightily amused at something. "There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week." "What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified. "So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?" "Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing." "I'm glad of that." "Why?" "You can teach me, and then when we play _Hamlet_, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene." Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves. "I'll teach you whether we play _Hamlet_ or not. It's grand fun and will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'I'm glad' in that decided way, was it now?" "No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?" "Not often." "I wish you wouldn't." "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players, so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows." "Oh, dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head. "Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled. "That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come. And if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now." "Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously. "No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them." "Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet. I'm not a fashionable party and don't mean to be, but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?" "Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you? Or there will be an end of all our good times." "I'll be a double distilled saint." "I can't bear saints. Just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I should do if you acted like Mr. King's son. He had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid." "You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged." "No, I don't--oh, dear, no!--but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor. I shouldn't worry then." "Do you worry about me, Jo?" "A little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you." Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her warnings. "Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked presently. "Of course not. Why?" "Because if you are, I'll take a bus. If you're not, I'd like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting." "I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely." "Very well, then, come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours." "I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had. "You know you have--you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess, or I won't tell," cried Laurie. "Is your secret a nice one?" "Oh, isn't it! All about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin." "You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?" "Not a word." "And you won't tease me in private?" "I never tease." "Yes, you do. You get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler." "Thank you. Fire away." "Well, I've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear. "Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children, for they were out of the city now. "Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say, but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it because I didn't want anyone else to be disappointed." "It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?" Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs. "Where's your secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement. "I may get into a scrape for telling, but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is." "Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence. "It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is." "Tell, then." Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you know?" "Saw it." "Where?" "Pocket." "All this time?" "Yes, isn't that romantic?" "No, it's horrid." "Don't you like it?" "Of course I don't. It's ridiculous, it won't be allowed. My patience! What would Meg say?" "You are not to tell anyone. Mind that." "I didn't promise." "That was understood, and I trusted you." "Well, I won't for the present, anyway, but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me." "I thought you'd be pleased." "At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you." "You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away." "I'd like to see anyone try it," cried Jo fiercely. "So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea. "I don't think secrets agree with me, I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said Jo rather ungratefully. "Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie. No one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment, for his Atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face. "I wish I was a horse, then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital, but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves. Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But someone did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls. "What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred surprise. "Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up. "And hairpins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, Meg, so do combs and brown straw hats." "You have been running, Jo. How could you? When will you stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties. "Never till I'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg. It's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden. Let me be a little girl as long as I can." As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?" "At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!" "Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie. "I'm afraid I do." "I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk. "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised. "Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said. "I shall never '_go_ and marry' anyone," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and 'behaving like children', as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on. For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner. Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about 'Spread Eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers. "What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. "I hope she won't. She is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with anyone but her. "It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike. In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read. "Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension. "Nothing but a story, won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. "You'd better read it aloud. That will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said Amy in her most grown-up tone. "What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet. "The Rival Painters." "That sounds well. Read it," said Meg. With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused. "I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names, isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part was tragical. "Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face. The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement replied in a loud voice, "Your sister." "You?" cried Meg, dropping her work. "It's very good," said Amy critically. "I knew it! I knew it! Oh, my Jo, I am so proud!" and Beth ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success. Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! How Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words. "Miss Josephine March," actually printed in the paper. How graciously Amy criticized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead. How Beth got excited, and skipped and sang with joy. How Hannah came in to exclaim, "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at 'that Jo's doin's'. How proud Mrs. March was when she knew it. How Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it, and how the 'Spread Eagle' might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand. "Tell us about it." "When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?" "What will Father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the family, all in one breath as they clustered about Jo, for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy. "Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her Evelina than she did over her 'Rival Painters'. Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, anyone would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so I let him. And he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I am so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls." Jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.

chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html

Jo secretly takes a story to a newspaper publisher and shares secrets with Laurie who happened to catch her trying to get up enough nerve to go into the publishing house. Laurie's secret is that Brooke is the person who kept Meg's missing love and that Brooke is sweet on Meg. He thinks Jo will be pleased, but instead she is furious. She begins to act strangely, treating Mr. Brooke coldly and staring sadly at Meg. The concern for Meg temporarily fades when Jo's story is published. Furthermore, the editor has agreed to publish and pay for more of her stories.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_14_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 15

chapter 15

{"name": "chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html", "summary": "Marmee receives a telegram telling her that Mr. March has been taken sick and that she should come to Washington immediately. Everyone rushes around trying to help her. Laurie takes a hurried letter to Aunt March from whom Marmee borrows money for the trip. Mr Laurence sends Mr. Brooke to accompany her. Jo makes the ultimate sacrifice in an attempt to prevent her mother from needing to borrow money. She sells her abundant hair, receiving 25 dollars which she gives to her mother to take to Mr. March.", "analysis": ""}

"November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden. "That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose. "If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even November. "I dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family," said Meg, who was out of sorts. "We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill." "My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo. "I don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines! You're pretty enough and good enough already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly. Then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something in a blaze of splendor and elegance." "People don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have to work and women marry for money. It's a dreadfully unjust world," said Meg bitterly. "Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all. Just wait ten years, and see if we don't," said Amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces. "Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt, though I'm grateful for your good intentions." Meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again. Jo groaned and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy spatted away energetically, and Beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to happen right away. Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had something nice to tell." In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, "Any letter from Father, girls?" and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, "Won't some of you come for a drive? I've been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, won't you?" "Of course we will." "Much obliged, but I'm busy." And Meg whisked out her workbasket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive too often with the young gentleman. "We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to wash her hands. "Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave her. "No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear. It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father is as regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps." A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter. "It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said, handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage. At the word 'telegraph', Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed downstairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice... Mrs. March: Your husband is very ill. Come at once. S. HALE Blank Hospital, Washington. How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them. Mrs. March was herself again directly, read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. Oh, children, children, help me to bear it!" For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions. "The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no time a-cryin', but git your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, as she wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one. "She's right, there's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me think." They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them. "Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done. "Here, ma'am. Oh, let me do something!" cried the boy, hurrying from the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see. "Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning. I'll take that." "What else? The horses are ready. I can go anywhere, do anything," he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth. "Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper." Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum for her father. "Now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace. There is no need of that." Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life. "Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way get these things. I'll put them down, they'll be needed and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine. I'm not too proud to beg for Father. He shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk, and Meg, come and help me find my things, for I'm half bewildered." Writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little while, and let them work. Everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell. Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn't offer, from his own dressing gown to himself as escort. But the last was impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long journey, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for traveling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke. "I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. "I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there." Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that Mr. Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to take. "How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure, and it will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!" Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother. Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which Jo would have understood if she had been there. The short afternoon wore away. All other errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while Beth and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a 'slap and a bang', but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious, and Laurie went off to find her, for no one knew what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice, "That's my contribution toward making Father comfortable and bringing him home!" "My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you haven't done anything rash?" "No, it's mine honestly. I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it, and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own." As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short. "Your hair! Your beautiful hair!" "Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty." "My dear girl, there was no need of this." "She doesn't look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!" As everyone exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity, I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off. My head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have supper." "Tell me all about it, Jo. I am not quite satisfied, but I can't blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid you will regret it one of these days," said Mrs. March. "No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned. "What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair. "Well, I was wild to do something for Father," replied Jo, as they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble. "I hate to borrow as much as Mother does, and I knew Aunt March would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence. Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if I sold the nose off my face to get it." "You needn't feel wicked, my child! You had no winter things and got the simplest with your own hard earnings," said Mrs. March with a look that warmed Jo's heart. "I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came to me all of a sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for mine." "I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth in a tone of awe. "Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair. He rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place. The work put into it made it dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid if it wasn't done right away that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a thing, I hate to give it up. So I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, 'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady. I'd do as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling." "Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along. "Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely." "Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a shiver. "I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that. I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head. It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again." Mrs. March folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only said, "Thank you, deary," but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when Father came home to be nursed. No one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, "Come girls." Beth went to the piano and played the father's favorite hymn. All began bravely, but broke down one by one till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler. "Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good night, my darlings," said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another. They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek... "Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?" "No, not now." "What then?" "My... My hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow. It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner. "I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again tomorrow, if I could. It's only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell anyone, it's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?" "I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg. "Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off." "I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever." "What did you think of?" "Handsome faces--eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to herself in the dark. "What color do you like best?" "Brown, that is, sometimes. Blue are lovely." Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air. The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, "Be comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds."

chapter 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html

Marmee receives a telegram telling her that Mr. March has been taken sick and that she should come to Washington immediately. Everyone rushes around trying to help her. Laurie takes a hurried letter to Aunt March from whom Marmee borrows money for the trip. Mr Laurence sends Mr. Brooke to accompany her. Jo makes the ultimate sacrifice in an attempt to prevent her mother from needing to borrow money. She sells her abundant hair, receiving 25 dollars which she gives to her mother to take to Mr. March.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_15_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 16

chapter 16

{"name": "chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html", "summary": "Marmee has gone to Washington to be with Mr. March. Mr. Brooke sends them word every day and soon is able to tell them that their father has improved. Most of the chapter is comprised of a round of short letters in which everyone sends a greeting and speaks of the happenings at home from his or her own point of view.", "analysis": ""}

In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter with an earnestness never felt before. For now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, Mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and Mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself, Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them. Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag... "Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am gone, or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless." "Yes, Mother." "Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't get despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home." "We will, Mother! We will!" The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well. No one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to Father, remembering, as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away. Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him 'Mr. Greatheart' on the spot. "Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the carriage. As she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it shining on the group at the gate like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a bodyguard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie. "How kind everyone is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face. "I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling. And so the journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words. "I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves. "It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly. Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on Mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly. Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot. "Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work and be a credit to the family." Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again. "'Hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit. "I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red. "No need of that. Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put in Amy, with an important air. "Hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without delay. "I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar pensively. The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl. The sight of the turnovers made Jo sober again; and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was gone, but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin. "That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. "Goodbye, Meggy, I hope the Kings won't strain today. Don't fret about Father, dear," she added, as they parted. "And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders. "That's my only comfort." And, touching her hat a la Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day. News from their father comforted the girls very much, for though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week passed. At first, everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them. My dearest Mother: It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and Father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about Father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says, and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint. She does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss Margaret, which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy, but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to Father, and believe me, ever your own... MEG This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed letters. My precious Marmee: Three cheers for dear Father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank god for being so good to us, but I could only cry, and say, "I'm glad! I'm glad!" Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? For I felt a great many in my heart. We have such funny times, and now I can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves. You'd laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and I--well, I'm Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn't speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn't and got mad. It lasted all day. I felt bad and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon. But I thought he'd come to it, for I was in the right. He didn't come, and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again. I made a 'pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash, and as Father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your... TOPSY-TURVY JO A SONG FROM THE SUDS Queen of my tub, I merrily sing, While the white foam rises high, And sturdily wash and rinse and wring, And fasten the clothes to dry. Then out in the free fresh air they swing, Under the sunny sky. I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls The stains of the week away, And let water and air by their magic make Ourselves as pure as they. Then on the earth there would be indeed, A glorious washing day! Along the path of a useful life, Will heart's-ease ever bloom. The busy mind has no time to think Of sorrow or care or gloom. And anxious thoughts may be swept away, As we bravely wield a broom. I am glad a task to me is given, To labor at day by day, For it brings me health and strength and hope, And I cheerfully learn to say, "Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel, But, Hand, you shall work alway!" Dear Mother, There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for Father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with Father's tune. I can't sing 'LAND OF THE LEAL' now, it makes me cry. Everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day. Kiss dear Father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving... LITTLE BETH Ma Chere Mamma, We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa. Your affectionate daughter... AMY CURTIS MARCH Dear Mis March, I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper. She hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur. I don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia. Yours respectful, Hannah Mullet Head Nurse of Ward No. 2, All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander in Chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullet keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at headquarters. Commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by... COLONEL TEDDY Dear Madam: The little girls are all well. Beth and my boy report daily. Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds. Pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending. Your sincere friend and servant, JAMES LAURENCE

chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html

Marmee has gone to Washington to be with Mr. March. Mr. Brooke sends them word every day and soon is able to tell them that their father has improved. Most of the chapter is comprised of a round of short letters in which everyone sends a greeting and speaks of the happenings at home from his or her own point of view.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_16_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 17

chapter 17

{"name": "chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html", "summary": "By the time Mrs. March has been gone a week, the girls begin to slack off in their duties and resolves to keep things operating as usual. Beth alone continues in her work and often completes her sisters' as well. On of the tasks is to faithfully visit the Hummels who are very poor and have a sick baby. On this particular afternoon, Beth asks for someone else to visit because she is tired and doesn't know what to do for the baby. Each girl has an excuse to avoid going, so Beth goes again, and this time, the baby dies in her arms. Jo finds Beth sitting on her bed upstairs with a bottle of medicine in her hand. Beth explains that the baby died of scarlet fever, and that she is afraid she may get it, although she is sure she will have only a light case of it. Meg and Jo are immune, but Amy is not and is sent to live with Aunt March until the danger is past.", "analysis": ""}

For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many. Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington dispatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for Mother or fears for Father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs. All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and deserved praise. So they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret. "Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels. You know Mother told us not to forget them." said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure. "I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed. "Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth. "Too stormy for me with my cold." "I thought it was almost well." "It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency. "Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg. "I have been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it. But it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go." Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go tomorrow. "Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth, the air will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go but I want to finish my writing." "My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought maybe some of you would go," said Beth. "Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg. So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed. Amy did not come, Meg went to her room to try on a new dress, Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an hour after, Jo went to 'Mother's closet' for something, and there found little Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand. "Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly. . . "You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?" "Years ago, when Meg did. Why?" "Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!" "What baby?" "Mrs. Hummel's. It died in my lap before she got home," cried Beth with a sob. "My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big chair, with a remorseful face. "It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute it was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took Baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little cry and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was dead." "Don't cry, dear! What did you do?" "I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have sore throats. 'Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called me before,' he said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was kinder, but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or I'd have the fever." "No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. "Oh, Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What shall we do?" "Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in Mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and trying to look well. "If Mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely, "You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it, so I'm afraid you are going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness." "Don't let Amy come. She never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously. "I guess not. Don't care if I do. Serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went to consult Hannah. The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg. "Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth, "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right. Then we'll send Amy off to Aunt March's for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two." "I shall stay, of course, I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful. "I shall, because it's my fault she is sick. I told Mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly. "Which will you have, Beth? There ain't no need of but one," aid Hannah. "Jo, please." And Beth leaned her head against her sister with a contented look, which effectually settled that point. "I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did. Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded, all in vain. Amy protested that she would not go, and Meg left her in despair to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled, but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, "Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here?" "I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an injured voice. "Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to be sick, do you?" "No, I'm sure I don't, but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with Beth all the time." "That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say, or if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss." "But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking rather frightened. "It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do." "Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?" "On my honor as a gentleman." "And come every single day?" "See if I don't!" "And bring me back the minute Beth is well?" "The identical minute." "And go to the theater, truly?" "A dozen theaters, if we may." "Well--I guess I will," said Amy slowly. "Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the 'giving in'. Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought, and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill. "How is the little dear?" asked Laurie, for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show. "She is lying down on Mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered Meg. "What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful way. "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when Mother's gone, so I'm all at sea." "Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his friend's one beauty. "That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for Mother can't leave Father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and Mother said we were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me." "Hum, well, I can't say. Suppose you ask Grandfather after the doctor has been." "We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg. "We can't decide anything till he has been." "Stay where you are, Jo. I'm errand boy to this establishment," said Laurie, taking up his cap. "I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg. "No, I've done my lessons for the day." "Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo. "I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of the room. "I have great hopes for my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving smile. "He does very well, for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not interest her. Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort. Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality. "What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out... "Go away. No boys allowed here." Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story. "No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be, looks like it now. Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff." Amy was on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak and call out, "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead. "What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly. "Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober. "Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy. March never had any stamina," was the cheerful reply. "Ha, ha! Never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!" squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear. "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! And, Jo, you'd better go at once. It isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated boy like..." "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the 'rattlepated' boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech. "I don't think I can bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March. "Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly, and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff.

chapter 17

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide10.html

By the time Mrs. March has been gone a week, the girls begin to slack off in their duties and resolves to keep things operating as usual. Beth alone continues in her work and often completes her sisters' as well. On of the tasks is to faithfully visit the Hummels who are very poor and have a sick baby. On this particular afternoon, Beth asks for someone else to visit because she is tired and doesn't know what to do for the baby. Each girl has an excuse to avoid going, so Beth goes again, and this time, the baby dies in her arms. Jo finds Beth sitting on her bed upstairs with a bottle of medicine in her hand. Beth explains that the baby died of scarlet fever, and that she is afraid she may get it, although she is sure she will have only a light case of it. Meg and Jo are immune, but Amy is not and is sent to live with Aunt March until the danger is past.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_17_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 18

chapter 18

{"name": "chapter 18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide11.html", "summary": "Beth has a severe case of the scarlet fever. As the days pass she gradually worsens until she lapses into an unconscious state. Finally the doctor announces that Mrs. March should be sent for. Jo races off to the telegram office, but on the way home finds out the Laurie has already sent a message and that Mrs. March is expected that night. Around midnight the crisis point is reached and Beth's fever breaks. Mrs. March arrives home early in the morning.", "analysis": ""}

Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of 'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.' Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she 'would think of it, though there was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while. How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy--in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made. Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side. The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can leave her husband she'd better be sent for." Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly, "What is it? Is Beth worse?" "I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression. "Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook. "No. The doctor told us to." "Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face. "Yes, it is. She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it. Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find Him." As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat, "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!" She could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face. "Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now. I don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes." "Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be all right." "I'm so glad Father is better. Now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry. "Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant. "Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her up. I can't! I can't!" Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she will die. She's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe God will take her away yet." "The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own doubts and fears. "Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit. I'll hearten you up in a jiffy." Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink-- Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind. "I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something. "What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder. "I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?" Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "Oh, Laurie! Oh, Mother! I am so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news. Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind. He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act so." "I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be 'lorded over', so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here." "Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?" "Fly at me again. I rather liked it," said Laurie, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight. "No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!" Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it. "That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news. Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sickroom in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpected". A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear! Mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return. Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's countenance as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear. The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those. "If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whispered Meg earnestly. "If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all my life," answered Jo, with equal fervor. "I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause. "If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it," added her sister despondently. Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the girls. It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me." She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my Beth. Good-by!" As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned, she's sleepin' nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!" Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..." What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep. "If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane. "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she--went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face." Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done. "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet. Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come! She's come!"

chapter 18

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide11.html

Beth has a severe case of the scarlet fever. As the days pass she gradually worsens until she lapses into an unconscious state. Finally the doctor announces that Mrs. March should be sent for. Jo races off to the telegram office, but on the way home finds out the Laurie has already sent a message and that Mrs. March is expected that night. Around midnight the crisis point is reached and Beth's fever breaks. Mrs. March arrives home early in the morning.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_18_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 20

chapter 20

{"name": "chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide11.html", "summary": "The girls along with Laurie and Mr. Laurence enjoy the reunion with Marmee. Marmee visits Amy at the Aunt's house and encourages her to hang in there a bit longer. Amy displays the ring which Aunt March has already given her and begs to be allowed to wear it as a reminder to keep from being selfish. Mrs. March confides in Jo, telling her that Mr. Brook-whom she now calls \"John\"-has asked permission to court Meg. Jo is not the least bit happy about it as she had planned for Meg to marry Laurie. Her argument is that Laurie is handsome and rich, but in reality she simply isn't willing to \"let go\" of any of her sisters, nor is she really quite ready to grow up herself.", "analysis": ""}

I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters. Such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized, for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and Mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had 'dished up' an astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of Father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold. What a strange yet pleasant day that was. So brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow. So quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure. Laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually 'sniffed' herself, and never once said "I told you so". Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved 'like a capital little woman'. Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather, but discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity. After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her. "On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this." "Yes, Mother, and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which I've tried to make. The woman's face is not good, it's too beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and that helps me." As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ child on his Mother's knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and after a minute's pause, she added gravely, "I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring today. She called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too big. I'd like to wear them Mother, can I?" "They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together. "I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only because it's so pretty, but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something." "Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing. "No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan. "I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties', and being selfish is the largest one in it, so I'm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn't feel so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them, but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my resolutions, but if I had something always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May we try this way?" "Yes, but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best. I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again." That evening while Meg was writing to her father to report the traveler's safe arrival, Jo slipped upstairs into Beth's room, and finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look. "What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence. "I want to tell you something, Mother." "About Meg?" "How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it fidgets me." "Beth is asleep. Speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply. "No. I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo, settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences' and only one was returned. We forgot about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?" "Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look. "Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort. She eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as he ought." "Then you fancy that Meg is not interested in John?" "Who?" cried Jo, staring. "Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now. We fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it." "Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part. He's been good to Father, and you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! To go petting Papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him." And Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak. "My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor Father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him, but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so young." "Of course not. It would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing. I felt it, and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family." This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile, but she said gravely, "Jo, I confide in you and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward him." "She'll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly at her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cozy times together. I see it all! They'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge. Meg will be absorbed and no good to me any more. Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family, and I shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! Why weren't we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother." Jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief. "You don't like it, Mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been." "I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own in time, but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can, and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen and it will be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her." "Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's voice faltered a little over the last words. "Money is a good and useful thing, Jo, and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune." "I understand, Mother, and quite agree, but I'm disappointed about Meg, for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up with a brighter face. "He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March, but Jo broke in... "Only a little, he's old for his age, and tall, and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all, and I say it's a pity my plan is spoiled." "I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown-up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on. Don't make plans, Jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic rubbish' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship." "Well, I won't, but I hate to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens cats, more's the pity!" "What's that about flatirons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand. "Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed. Come, Peggy," said Jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle. "Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back. "Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother's. "Yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him," replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one. "I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good night, Mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's answer. The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to."

chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide11.html

The girls along with Laurie and Mr. Laurence enjoy the reunion with Marmee. Marmee visits Amy at the Aunt's house and encourages her to hang in there a bit longer. Amy displays the ring which Aunt March has already given her and begs to be allowed to wear it as a reminder to keep from being selfish. Mrs. March confides in Jo, telling her that Mr. Brook-whom she now calls "John"-has asked permission to court Meg. Jo is not the least bit happy about it as she had planned for Meg to marry Laurie. Her argument is that Laurie is handsome and rich, but in reality she simply isn't willing to "let go" of any of her sisters, nor is she really quite ready to grow up herself.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_19_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 21

chapter 21

{"name": "chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide12.html", "summary": "Laurie wheedles the secret about Meg and Mr. Brooke out of Jo, then plans a retaliation for having been left out. He composes a series of letters, ostensibly from Mr. Brooks. In one letter he confesses his love, and Meg answers by saying that she is too young to marry and prefers to be friends for a long while. In the next letter, Laurie-under the absconded identity-writes that he never wrote the first letter and regrets that her \"roguish sister\" has taken liberty with their names. Laurie is summoned and admits to the deviltry. He is chastised by Mrs. March who swears him to silence about the whole affair. Jo refuses to forgive Laurie for what she considers a crude joke, but she later relents and goes to the Laurence house under the pretext of returning a book. She finds Mr. Laurence in an angry mood and Laurie shut up in his room. The two have been quarreling over Laurie's silence about the letter affair. Mr. Laurence thinks Laurie is just being impudent. Consequently, Laurie is pondering the idea of running away and refuses to come out of his room until he receives an apology from his grandfather. Feeling that if she can handle the young one, she can handle the old one, Jo talks Mr. Laurence into writing a formal sounding apology to Laurie.", "analysis": ""}

Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in turn assumed an air of dignified reserve and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices, for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge, and much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the secret from her. She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn't care; and at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight. Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in preparations for her father's return, but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone. "She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast. She's got most of the symptoms--is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her, and once she said 'John', as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent. "Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and Father's coming will settle everything," replied her mother. "Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals mine," said Jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the little post office. Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened face. "My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief. "It's all a mistake, he didn't send it. Oh, Jo, how could you do it?" and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite broken. "Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered. Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully, "You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?" Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand. "My Dearest Margaret, "I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to, "Your devoted John." "Oh, the little villain! That's the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to Mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore... "Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks that I am afraid you have had a hand in this." "On my word, Mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her. "If I had taken part in it I'd have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added, scornfully tossing down the paper. "It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand. "Oh, Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly. "Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame. "Here's a scrape! Do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him." And Jo made for the door again. "Hush! Let me handle this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off. "I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at first and meant to tell you, then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew, and while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do. Forgive me, Mother, I'm paid for my silliness now. I never can look him in the face again." "What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March. "I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet, that I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while." Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, "You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?" "He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take liberties with our names. It's very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!" Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely, said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because I wouldn't tell him my secret." "Don't have any secrets, Jo. Tell it to Mother and keep out of trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly. "Bless you, child! Mother told me." "That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once." Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. "Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?" "I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while, perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly. "If John doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of. It's a shame!" Seeing Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't come, but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and stood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour, but what happened during that interview the girls never knew. When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke. "I'll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan't drag it out of me, so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself. "I'll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, I didn't think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air. "It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a month, but you will, though, won't you?" And Laurie folded his hands together with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel. Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked off without a word. As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and armed with a book to return, went over to the big house. "Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming downstairs. "Yes, Miss, but I don't believe he's seeable just yet." "Why not? Is he ill?" "La, no Miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him." "Where is Laurie?" "Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it." "I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them." Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study. "Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young gentleman in a threatening tone. Jo immediately knocked again. The door flew open, and in she bounced before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really was out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I have." "It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier reply to her petition. "Thank you, I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind." "I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly. "Who did it?" demanded Jo. "Grandfather. If it had been anyone else I'd have..." And the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm. "That's nothing. I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo soothingly. "Pooh! You're a girl, and it's fun, but I'll allow no man to shake me!" "I don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thundercloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?" "Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word." "Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?" "No, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I bolted, for fear I should forget myself." "It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know, so go down and make up. I'll help you." "Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by everyone, just for a bit of a frolic. I was sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man, but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong." "He didn't know that." "He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo, he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need anyone's apron string to hold on by." "What pepper pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this affair?" "Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell him what the fuss's about." "Bless you! He won't do that." "I won't go down till he does." "Now, Teddy, be sensible. Let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?" "I don't intend to stay here long, anyway. I'll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when Grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough." "I dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him." "Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke. It's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles." "What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital. "Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke. Let's do it, Jo. We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money enough. It will do you good, and no harm, as you go to your father." For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision. "If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time, but as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper and stop at home. Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan." "That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a willful fit on him and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way. "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and prisms' are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear things that make me skip to think of." "I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly. "Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously. "Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished to make up, but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first. "If I can manage the young one, I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map with his head propped up on both hands. "Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door. "It's only me, Sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she entered. "Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it. "Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of Boswell's Johnson, as he had recommended that lively work. The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind, for after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that Rasselas tumbled face downward on the floor. "What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a word from him, and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs and locked himself into his room." "He did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to anyone," began Jo reluctantly. "That won't do. He shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you softhearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo. I won't be kept in the dark." Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out. "Indeed, Sir, I cannot tell. Mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don't. It was partly my fault, but it's all right now. So let's forget it, and talk about the _Rambler_ or something pleasant." "Hang the _Rambler!_ Come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own hands." The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or forgetting the truth. "Hum... ha... well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow and hard to manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief. "So am I, but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another. "You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer. "Oh, dear no, Sir. You are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?" Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, "You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I know how it will end, if we go on so." "I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made. She meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad. Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was Laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue. "He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys and look among the ships bound for India." She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke. "You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments they are, yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather. I won't bear it." "He won't come, Sir. He feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much." Jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won. "I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness. "If I were you, I'd write him an apology, Sir. He says he won't come down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it. He likes fun, and this way is better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty." Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense." The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie's door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance, "What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he added, laughing. "No, he was pretty mild, on the whole." "Ah! I got it all round. Even you cast me off over there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically. "Don't talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my son." "I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copybooks, and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end," he said dolefully. "Go and eat your dinner, you'll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that. "That's a 'label' on my 'sect'," answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the rest of the day. Everyone thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over, but the mischief was done, for though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever, and once Jo, rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, 'Mrs. John Brooke', whereat she groaned tragically and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.

chapter 21

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide12.html

Laurie wheedles the secret about Meg and Mr. Brooke out of Jo, then plans a retaliation for having been left out. He composes a series of letters, ostensibly from Mr. Brooks. In one letter he confesses his love, and Meg answers by saying that she is too young to marry and prefers to be friends for a long while. In the next letter, Laurie-under the absconded identity-writes that he never wrote the first letter and regrets that her "roguish sister" has taken liberty with their names. Laurie is summoned and admits to the deviltry. He is chastised by Mrs. March who swears him to silence about the whole affair. Jo refuses to forgive Laurie for what she considers a crude joke, but she later relents and goes to the Laurence house under the pretext of returning a book. She finds Mr. Laurence in an angry mood and Laurie shut up in his room. The two have been quarreling over Laurie's silence about the letter affair. Mr. Laurence thinks Laurie is just being impudent. Consequently, Laurie is pondering the idea of running away and refuses to come out of his room until he receives an apology from his grandfather. Feeling that if she can handle the young one, she can handle the old one, Jo talks Mr. Laurence into writing a formal sounding apology to Laurie.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_20_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 22

chapter 22

{"name": "chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide12.html", "summary": "The girls and Marmee celebrate another Christmas along with Hannah and Laurie. Mrs. March has a letter from her husband saying he will soon be with them. While occupying themselves with such blessings as they have, however, they are surprised by the appearance of Mr. Brook and Father at the door. He still has some convalescent time ahead of him, but is able to sit in an easy chair along with Beth and enjoy the company of the family. Laurie, Mr. Laurence and Mr. Brooke dine with them. In spite of the happiness of the occasion, Jo cannot resist glaring at Mr. Brooke.", "analysis": ""}

Like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first, and in time with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her for a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands cooking delicate messes for 'the dear', while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept. As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together. Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah 'felt in her bones' that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them, then Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer. THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH God bless you, dear Queen Bess! May nothing you dismay, But health and peace and happiness Be yours, this Christmas day. Here's fruit to feed our busy bee, And flowers for her nose. Here's music for her pianee, An afghan for her toes, A portrait of Joanna, see, By Raphael No. 2, Who laboured with great industry To make it fair and true. Accept a ribbon red, I beg, For Madam Purrer's tail, And ice cream made by lovely Peg, A Mont Blanc in a pail. Their dearest love my makers laid Within my breast of snow. Accept it, and the Alpine maid, From Laurie and from Jo. How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them. "I'm so full of happiness, that if Father was only here, I couldn't hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the 'Jungfrau' had sent her. "So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired _Undine and Sintram_. "I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame. "Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress, for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. "How can I be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast. Now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is. Half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another Christmas present for the March family." Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word. Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china closet. Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained. And Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush! Remember Beth." But it was too late. The study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present. It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard. Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it, how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine. Also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't like to have something to eat. Jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, "I hate estimable young men with brown eyes!" There never was such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated. So was the plum pudding, which melted in one's mouth, likewise the jellies, in which Amy reveled like a fly in a honeypot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, "For my mind was that flustered, Mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin' of it in a cloth." Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke, at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sang songs, 'reminisced', as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire. "Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things. "Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity. "I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes. "I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who sat on her father's knee. "Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely, and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him. "How do you know? Did Mother tell you?" asked Jo. "Not much. Straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several discoveries today." "Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him. "Here is one." And taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt offering has been made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters, and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away." If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he gave her. "What about Jo? Please say something nice, for she has tried so hard and been so very, very good to me," said Beth in her father's ear. He laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her face. "In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a year ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower. She doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl, but if I get a strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent me." Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she received her father's praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it. "Now, Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait. "There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be," began their father cheerfully. But recollecting how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God." After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair... "I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place tonight, and has waited on every one with patience and good humor. I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears, so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay figures. I am glad of this, for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others." "What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring. "I read in _Pilgrim's Progress_ today how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth, adding, as she slipped out of her father's arms and went to the instrument, "It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for Father, because he likes the verses." So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her. He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride. He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. I am content with what I have, Little be it, or much. And, Lord! Contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such. Fulness to them a burden is, That go on pilgrimage. Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age!

chapter 22

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The girls and Marmee celebrate another Christmas along with Hannah and Laurie. Mrs. March has a letter from her husband saying he will soon be with them. While occupying themselves with such blessings as they have, however, they are surprised by the appearance of Mr. Brook and Father at the door. He still has some convalescent time ahead of him, but is able to sit in an easy chair along with Beth and enjoy the company of the family. Laurie, Mr. Laurence and Mr. Brooke dine with them. In spite of the happiness of the occasion, Jo cannot resist glaring at Mr. Brooke.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_21_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide12.html", "summary": "Dec 26. Laurie torments Meg about his impression of Brooke's courtship. Meg confides in Jo, declaring that she would turn Mr. Brooks down because she is too young to think of marriage. Nevertheless, Mr. Brooks approaches Meg before the day is over and tries to ask permission to court her. In a sudden urge to be coy, Meg refuses him, telling him to go away and stop thinking of her at all. Just when Meg is enjoying a sense of power, Aunt March wanders in and immediately assumes the Brooke has proposed. Aunt March forbids the arrangement, telling Meg that she will not get a penny of her money if she marries that \"cook.\" Aunt March accuses Mr. Brooke of wanting Meg for money he thinks she will have. Meg takes offense and defends John, declaring his honor and her love for him. Of course, the entire exchange has taken place in front of John and he is touched by Meg's defense and her true feelings for him. The chapter ends with the two in each other's arms while the rest of the family-except for Jo- bask in the overflow of the lovers' happiness.", "analysis": ""}

Like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about Mr. March the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness. As he sat propped up in a big chair by Beth's sofa, with the other three close by, and Hannah popping in her head now and then 'to peek at the dear man', nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness. But something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact. Mr. and Mrs. March looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed Meg. Jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at Mr. Brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall. Meg was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when John's name was mentioned. Amy said, "Everyone seemed waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer, since Father was safe at home," and Beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as usual. Laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing Meg at the window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon. And when Meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair. "What does the goose mean?" said Meg, laughing and trying to look unconscious. "He's showing you how your John will go on by-and-by. Touching, isn't it?" answered Jo scornfully. "Don't say my John, it isn't proper or true," but Meg's voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her. "Please don't plague me, Jo, I've told you I don't care much about him, and there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before." "We can't, for something has been said, and Laurie's mischief has spoiled you for me. I see it, and so does Mother. You are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me. I don't mean to plague you and will bear it like a man, but I do wish it was all settled. I hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly," said Jo pettishly. "I can't say anything till he speaks, and he won't, because Father said I was too young," began Meg, bending over her work with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on that point. "If he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided no." "I'm not so silly and weak as you think. I know just what I should say, for I've planned it all, so I needn't be taken unawares. There's no knowing what may happen, and I wished to be prepared." Jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which Meg had unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her cheeks. "Would you mind telling me what you'd say?" asked Jo more respectfully. "Not at all. You are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort." "Don't mean to have any. It's fun to watch other people philander, but I should feel like a fool doing it myself," said Jo, looking alarmed at the thought. "I think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you." Meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight. "I thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said Jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie. "Oh, I should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'Thank you, Mr. Brooke, you are very kind, but I agree with Father that I am too young to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were.'" "Hum, that's stiff and cool enough! I don't believe you'll ever say it, and I know he won't be satisfied if you do. If he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his feelings." "No, I won't. I shall tell him I've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity." Meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given time. Jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable. "Good afternoon. I came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself today," said Mr. Brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other. "It's very well, he's in the rack. I'll get him, and tell it you are here." And having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, Jo slipped out of the room to give Meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity. But the instant she vanished, Meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring... "Mother will like to see you. Pray sit down, I'll call her." "Don't go. Are you afraid of me, Margaret?" and Mr. Brooke looked so hurt that Meg thought she must have done something very rude. She blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her Margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it. Anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully... "How can I be afraid when you have been so kind to Father? I only wish I could thank you for it." "Shall I tell you how?" asked Mr. Brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at Meg with so much love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen. "Oh no, please don't, I'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial. "I won't trouble you. I only want to know if you care for me a little, Meg. I love you so much, dear," added Mr. Brooke tenderly. This was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but Meg didn't make it. She forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "I don't know," so softly that John had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply. He seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, "Will you try and find out? I want to know so much, for I can't go to work with any heart until I learn whether I am to have my reward in the end or not." "I'm too young," faltered Meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it. "I'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me. Would it be a very hard lesson, dear?" "Not if I chose to learn it, but. . ." "Please choose to learn, Meg. I love to teach, and this is easier than German," broke in John, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it. His tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, Meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success. This nettled her. Annie Moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her. She felt excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "I don't choose. Please go away and let me be!" Poor Mr. Brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen Meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him. "Do you really mean that?" he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away. "Yes, I do. I don't want to be worried about such things. Father says I needn't, it's too soon and I'd rather not." "Mayn't I hope you'll change your mind by-and-by? I'll wait and say nothing till you have had more time. Don't play with me, Meg. I didn't think that of you." "Don't think of me at all. I'd rather you wouldn't," said Meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power. He was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room as they did. He just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of herself. What would have happened next I cannot say, if Aunt March had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute. The old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had met Laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of Mr. March's arrival, drove straight out to see him. The family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them. She did surprise two of them so much that Meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and Mr. Brooke vanished into the study. "Bless me, what's all this?" cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady. "It's Father's friend. I'm so surprised to see you!" stammered Meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now. "That's evident," returned Aunt March, sitting down. "But what is Father's friend saying to make you look like a peony? There's mischief going on, and I insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap. "We were only talking. Mr. Brooke came for his umbrella," began Meg, wishing that Mr. Brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house. "Brooke? That boy's tutor? Ah! I understand now. I know all about it. Jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your Father's letters, and I made her tell me. You haven't gone and accepted him, child?" cried Aunt March, looking scandalized. "Hush! He'll hear. Shan't I call Mother?" said Meg, much troubled. "Not yet. I've something to say to you, and I must free my mind at once. Tell me, do you mean to marry this Cook? If you do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you. Remember that, and be a sensible girl," said the old lady impressively. Now Aunt March possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it. The best of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in love. If Aunt March had begged Meg to accept John Brooke, she would probably have declared she couldn't think of it, but as she was preemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind that she would. Inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and being already much excited, Meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit. "I shall marry whom I please, Aunt March, and you can leave your money to anyone you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air. "Highty-tighty! Is that the way you take my advice, Miss? You'll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you've tried love in a cottage and found it a failure." "It can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted Meg. Aunt March put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know her in this new mood. Meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and independent, so glad to defend John and assert her right to love him, if she liked. Aunt March saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, "Now, Meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice. I mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning. You ought to marry well and help your family. It's your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you." "Father and Mother don't think so. They like John though he is poor." "Your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of babies." "I'm glad of it," cried Meg stoutly. Aunt March took no notice, but went on with her lecture. "This Rook is poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?" "No, but he has many warm friends." "You can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll grow. He hasn't any business, has he?" "Not yet. Mr. Laurence is going to help him." "That won't last long. James Laurence is a crotchety old fellow and not to be depended on. So you intend to marry a man without money, position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better? I thought you had more sense, Meg." "I couldn't do better if I waited half my life! John is good and wise, he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave. Everyone likes and respects him, and I'm proud to think he cares for me, though I'm so poor and young and silly," said Meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness. "He knows you have got rich relations, child. That's the secret of his liking, I suspect." "Aunt March, how dare you say such a thing? John is above such meanness, and I won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried Meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's suspicions. "My John wouldn't marry for money, any more than I would. We are willing to work and we mean to wait. I'm not afraid of being poor, for I've been happy so far, and I know I shall be with him because he loves me, and I..." Meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up her mind, that she had told 'her John' to go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks. Aunt March was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour. "Well, I wash my hands of the whole affair! You are a willful child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly. No, I won't stop. I'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father now. Don't expect anything from me when you are married. Your Mr. Brooke's friends must take care of you. I'm done with you forever." And slamming the door in Meg's face, Aunt March drove off in high dudgeon. She seemed to take all the girl's courage with her, for when left alone, Meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry. Before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by Mr. Brooke, who said all in one breath, "I couldn't help hearing, Meg. Thank you for defending me, and Aunt March for proving that you do care for me a little bit." "I didn't know how much till she abused you," began Meg. "And I needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may I, dear?" Here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but Meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself forever in Jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "Yes, John," and hiding her face on Mr. Brooke's waistcoat. Fifteen minutes after Aunt March's departure, Jo came softly downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, "She has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is settled. I'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it." But poor Jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes. Going in to exult over a fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of the most abject submission. Jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away. At the odd sound the lovers turned and saw her. Meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but 'that man', as Jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, "Sister Jo, congratulate us!" That was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and making some wild demonstration with her hands, Jo vanished without a word. Rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically as she burst into the room, "Oh, do somebody go down quick! John Brooke is acting dreadfully, and Meg likes it!" Mr. and Mrs. March left the room with speed, and casting herself upon the bed, Jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news to Beth and Amy. The little girls, however, considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and Jo got little comfort from them, so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to the rats. Nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet Mr. Brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it. The tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which he meant to earn for Meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both looking so happy that Jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal. Amy was very much impressed by John's devotion and Meg's dignity, Beth beamed at them from a distance, while Mr. and Mrs. March surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident Aunt March was right in calling them as 'unworldly as a pair of babies'. No one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family began there. "You can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, Meg?" said Amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she was planning to make. "No, I'm sure I can't. How much has happened since I said that! It seems a year ago," answered Meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far above such common things as bread and butter. "The joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and I rather think the changes have begun," said Mrs. March. "In most families there comes, now and then, a year full of events. This has been such a one, but it ends well, after all." "Hope the next will end better," muttered Jo, who found it very hard to see Meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for Jo loved a few persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any way. "I hope the third year from this will end better. I mean it shall, if I live to work out my plans," said Mr. Brooke, smiling at Meg, as if everything had become possible to him now. "Doesn't it seem very long to wait?" asked Amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding. "I've got so much to learn before I shall be ready, it seems a short time to me," answered Meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen there before. "You have only to wait, I am to do the work," said John beginning his labors by picking up Meg's napkin, with an expression which caused Jo to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the front door banged, "Here comes Laurie. Now we shall have some sensible conversation." But Jo was mistaken, for Laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for 'Mrs. John Brooke', and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management. "I knew Brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done though the sky falls," said Laurie, when he had presented his offering and his congratulations. "Much obliged for that recommendation. I take it as a good omen for the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered Mr. Brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil. "I'll come if I'm at the ends of the earth, for the sight of Jo's face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey. You don't look festive, ma'am, what's the matter?" asked Laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet Mr. Laurence. "I don't approve of the match, but I've made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against it," said Jo solemnly. "You can't know how hard it is for me to give up Meg," she continued with a little quiver in her voice. "You don't give her up. You only go halves," said Laurie consolingly. "It can never be the same again. I've lost my dearest friend," sighed Jo. "You've got me, anyhow. I'm not good for much, I know, but I'll stand by you, Jo, all the days of my life. Upon my word I will!" and Laurie meant what he said. "I know you will, and I'm ever so much obliged. You are always a great comfort to me, Teddy," returned Jo, gratefully shaking hands. "Well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow. It's all right you see. Meg is happy, Brooke will fly round and get settled immediately, Grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see Meg in her own little house. We'll have capital times after she is gone, for I shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad on some nice trip or other. Wouldn't that console you?" "I rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen in three years," said Jo thoughtfully. "That's true. Don't you wish you could take a look forward and see where we shall all be then? I do," returned Laurie. "I think not, for I might see something sad, and everyone looks so happy now, I don't believe they could be much improved." And Jo's eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one. Father and Mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago. Amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not copy. Beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked. Jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and Laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them both. So the curtain falls upon Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy. Whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given the first act of the domestic drama called _Little Women_. LITTLE WOMEN PART 2 In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding...

chapter 23

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Dec 26. Laurie torments Meg about his impression of Brooke's courtship. Meg confides in Jo, declaring that she would turn Mr. Brooks down because she is too young to think of marriage. Nevertheless, Mr. Brooks approaches Meg before the day is over and tries to ask permission to court her. In a sudden urge to be coy, Meg refuses him, telling him to go away and stop thinking of her at all. Just when Meg is enjoying a sense of power, Aunt March wanders in and immediately assumes the Brooke has proposed. Aunt March forbids the arrangement, telling Meg that she will not get a penny of her money if she marries that "cook." Aunt March accuses Mr. Brooke of wanting Meg for money he thinks she will have. Meg takes offense and defends John, declaring his honor and her love for him. Of course, the entire exchange has taken place in front of John and he is touched by Meg's defense and her true feelings for him. The chapter ends with the two in each other's arms while the rest of the family-except for Jo- bask in the overflow of the lovers' happiness.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_22_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide13.html", "summary": "Three years have passed. Meg has worked and prepared for the wedding; her sisters and mother have enthusiastically helped prepare Dovecote, the little house where Meg and John will take up residence. Mr. March has recovered his health although not his fortune. He seems to spend most of his time absorbed with his books while the women run the household. John has served some time in the war, been wounded and returned home to recover. Since he has not been allowed to return to the army, he takes a job as an underbookkeeper, refusing Mr. Laurence's offers of help. Jo's position with Aunt March is taken over by Amy whom Aunt March bribes with art lessons. Jo continues to write little romances for the paper while secretly working on a novel. Beth has recovered from the fever but has never regained her strength and remains very frail. Laurie has been attending college to please his grandfather. The chapter ends with Jo admonishing Laurie to be serious during the wedding and avoid behaviors that might cause embarrassment or make her laugh. Laurie tries to flirt with Jo, but she will have no part of romantic notions for herself.", "analysis": ""}

In order that we may start afresh and go to Meg's wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. And here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much 'lovering' in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March, "What can you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?" The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind 'brother', the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely. These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel. Sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved. Gifted men found a companion in him. Ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although 'they wouldn't pay'. To outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father. The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and outlives death. Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the hospitals and homes still full of wounded 'boys' and soldiers' widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits. John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any risks with borrowed money. Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom. Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to know it. As long as _The Spread Eagle_ paid her a dollar a column for her 'rubbish', as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame. Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts. Being only 'a glorious human boy', of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The 'men of my class', were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of 'our fellows', and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him. Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder how Amy dared to order them about so, but Jo felt quite in her own element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the 'Dovecote'. That was the name of the little brown house Mr. Brooke had prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly appropriate to the gentle lovers who 'went on together like a pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'. It was a tiny house, with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket handkerchief in the front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches, undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit, and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coalbin. But once get used to these slight blemishes and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought. I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty because John put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which Jo and her mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and I am morally certain that the spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting the minute 'Mis. Brooke came home'. I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for Beth made enough to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china. People who hire all these things done for them never know what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought. What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands, infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process. In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him 'Mr. Toodles'. He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week beheld some fresh absurdity. Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the table for the first meal. "Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever. "Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I can't talk about it," with a look that was far better than words. "If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece. "Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try her way first. There will be so little to do that with Lotty to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly. "Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy. "If Meg had four, the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles. "Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them, for I got heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief." "Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants laugh at her," said Meg. "I did after a while, not to 'mess' but to learn of Hannah how things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me. It was play then, but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will be of use to you by-and-by when John is a richer man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served." "Yes, Mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all absorbing subject of house keeping. "Do you know I like this room most of all in my baby house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet. Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke, for that linen closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married 'that Brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply of house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first bride. "That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for company and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness. "I haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me all my days, Hannah says." And Meg looked quite contented, as well she might. A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out and a hearty... "Here I am, Mother! Yes, it's all right." The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss. "For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady." As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth's hair ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to talk. "Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously. "Stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am." "Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years. "Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see." "How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy with a significant smile. "More cruel than ever. Don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh. "What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity. "It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of the girls. "Any time when John is away and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears. "There's gratitude for you! And speaking of gratitude reminds me to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding cake from destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked like a remarkably plummy one." "I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg in a matronly tone. "I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier. "I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span bower, so as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment," he added presently. "Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to settle," said Meg, bustling away. "Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for tomorrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody. "Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you do, it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his feeble steps. "Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow," began Jo, as they strolled away together. "You must promise to behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans." "Not a prank." "And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober." "I never do. You are the one for that." "And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony. I shall certainly laugh if you do." "You won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect." "I never cry unless for some great affliction." "Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with suggestive laugh. "Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company." "Exactly. I say, Jo, how is Grandpa this week? Pretty amiable?" "Very. Why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he'll take it?" asked Jo rather sharply. "Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face and say 'All right', if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air. "No, I don't." "Then don't go and be suspicious. I only want some money," said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone. "You spend a great deal, Teddy." "Bless you, I don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone before I know it." "You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and can't say 'No' to anyone. We heard about Henshaw and all you did for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you," said Jo warmly. "Oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill. You wouldn't have me let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?" "Of course not, but I don't see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous, to make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots. If it was cheap ugliness, I'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and I don't get any satisfaction out of it." Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that the felt hat fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my friends." "I'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow. I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like a young prize fighter," observed Jo severely. "This unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it," returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-inch-long stubble. "By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone, after a minute's silence. "Of course he had. We don't want any more marrying in this family for years to come. Mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?" and Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in their teens. "It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times. "Don't be alarmed. I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a family." "You won't give anyone a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face. "You won't show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you." "I don't like that sort of thing. I'm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't say any more about it. Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get cross, so let's change the subject;" and Jo looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation. Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next."

chapter 24

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Three years have passed. Meg has worked and prepared for the wedding; her sisters and mother have enthusiastically helped prepare Dovecote, the little house where Meg and John will take up residence. Mr. March has recovered his health although not his fortune. He seems to spend most of his time absorbed with his books while the women run the household. John has served some time in the war, been wounded and returned home to recover. Since he has not been allowed to return to the army, he takes a job as an underbookkeeper, refusing Mr. Laurence's offers of help. Jo's position with Aunt March is taken over by Amy whom Aunt March bribes with art lessons. Jo continues to write little romances for the paper while secretly working on a novel. Beth has recovered from the fever but has never regained her strength and remains very frail. Laurie has been attending college to please his grandfather. The chapter ends with Jo admonishing Laurie to be serious during the wedding and avoid behaviors that might cause embarrassment or make her laugh. Laurie tries to flirt with Jo, but she will have no part of romantic notions for herself.

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all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_23_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide13.html", "summary": "Meg and John get married in a simple ceremony in the March home. There no elaborate ritual; in fact, Aunt March is scandalized by the fact that the bride herself is greeting people at the door and running around helping with odds and ends in her gown. After the marriage, the family and friends celebrate with food and dancing. The crowning moment of merriment comes when Mr. Laurence and Aunt March join up to dance-German fashion-in a circle around the newlyweds.", "analysis": ""}

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen, for some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so long. Meg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have. "I don't want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self." So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which 'her John' liked best of all the flowers that grew. "You do look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy, surveying her with delight when all was done. "Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don't mind my dress. I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it today," and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old. "Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with Father quietly in the study," and Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest. As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which three years have wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their best just now. Jo's angles are much softened, she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a fresh collar in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue today. Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever. The beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience, but Beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully of 'being better soon'. Amy is with truth considered 'the flower of the family', for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for it never would grow Grecian, so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abundant than ever. All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood. There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible, so when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm. "Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender moire with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last minute, child." "I'm not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to care what anyone says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer." And away went Meg to help 'that man' in his highly improper employment. Mr. Brooke didn't even say, "Thank you," but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes. A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived, and 'the party came in', as Beth used to say when a child. "Don't let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled and Laurie's black head towered above the rest. "He has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes," returned Amy, and gliding away to warn Hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her. There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young couple took their places under the green arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up. The fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom's hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in her husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly. Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair. It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely." Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried round. No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face. "Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this morning?" "No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but Father put away a little for Beth, and dispatched the rest to the Soldier's Home. You know he thinks that wine should be used only in illness, and Mother says that neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof." Meg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh, but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous way, "I like that! For I've seen enough harm done to wish other women would think as you do." "You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious accent in Meg's voice. "No. I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either, this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common as water and almost as harmless, I don't care for it, but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see." "But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of my life." A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs, and feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything today." Laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!" "I thank you, very, very much." "And I drink 'long life to your resolution', Teddy," cried Jo, baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and beamed approvingly upon him. So the toast was drunk, the pledge made and loyally kept in spite of many temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life. After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through the house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding. "All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that everyone else followed their example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol began it, others rapidly joined in, even Sallie Moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March, for when the stately old gentleman chasseed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden like butterflies on a midsummer day. Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to go. "I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well, but I think you'll be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it." "That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away. "Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning. "I'll do my best to gratify you, Sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his buttonhole. The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say 'good-by', as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour. "Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her mother, with full eyes for a moment. "I shall come every day, Father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I am married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding day. Good-by, good-by!" They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy face--and so Meg's married life began.

chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide13.html

Meg and John get married in a simple ceremony in the March home. There no elaborate ritual; in fact, Aunt March is scandalized by the fact that the bride herself is greeting people at the door and running around helping with odds and ends in her gown. After the marriage, the family and friends celebrate with food and dancing. The crowning moment of merriment comes when Mr. Laurence and Aunt March join up to dance-German fashion-in a circle around the newlyweds.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_24_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 26

chapter 26

{"name": "chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide13.html", "summary": "Amy has been experimenting with one media after another in her artistic creations. Although she is never satisfied with her own attempts, her artistic endeavors have brought her into contact with many people. She seems to come by social graces naturally and makes many friends. Amy's greatest weakness is that \"she wants to move about in the best society without knowing what the best really is.\" Amy's attempts to be a socialite lead to a minor disaster. She decides to throw an expensive party for the girls in her drawing class. She buys expensive food and plans to rent a fancy carriage to take them all riding. The first day is somewhat rainy, so when no one shows, it is assumed that everyone decided to wait for the next day as had previously been arranged in case of inclement weather. But on the second day, only one girl comes. Amy entertains Miss Elliot valiantly as her sisters quickly hide away half of the prepared food. When it is over, Amy admits that it was a failure and asks everyone to refrain from mentioning it for at least a month.", "analysis": ""}

It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the 'mud-pie' business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner bell at her door in case of fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the moulding board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer barrel. A chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindling for some time. From fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio, suggested Murillo; oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a bouy, a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased. Charcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin. Softened into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good, and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced 'wonderfully fine'. A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out, for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt, at least. After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book 'a delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or 'a heavenly mass of clouds', that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after 'points of sight', or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called. If 'genius is eternal patience', as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called 'high art'. She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better, for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do." One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in 'our best society', without being quite sure what the best really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her. "My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks. "I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma," Amy said, coming in with an important air one day. "Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained 'the baby'. "Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference." "Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her 'Maria Theresa air'. "You know as well as I that it does make a difference with nearly everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds. The ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know." and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit. Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked, "Well, my swan, what is your plan?" "I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them." "That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?" "Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I do work for my living." "How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look sober. "Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come." "Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about." "Why, Mother, how can you think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of char-a-banc.) "All of this will be expensive, Amy." "Not very. I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself." "Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?" "If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a little, and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy. Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and senna. "Very well, Amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll do my best to help you." "Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind." and away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters. Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons. But Jo frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at first. "Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a coupe," said Jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises. "I don't truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!" returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. You can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way." When Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as 'a nonsensical business'. The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothin' would go well anywheres". This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but Amy's motto was 'Nil desperandum', and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well. The chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got a cold and took to her bed. Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying. If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday, an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about. The lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the 'cherry bounce' and the broken bridge were her strong points. Then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost. "No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting a little stale. "I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair. "Use the chicken then, the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised his wife. "Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats. "Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy decidedly. "Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr. "You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail. Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought. As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, "Good morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulating herself that she had on her new traveling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit. They got on excellently, for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh horror!--the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a Tudor! "By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady. "Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish. "Oh, really, I beg pardon. It's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding. Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?" Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched. The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about 'the charming young ladies' diverted his mind from the comical mishap. "I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I shan't see them, that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed. She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the 'cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet. "There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go onto the porch and meet them. It looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady. "Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh. In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The remodeled lunch being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce), and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when 'the party went out'. As she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth. "You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come. "Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth. "Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg soberly. "Take it all. I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mold before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this. "It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days. A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, "salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn..." Here a general explosion of laughter cut short the 'history of salads', to the great surprise of the learned gentleman. "Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. Germans like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason you should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping her eyes. "I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell, and Mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter. "I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret. "I am satisfied. I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that," said Amy with a little quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least." No one did for several months, but the word 'fete' always produced a general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.

chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide13.html

Amy has been experimenting with one media after another in her artistic creations. Although she is never satisfied with her own attempts, her artistic endeavors have brought her into contact with many people. She seems to come by social graces naturally and makes many friends. Amy's greatest weakness is that "she wants to move about in the best society without knowing what the best really is." Amy's attempts to be a socialite lead to a minor disaster. She decides to throw an expensive party for the girls in her drawing class. She buys expensive food and plans to rent a fancy carriage to take them all riding. The first day is somewhat rainy, so when no one shows, it is assumed that everyone decided to wait for the next day as had previously been arranged in case of inclement weather. But on the second day, only one girl comes. Amy entertains Miss Elliot valiantly as her sisters quickly hide away half of the prepared food. When it is over, Amy admits that it was a failure and asks everyone to refrain from mentioning it for at least a month.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_25_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 27

chapter 27

{"name": "chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide14.html", "summary": "Jo tries her hand at a \"mildly sensational\" story and submits it to a newspaper in hopes of winning the 100 dollar prize. Although her father frowns at the type of story, Jo uses the money to send Marmee and Beth to the seaside to help Beth gain her health back. Jo continues to write and her stories find a market. Meanwhile she submits her novel, and on the fourth try, it is accepted on the condition that she cut it down by one third and omit many of her favorite parts. She has the family read it in order to give her advice, but none of them are of the same opinion. Beths only concern is that it be published \"soon.\" Jo finally takes everyones advice and revises her story with an effort to please all. The book is published and Jo is paid 300 dollars, but the reviews are so mixed that she scarcely knows whether she has written a good book or not.", "analysis": ""}

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, merely 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 enjoy 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 wondered 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 bluntly, "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 boy, 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 this 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 boldly 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 looked 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 earthquake, 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 took 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 pleasant 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 and 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 and 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 Curse 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 that 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 practiced 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 little 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 Amy, 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 into 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 sent 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 commandments?" 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 characters 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 hate 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 received. "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 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide14.html

Jo tries her hand at a "mildly sensational" story and submits it to a newspaper in hopes of winning the 100 dollar prize. Although her father frowns at the type of story, Jo uses the money to send Marmee and Beth to the seaside to help Beth gain her health back. Jo continues to write and her stories find a market. Meanwhile she submits her novel, and on the fourth try, it is accepted on the condition that she cut it down by one third and omit many of her favorite parts. She has the family read it in order to give her advice, but none of them are of the same opinion. Beths only concern is that it be published "soon." Jo finally takes everyones advice and revises her story with an effort to please all. The book is published and Jo is paid 300 dollars, but the reviews are so mixed that she scarcely knows whether she has written a good book or not.

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all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/28.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_26_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 28

chapter 28

{"name": "chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide14.html", "summary": "Meg learns to keep her own house and practices her cooking skills. In a desire to faithfully meet her husbands needs, she tells him that he can bring friends home to dinner anytime and neednt bother to ask her first. Megs good intention backfires when she decides to make currant jelly. After an entire day of cooking and recooking and making a complete mess of her kitchen, the jelly still wont gel, and Meg cant bring herself to run to her mother for an answer to the problem. John brings his friend Mr Scott home, but Meg is neither prepared nor willing to entertain company. When John makes a joke about the jelly, it is the last straw for Meg. She shuts herself in her room leaving John to entertain his friend. Later that evening they make up with Meg being the first to apologize. Meg has access to her husbands income and keeps a little account book which she voluntarily shows him every month. In the autumn of their first year, however, Meg spends a lot of time with Sally Moffat. They shop together and Meg, who loves pretty things, spends more money than she realizes. The worse expenditure is $50.00 for some shimmering silk cloth to make a new dress. Meg explains that she didnt mean to waste his money but that she cant help wanting nice things when she sees all that Sally has. Her words hurt John deeply; he doesnt scold or mention it again but he works later at night and finally cancels an order for a new coat for himself because he \"cant afford it.\" Overcome with guilt, Meg persuades Sally to buy the silk; she then uses the money to buy the coat for John. At the end of the chapter, Megs first children are born, a set of twins who are named Margaret and John Laurence and given the nicknames Daisey and Demi.", "analysis": ""}

Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married 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 tired, 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 she 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 long 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 in 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 the 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, while 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 burning 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 worn 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 clasped 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 even 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 acknowledge, 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 yourself 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 field 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, though 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 hard 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 resolved 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 himself 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 spoke. 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 oppose 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 yourself, 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 glanced 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 her 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 and 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 necessaries, 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 had 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 what 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 that 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 looked 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 had 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 answer 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," sighed 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 simply 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 the 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 state 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 sober, 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, Laurie 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 remarkable 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 call 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.

chapter 28

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide14.html

Meg learns to keep her own house and practices her cooking skills. In a desire to faithfully meet her husbands needs, she tells him that he can bring friends home to dinner anytime and neednt bother to ask her first. Megs good intention backfires when she decides to make currant jelly. After an entire day of cooking and recooking and making a complete mess of her kitchen, the jelly still wont gel, and Meg cant bring herself to run to her mother for an answer to the problem. John brings his friend Mr Scott home, but Meg is neither prepared nor willing to entertain company. When John makes a joke about the jelly, it is the last straw for Meg. She shuts herself in her room leaving John to entertain his friend. Later that evening they make up with Meg being the first to apologize. Meg has access to her husbands income and keeps a little account book which she voluntarily shows him every month. In the autumn of their first year, however, Meg spends a lot of time with Sally Moffat. They shop together and Meg, who loves pretty things, spends more money than she realizes. The worse expenditure is $50.00 for some shimmering silk cloth to make a new dress. Meg explains that she didnt mean to waste his money but that she cant help wanting nice things when she sees all that Sally has. Her words hurt John deeply; he doesnt scold or mention it again but he works later at night and finally cancels an order for a new coat for himself because he "cant afford it." Overcome with guilt, Meg persuades Sally to buy the silk; she then uses the money to buy the coat for John. At the end of the chapter, Megs first children are born, a set of twins who are named Margaret and John Laurence and given the nicknames Daisey and Demi.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_27_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 29

chapter 29

{"name": "chapter 29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide14.html", "summary": "Amy has grown to be quite a lady with manners and bearing that suggest a higher class upbringing than she has actually had. She likes to call on various members of the community and has talked Jo into going with her on this occasion. Amy gives Jo specific instructions on how to behave at each home. Jo doesnt want to go in the first place, so she takes Amys instructions to extremes and exaggerates the behavior at each place. At the first home, she is told to behave \"properly,\" so she sits perfectly still, barely talks and is regarded by her hosts as \"haughty and uninteresting.\" At the second, she is told to be sociable, so she kisses all the girls, beams at the gentlemen and joins in a lively chat about some of Amys childhood episodes. At the Tudor home, Amy gives up and tells Jo to do whatever she likes. Thus when the time comes to leave, Jo is found sitting in the grass with a group of lively boys and their dog. The visiting ends at Aunt Marchs house where Jos abruptness will eventually cost her. Aunt March and Aunt Carrol, who happens to be spending the day with Aunt March, discuss an upcoming fair which is to be sponsored by the wealthy Chesters. Jo scoffs at the fair, calling it a patronage and ridiculing Amy for agreeing to be a part of it. Jo insists that she prefers not to accept favors from people. A bit later the aunts get into a discussion about speaking foreign languages; Amy says she speaks French fairly well, but Jo scoffs at that idea also. When Aunt Marchs bird croaks a comment about taking a walk, Jo uses it as an excuse to leave.", "analysis": ""}

"Come, Jo, it's time." "For what?" "You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today?" "I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week." "Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our neighbors' visits." "If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it's not fair, and I don't go." "Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months." At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready. "Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with amazement. "Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn't for me, and furbelows only worry me." "Oh, dear!" sighed Amy, "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me." "You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike submission. "You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet. It's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one." While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly... "I'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die happy." "You're highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll do. Your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I can't, but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one. It's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't." "You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the golden hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?" "Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole." Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as 'pretty as picters', Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them. "Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm. "Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet', yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child." Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her 'charming novel', and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions. Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No" with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word 'talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, 'icily regular, splendidly null'. "What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo. "How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs'. Gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything." "I'll be agreeable. I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called 'a charming girl'. I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!" Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation. "She rides splendidly. Who taught her?" "No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so." At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders. "Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?" "Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject. "None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!" "Did she ride the horse?" "Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party." "Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it. You can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister." "Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun. "That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase at her. "We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her 'works' always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?" As Miss Lamb had 'enjoyed' the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. "Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for a visit. I don't dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away." Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. "Didn't I do well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away. "Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?" "Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do." "You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly. Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. "How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third mansion. "Just as you please. I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer. "Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman. Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March. It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, "It was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks." "Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that." said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol. "Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance. "Don't like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone." "You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly. "No, it wouldn't," returned Jo, "I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels." "It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy. "Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo, "so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply grateful." The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged. "Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross." "Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet." "What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them, so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, I fancy." Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that, and practice it, you'd be better liked than I am, because there is more of you." "I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?" "It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I'm not called upon to tell him so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is." "But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddie to manage. But there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we ought to do it to others if we can." "Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the 'remarkable boy' if he had heard it. "If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical." "So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of morality." "I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one." "I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them. We can't agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think." "Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry Aunt with your new ideas." "I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. It's my doom, and I can't help it." They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both aunts 'my deared' her affectionately, looking what they afterward said emphatically, "That child improves every day." "Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the young. "Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give." "I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to work." "I am willing to work. It's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant." "Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression. If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue. "I don't like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent." "Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March. "I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol. Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting. "Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy's. "Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably. "How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo. "Don't know a word. I'm very stupid about studying anything, can't bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the brusque reply. Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you any more, do they?" "Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time arrives." "Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball for her. Crosspatch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin, squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing. "Most observing bird," said the old lady. "Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar. "Thank you, I will. Come Amy." and Jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished... "You'd better do it, Mary. I'll supply the money." and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent."

chapter 29

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide14.html

Amy has grown to be quite a lady with manners and bearing that suggest a higher class upbringing than she has actually had. She likes to call on various members of the community and has talked Jo into going with her on this occasion. Amy gives Jo specific instructions on how to behave at each home. Jo doesnt want to go in the first place, so she takes Amys instructions to extremes and exaggerates the behavior at each place. At the first home, she is told to behave "properly," so she sits perfectly still, barely talks and is regarded by her hosts as "haughty and uninteresting." At the second, she is told to be sociable, so she kisses all the girls, beams at the gentlemen and joins in a lively chat about some of Amys childhood episodes. At the Tudor home, Amy gives up and tells Jo to do whatever she likes. Thus when the time comes to leave, Jo is found sitting in the grass with a group of lively boys and their dog. The visiting ends at Aunt Marchs house where Jos abruptness will eventually cost her. Aunt March and Aunt Carrol, who happens to be spending the day with Aunt March, discuss an upcoming fair which is to be sponsored by the wealthy Chesters. Jo scoffs at the fair, calling it a patronage and ridiculing Amy for agreeing to be a part of it. Jo insists that she prefers not to accept favors from people. A bit later the aunts get into a discussion about speaking foreign languages; Amy says she speaks French fairly well, but Jo scoffs at that idea also. When Aunt Marchs bird croaks a comment about taking a walk, Jo uses it as an excuse to leave.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_28_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 30

chapter 30

{"name": "chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide15.html", "summary": "Amy works at the Chester fair where she initially helps to set up the art table. May Chester is jealous of Amy's items and convinces her mother to take the table away from her and send her to a less popular flower table that is slightly out of the mainstream of the traffic. Amy's first day is miserable as the young girls who are supposed to work with her are more of a hindrance than a help. The flowers wilt and she makes few sales. She goes home hurt and discouraged but resolves that she will not show it. The next day she carries out several acts of kindness and generosity toward May Chester. Her behavior is noted, but she still has a difficult day as her helpers desert her and her flowers wilt in the hot sun. On the last day of the fair, Laurie and his friends come to Amy's rescue. Hayes, the Laurence's gardener sends her the best flowers of the garden; then Laurie appears with all of his gentlemen friends and they buy everything that Amy has. Once she has sold out, Amy orders the young men to go to the art table and buy May's painted vases. The fair is pronounced a success. A week later Amy receives her reward in the form of a letter from Aunt March. Aunt Carrol is going abroad with cousin Flo and has asked Amy to go with them. Jo is heartbroken, but remembers the rude and saucy words that brought the invitation to Amy rather than to herself.", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. Chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be invited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily. The 'haughty, uninteresting creature' was let severely alone, but Amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it. Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty women, old and young, with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together. May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a greater favorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy's dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May's painted vases--that was one thorn. Then the all conquering Tudor had danced four times with Amy at a late party and only once with May--that was thorn number two. But the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made fun of her at the Lambs'. All the blame of this should have fallen upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy's dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look... "I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about my giving this table to anyone but my girls. As this is the most prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take this place. I'm sorry, but I know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have another table if you like." Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this little speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy's unsuspicious eyes looking straight at her full of surprise and trouble. Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did, "Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?" "Now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, I beg. It's merely a matter of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and this table is considered their proper place. I think it very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and I will see that you have a good place elsewhere. Wouldn't you like the flower table? The little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged. You could make a charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you know." "Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with unexpected amiability... "It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I'll give up my place here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like." "You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer," began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly... "Oh, certainly, if they are in your way," and sweeping her contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness. "Now she's mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn't asked you to speak, Mama," said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table. "Girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might. The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically. But everything seemed against her. It was late, and she was tired. Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled. Her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the Cupid's cheek. She bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy and wish her well through her task. There was great indignation at home when she told her story that evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right. Beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all, and Jo demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her. "Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate such things, and though I think I've a right to be hurt, I don't intend to show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't they, Marmee?" "That's the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and practicing. In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely. As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think. Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself." "I ought, but I don't," thought Amy, as her eye went from the bright page to May's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit. Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, school, office, or home. Even a fair table may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season. Amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in practice. A group of girls were standing about May's table, admiring the pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They dropped their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the story and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant, but a better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully... "It's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and I don't want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just complete then. Now it's spoiled." "I dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested someone. "How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not finish, for Amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly... "You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them. I was just thinking I'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your table rather than mine. Here they are, please take them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night." As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it. "Now, I call that lovely of her, don't you?" cried one girl. May's answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own table." Now, that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to blossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly. It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon. Few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night. The art table was the most attractive in the room. There was a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important faces and rattling money boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of Laurie and his friends made it a real martyrdom. She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress, and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were about to be turned. "Don't do anything rude, pray Jo; I won't have any fuss made, so let it all pass and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little table. "I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet." returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him. "Is that my boy?" "As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified. "Oh, Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal. "A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and I'll be hanged if I don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her cause with warmth. "The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn't wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo in a disgusted tone. "Didn't Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to." "I didn't know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was poorly, I didn't like to worry him by asking, though I did want some." "Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are just as much yours as mine. Don't we always go halves in everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny. "Gracious, I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all. But we mustn't stand philandering here. I've got to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid, and if you'll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I'll bless you forever." "Couldn't you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, "Go away, Teddy, I'm busy." Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket arranged in his best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing more, was as spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all. Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the Hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible. She also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare say," thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family. "Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May with a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous. "She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know, 'especially to gentlemen'." Jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold. "Is Amy's illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for Father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work. "Everything of Amy's sold long ago. I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as Amy had, that day. Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May's word and manner. "Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine, especially the art table," she said, ordering out 'Teddy's own', as the girls called the college friends. "'Charge, Chester, charge!' is the motto for that table, but do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field. "To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said... "Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head. "Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's head. To May's great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases. Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later. The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said 'forgive and forget'. That satisfied Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in each. "The reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced with a flourish. "You've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You've behaved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night. "Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don't believe I could have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow. "Why, girls, you needn't praise me so. I only did as I'd be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can't explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women. I'm far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what Mother is." Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, "I understand now what you mean, and I'll never laugh at you again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I'll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall." A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March's face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were. "Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants..." "Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture. "No, dear, not you. It's Amy." "Oh, Mother! She's too young, it's my turn first. I've wanted it so long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid. I must go!" "I'm afraid it's impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor." "It's always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work. It isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!" cried Jo passionately. "I'm afraid it's partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said--'I planned at first to ask Jo, but as 'favors burden her', and she 'hates French', I think I won't venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her." "Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can't I learn to keep it quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully... "I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden Amy's pleasure by reproaches or regrets." "I'll try," said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset. "I'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment," and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears. "Jo, dear, I'm very selfish, but I couldn't spare you, and I'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it. By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at Amy's good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art than herself. "It isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career, for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it." "Suppose you haven't?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy. "Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure. But she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes. "No, you won't. You hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said Jo. "Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don't believe that one will. I'm sure I wish it would, for if I can't be an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are," said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor drawing teacher. "Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh. "If you wish it you'll have it, for your wishes are always granted--mine never." "Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife. "Rather!" "Well, in a year or two I'll send for you, and we'll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times." "Thank you. I'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could. There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob... "Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen..." "I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I'll come and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word. So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.

chapter 30

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide15.html

Amy works at the Chester fair where she initially helps to set up the art table. May Chester is jealous of Amy's items and convinces her mother to take the table away from her and send her to a less popular flower table that is slightly out of the mainstream of the traffic. Amy's first day is miserable as the young girls who are supposed to work with her are more of a hindrance than a help. The flowers wilt and she makes few sales. She goes home hurt and discouraged but resolves that she will not show it. The next day she carries out several acts of kindness and generosity toward May Chester. Her behavior is noted, but she still has a difficult day as her helpers desert her and her flowers wilt in the hot sun. On the last day of the fair, Laurie and his friends come to Amy's rescue. Hayes, the Laurence's gardener sends her the best flowers of the garden; then Laurie appears with all of his gentlemen friends and they buy everything that Amy has. Once she has sold out, Amy orders the young men to go to the art table and buy May's painted vases. The fair is pronounced a success. A week later Amy receives her reward in the form of a letter from Aunt March. Aunt Carrol is going abroad with cousin Flo and has asked Amy to go with them. Jo is heartbroken, but remembers the rude and saucy words that brought the invitation to Amy rather than to herself.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/31.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_29_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 31

chapter 31

{"name": "chapter 31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide15.html", "summary": "Amy writes a series of letters from Europe and England. In England she meets up with Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughan. Later Fred travels with Amy's party throughout France. Fred speaks French fluently and takes Amy everywhere. One night they go for a sail on the Rhine River and a group of students serenade them. Amy begins to think of Fred as something more than a traveling companion. In her letter home, she confesses that she is not truly in love with him, but she does like him and they get along comfortably. She resolves to accept Fred if he should propose to her. Later he has to leave as Frank is in poor health in England. He asks Amy if she will be there when he comes back, and she implies that she will be available.", "analysis": ""}

Dearest People, Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else. However, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started. I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid. Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good. As for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture. It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it. At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at me... "Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney." Wasn't that nonsensical? We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved _a la_ mutton chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, "There yer har, sir. I've given 'em the latest Yankee shine." It amused Uncle immensely. Oh, I must tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with "Robert Lennox's compliments," on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like traveling. I never shall get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw, the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but Uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on. Amy, flying up--"Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!" Flo, darting to my window--"How sweet! We must go there sometime, won't we Papa?" Uncle, calmly admiring his boots--"No, my dear, not unless you want beer, that's a brewery." A pause--then Flo cried out, "Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up." "Where, where?" shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains. "A colliery," remarks Uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. "Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down," says Amy. "See, Papa, aren't they pretty?" added Flo sentimentally. "Geese, young ladies," returns Uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy the _Flirtations of Captain Cavendish_, and I have the scenery all to myself. Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich? Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! For when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said... "Now, then, mum?" I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an "Aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, "A little faster," then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate. Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them. Rotten Row means 'Route de Roi', or the king's way, but now it's more like a riding school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Everyone rides--old men, stout ladies, little children--and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, I saw a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea. In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was so surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but Uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we did have such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat'. Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it? Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "Ah!" and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving... AMY PARIS Dear girls, In my last I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else, for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our heart's content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away, for though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, I think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred. Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word. And now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if it would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the '_parley vooing_', as Uncle calls it. Such delightful times as we are having! Sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafes_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art, but I have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to write. The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of _bijouterie_ and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are _tres magnifique_. I've seen the imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought--purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted guard before and behind. We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy. Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men, however, the Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower. Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire', as Father advised. It is good practice for me, and with my sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles. Adieu, I embrace you tenderly. _"Votre Amie."_ HEIDELBERG My dear Mamma, Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see. The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get Father's old guidebooks and read about it. I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone. When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it. The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfurt was delightful. I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as everyone knew it or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it. I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me. Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him. I never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, Mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me. I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know Mother will shake her head, and the girls say, "Oh, the mercenary little wretch!", but I've made up my mind, and if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! And I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us _must_ marry well. Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything okay all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that, and though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and in time I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it. He never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about '_ein wonderschones Blondchen'_, Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes. Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector long ago for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited. By-and-by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at once on the night train and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that I could not mistake, "I shall soon come back, you won't forget me, Amy?" I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome, and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say "Yes, thank you," when he says "Will you, please?" Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me, remember I am your 'prudent Amy', and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like. I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me. Ever your AMY

chapter 31

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide15.html

Amy writes a series of letters from Europe and England. In England she meets up with Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughan. Later Fred travels with Amy's party throughout France. Fred speaks French fluently and takes Amy everywhere. One night they go for a sail on the Rhine River and a group of students serenade them. Amy begins to think of Fred as something more than a traveling companion. In her letter home, she confesses that she is not truly in love with him, but she does like him and they get along comfortably. She resolves to accept Fred if he should propose to her. Later he has to leave as Frank is in poor health in England. He asks Amy if she will be there when he comes back, and she implies that she will be available.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_30_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 32

chapter 32

{"name": "chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide15.html", "summary": "Marmee is concerned about Beth who seems very quiet and is sometimes seen crying. She asks Jo to keep an eye on her and to find out what's wrong. Jo thinks the problem is just that Beth is growing up. A few days of observation and some coincidental remarks about Laurie convince Jo that Beth is in love with Laurie, but that she is hiding her feelings because she believes Jo wants Laurie. Laurie himself is in love with Jo and tries to court her at every opportunity. Jo finally decides to take a trip to New York where Mrs. Kirke, an old friend of Marmee's, has been looking for someone to work as a governess for her children. Hopefully, this will give Beth an opportunity to draw Laurie's attentions toward herself.", "analysis": ""}

"Jo, I'm anxious about Beth." "Why, Mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came." "It's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is." "What makes you think so, Mother?" "She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries me." "Have you asked her about it?" "I have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for long." Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said, "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why or being able to explain them. Why, Mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman." "So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother with a sigh and a smile. "Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you." "It's a great comfort, Jo. I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are always ready." "Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works and I'm not, but I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man." "I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world." "Happy woman! I've got heaps." "My dear, what are they?" "I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll keep." and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at least. While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together. Yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "All serene! Coming in tonight." Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, "How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks." "Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper. "Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made. "I never dreamed of such a thing. What will Mother say? I wonder if her..." there Jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must. I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No thank you, sir, you're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock. So you needn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it." Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's. Therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family of late that 'our boy' was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated 'philandering', and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger. When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to 'dig', intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye, for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable. Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual Beth lay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly 'spin', and he never disappointed her. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match, though the phrases, 'caught off a tice', 'stumped off his ground', and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her as Sanskrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender. "Who knows? Stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it, and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way." As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? And burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point. Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa--long, broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Jo's favorite lounging place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end. This repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber. Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he most coveted next to Jo in the sofa corner. If 'the sausage' as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction... "Now, this is filling at the price." "No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared in a most mysterious manner. "Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it." "Beth will pet you. I'm busy." "No, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?" Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a stern query, "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?" "Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then." "I'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued Jo reprovingly. "Sensible girls for whom I do care whole papers of pins won't let me send them 'flowers and things', so what can I do? My feelings need a 'vent'." "Mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt desperately, Teddy." "I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you'. As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it's only play." "Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else is doing, but I don't seem to get on", said Jo, forgetting to play mentor. "Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it." "Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place." "I'm glad you can't flirt. It's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy." "They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them." "Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentleman. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin... "Out upon you, fie upon you, Bold-faced jig!" It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that 'young Laurence' was regarded as a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you must have a 'vent', Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones." "You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face. "Yes, I do, but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl may be." and Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her. "That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound Jo's apron tassel round his finger. "Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo, adding aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours." "I'd rather stay here, thank you." "Well, you can't, there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of his own. "Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel. "Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow. He fled at once, and the minute it was well, "Up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away to return no more till the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon. Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?" "I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth. "Is it the old pain, my precious?" "No, it's a new one, but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her tears. "Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other." "You can't, there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened. "Where is it? Shall I call Mother?" "No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will." Jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?" "Yes, Jo," after a long pause. "Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?" "Not now, not yet." "Then I won't ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can." "I know it. I'll tell you by-and-by." "Is the pain better now?" "Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo." "Go to sleep, dear. I'll stay with you." So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills. But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother. "You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat along together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change." "Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning. With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly, "I want something new. I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way and try my wings." "Where will you hop?" "To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried." "My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!" and Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased. "It's not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your friend--the kindest soul that ever lived--and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do. It's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it." "Nor I. But your writing?" "All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish." "I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?" "No, Mother." "May I know the others?" Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks. "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me." "Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question. "Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question." "I'm glad of that, Jo." "Why, please?" "Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love." "That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?" "You are sure of his feeling for you?" The color deepened in Jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "I'm afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything." "I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go." Jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice that Annie may still hope." "Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?' "Yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by. I said no more, for I think I know it," and Jo told her little story. Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for Laurie's sake Jo should go away for a time. "Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic. Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to her. But she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity." Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others, and that Laurie would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easily as heretofore. The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am, and I mean this one shall stay turned." Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for Beth seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all. "One thing I leave in your especial care," she said, the night before she left. "You mean your papers?" asked Beth. "No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?" "Of course I will, but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly." "It won't hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order." "I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly. When Laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you, so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home."

chapter 32

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide15.html

Marmee is concerned about Beth who seems very quiet and is sometimes seen crying. She asks Jo to keep an eye on her and to find out what's wrong. Jo thinks the problem is just that Beth is growing up. A few days of observation and some coincidental remarks about Laurie convince Jo that Beth is in love with Laurie, but that she is hiding her feelings because she believes Jo wants Laurie. Laurie himself is in love with Jo and tries to court her at every opportunity. Jo finally decides to take a trip to New York where Mrs. Kirke, an old friend of Marmee's, has been looking for someone to work as a governess for her children. Hopefully, this will give Beth an opportunity to draw Laurie's attentions toward herself.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_31_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 33

chapter 33

{"name": "chapter 33", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide16.html", "summary": "Jo writes a series of letters telling about her activities in New York. She makes friends with Mrs. Norton, a spinster lady who helps her get acquainted and frequently invites her to the family style evening meal in the large, apartment-like boarding house. The most important person she meets is Professor Bhaer (later called Fritz) who tutors a number of children in German; he is homely and has some uncouth mannerisms, but Jo likes him for his good nature and his love for the children. She and Mrs. Kirke do a little sewing for him because they feel sorry for him when they see him darning his own socks. Mr. Bhaer insists on returning the favor by giving Jo lessons in German. After the first four lessons, however, Jo is hopeless confused by the grammar. At length, Mr. Bhaer tosses down the grammar book and teaches Jo by reading German fairy tales with her, a method which seems to suit her much better. Jo finds her self taking an interest in other people and working with a will. She participates in a New Years Eve masquerade and has some of the snobbish young men deciding that she is an \"actress.\" Professor Bhaer gives Jo an anthology of Shakespeares work for a Christmas present.", "analysis": ""}

New York, November Dear Marmee and Beth, I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent. When I lost sight of Father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar. Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart. Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky parlor--all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them The Seven Bad Pigs, and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess. I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I am bashful, though no one will believe it. "Now, my dear, make yourself at home," said Mrs. K. in her motherly way, "I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea bell, I must run and change my cap." And off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest. As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such heaviness." Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said, "That must have been Professor Bhaer, he's always doing things of that sort." Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me, and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee. After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow. Tuesday Eve Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little Mabel 'with a willing mind'. I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "Herein!" I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on. "Me wants me Bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running to meet him. "Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina," said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him. "Now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing. So he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German. Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "Now Professor," in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober. Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him say emphatically, "No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I say," and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "Prut! It all goes bad this day." Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as she is short and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her. Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship'. I didn't mind, for I like 'to see folks eat with a relish', as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day. As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, "Who's the new party?" "Governess, or something of that sort." "What the deuce is she at our table for?" "Friend of the old lady's." "Handsome head, but no style." "Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on." I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people! Thursday Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore'. Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways. The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes. I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily. "This is Mamma's friend, Miss March." "Yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added Kitty, who is an 'enfant terrible'. We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast. "Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so again, call at me and I come," he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little wretches. I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a darning needle in the other. He didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way... "You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle." I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not so pretty. Saturday Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully. When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs. "We are playing nargerie," explained Kitty. "Dis is mine effalunt!" added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair. "Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?" said Minnie. The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me, "I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly." I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little 'koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you? I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to everyone. 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 Herculaneum 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, and an old flute over the mantlepiece 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 goodnatured, 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 this 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 observe 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 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 or 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 in glory. "Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little _marchen_ 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 Anderson'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 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_, 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 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 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 Shakespeare. 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, and Milton, so you may imagine how I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own 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'. 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 mantlepiece as an article of virtue, 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 Titania, 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

chapter 33

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide16.html

Jo writes a series of letters telling about her activities in New York. She makes friends with Mrs. Norton, a spinster lady who helps her get acquainted and frequently invites her to the family style evening meal in the large, apartment-like boarding house. The most important person she meets is Professor Bhaer (later called Fritz) who tutors a number of children in German; he is homely and has some uncouth mannerisms, but Jo likes him for his good nature and his love for the children. She and Mrs. Kirke do a little sewing for him because they feel sorry for him when they see him darning his own socks. Mr. Bhaer insists on returning the favor by giving Jo lessons in German. After the first four lessons, however, Jo is hopeless confused by the grammar. At length, Mr. Bhaer tosses down the grammar book and teaches Jo by reading German fairy tales with her, a method which seems to suit her much better. Jo finds her self taking an interest in other people and working with a will. She participates in a New Years Eve masquerade and has some of the snobbish young men deciding that she is an "actress." Professor Bhaer gives Jo an anthology of Shakespeares work for a Christmas present.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_32_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 34

chapter 34

{"name": "chapter 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide16.html", "summary": "Jo begins writing sensational stories for the Weekly Volcano. Mr. Dashwood, the editor, accepts the first story she gives him, but cuts out all the parts that Jo refers to as morals. She pretends to be submitting the stories for a friend who wants to remain unnamed, but Mr. Dashwood sees through it although he never confronts her. We are never given the details of any of her stories, but are told they come from the lower elements of society and are similar to other \"sensation\" rubbish of the time. Jos exploration into this type of writing along with an evening at a Literary Society Club which Miss Norton belongs to, nearly dispossess Jo of many of her own values and traditional beliefs. She is excited about meeting some prominent literary personages, but those who attend the party drink too much, behave vulgarly, and debate a lot of nonsense. Several would-be philosophers get into a discussion on religion in which they proclaim intellect to be the only god. Their arguments seem logical until Professor Bhaer stands up and eloquently refutes them. He doesnt actually defeat them, but he is so articulate and so convincing for Jo that things seem to fall back into their rightful places again. A few days later, Jo is conscience stricken about the stories she is writing. Bhaer comes to her German lesson wearing a little hat which one of the children made from a sheet of one of the despised tabloid newspapers. After indulging in a laugh about the hat, the professor launches into a gentle lecture against such trashy papers. Although she doesnt speak, Jos momentary expression of panic that the paper might be a copy of the Volcano gives her away. Professor Bhaer has been concerned for some time that she might be doing work she is ashamed to own. He doesnt scold her directly, but shares his strong feelings of distaste for the tabloids. Jo later takes another look at her own stories and decides that each is more \"sensational\" than the one before, and that she doesnt want her writing to sink to that. She devotes the rest of the school year to the boys and to her lessons with Mr. Bhaer and writes no more stories for the Volcano.", "analysis": ""}

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 life. 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 chateau en Espagne. 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, editor of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, 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 _Blarneystone 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. again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might 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 romance--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. Dashwoods'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 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 on 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," 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. "I'll call. Good morning, Sir." As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do." Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking. Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch. She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word. She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret. But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her. She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us. She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it. I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him--a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit. Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any sorrow, 'it sat with its head under its wing', and he turned only his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words. His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full. His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other people's. "That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer. Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it. Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several celebrities. Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on 'spirit, fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of the party. Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms, and the only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was a bad headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before, that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday. She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear. He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs. Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people, attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand. He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion with all the eloquence of truth--an eloquence which made his broken English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed better than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him. She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great. This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there and he had forgotten to take off. "It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein. She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The Professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . . "Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?" "How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?" said Jo. Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol. "Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him." But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I haf no patience with those who make this harm." Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled him. He did not say to himself, "It is none of my business. I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done. He only remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely... "Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad trash." "All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits followed her pin. "There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing." Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney. "I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the Professor, coming back with a relieved air. Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute. Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her book, she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be very good and proper now." "I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead. As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay. "They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of money. I know it's so, for I can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of them?" Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze. "Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes. But when nothing remained of all her three month's work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages. "I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother and Father hadn't been so particular about such things." Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that 'Father and Mother were particular', and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon in womanhood. Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals didn't sell. Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility... "I don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I try again, and meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if I can't do better, that's honest, at least." Which decision proved that her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good. While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant. He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life. It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs. Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind. "Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that last evening. She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to know my friend." "Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she did not see. "Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy commencement as something new." "That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in an altered tone. "Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should like you to see him." Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina on her knee. She didn't know what would have become of her. Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially... "I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" And with that, he shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away. But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness, lying heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not find. "It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his Plato. He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home. Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy thought, "Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life."

chapter 34

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Jo begins writing sensational stories for the Weekly Volcano. Mr. Dashwood, the editor, accepts the first story she gives him, but cuts out all the parts that Jo refers to as morals. She pretends to be submitting the stories for a friend who wants to remain unnamed, but Mr. Dashwood sees through it although he never confronts her. We are never given the details of any of her stories, but are told they come from the lower elements of society and are similar to other "sensation" rubbish of the time. Jos exploration into this type of writing along with an evening at a Literary Society Club which Miss Norton belongs to, nearly dispossess Jo of many of her own values and traditional beliefs. She is excited about meeting some prominent literary personages, but those who attend the party drink too much, behave vulgarly, and debate a lot of nonsense. Several would-be philosophers get into a discussion on religion in which they proclaim intellect to be the only god. Their arguments seem logical until Professor Bhaer stands up and eloquently refutes them. He doesnt actually defeat them, but he is so articulate and so convincing for Jo that things seem to fall back into their rightful places again. A few days later, Jo is conscience stricken about the stories she is writing. Bhaer comes to her German lesson wearing a little hat which one of the children made from a sheet of one of the despised tabloid newspapers. After indulging in a laugh about the hat, the professor launches into a gentle lecture against such trashy papers. Although she doesnt speak, Jos momentary expression of panic that the paper might be a copy of the Volcano gives her away. Professor Bhaer has been concerned for some time that she might be doing work she is ashamed to own. He doesnt scold her directly, but shares his strong feelings of distaste for the tabloids. Jo later takes another look at her own stories and decides that each is more "sensational" than the one before, and that she doesnt want her writing to sink to that. She devotes the rest of the school year to the boys and to her lessons with Mr. Bhaer and writes no more stories for the Volcano.

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Little Women.part 2.chapter 35

chapter 35

{"name": "chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html", "summary": "Laurie has graduated from college; he put forth some real effort and graduated with honors in hopes of winning Jo. He proposes to her in spite of her objections and she tells him that although she is very fond of him, she does not love him in the way that he wants her to. Mr. Laurence is sympathetic with his grandson, but understands that love cannot be forced. In an attempt to consol Laurie and get his mind off of his feelings of rejection, Mr. Laurence plans a trip to London. At first Laurie objects, but promises of utter freedom to wander Europe while Mr. Laurence tends to business in London finally convince him to go. He has no interest in the trip however, and even his final words to Jo are a plea for her to reconsider.", "analysis": ""}

Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather--oh, so proud--Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs. "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early tomorrow. You'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said 'girls', but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom. She had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly... "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'Hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp." Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?" Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away. "Where's the jew's-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance. "I forgot it." And Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like. She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily, "Now you must have a good long holiday!" "I intend to." Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "No, Teddy. Please don't!" "I will, and you must hear me. It's no use, Jo, we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once. "Say what you like then. I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience. Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady... "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo, couldn't help it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me. Now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can't go on so any longer." "I wanted to save you this. I thought you'd understand..." began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected. "I know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact. "I don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could." "I thought so. It was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough..." Here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his 'confounded throat'. "You, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't know why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't." "Really, truly, Jo?" He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget. "Really, truly, dear." They were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him. So he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened. "Oh, Teddy, I'm sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard, I can't help it. You know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago. "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the decided answer. There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "Laurie, I want to tell you something." He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, "Don't tell me that, Jo, I can't bear it now!" "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence. "That you love that old man." "What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather. "That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes. Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she too, was getting excited with all this, "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion. I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else." "But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?" "You'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble." "I can't love anyone else, and I'll never forget you, Jo, Never! Never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. "What shall I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen, for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love. Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake--how touching that was, to be sure! "I agree with Mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..." Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression. "Marry--no we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like." "No, I can't. I've tried and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash." "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously. "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end. "I won't be reasonable. I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view'. It won't help me, and it only makes it harder. I don't believe you've got any heart." "I wish I hadn't." There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "Don't disappoint us, dear! Everyone expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!" Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. "I can't say 'yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly. "I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea. "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo. "You'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel--we can't help it even now, you see--and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!" "Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst. "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man." "I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic. "Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us--so now!" That speech was like gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, "You'll be sorry some day, Jo." "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her. "To the devil!" was the consoling answer. For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart. "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves. "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth, perhaps he may in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! How can girls like to have lovers and refuse them? I think it's dreadful." Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess. When Laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play. The windows were open, and Jo, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the '_Sonata Pathetique_', and played it as he never did before. "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry. Give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how. Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling, "Jo, dear, come in. I want you." Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark. "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "I know, my boy, I know." No answer for an instant, then Laurie asked sharply, "Who told you?" "Jo herself." "Then there's an end of it!" And he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity. "Not quite. I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence with unusual mildness. "You won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?" "I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie in a defiant tone. "Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?" "Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me," and Laurie got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear. "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?" "I can't." "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got through college." "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see. "I don't ask you to go alone. There's someone ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world." "Who, Sir?" stopping to listen. "Myself." Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily, "I'm a selfish brute, but--you know--Grandfather--" "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him. "Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice. "There is business in London that needs looking after. I meant you should attend to it, but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything, I'm merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at any time." "But you hate traveling, Sir. I can't ask it of you at your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all. The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly, "Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea. It will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair." A restless movement from Laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden. I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them. Meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content." Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone, "Just as you like, Sir. It doesn't matter where I go or what I do." "It does to me, remember that, my lad. I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie." "Anything you like, Sir." "Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm much mistaken." Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the 'poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy'. Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable. When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude. Then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic. "Oh, Jo, can't you?" "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!" That was all, except a little pause. Then Laurie straightened himself up, said, "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again.

chapter 35

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html

Laurie has graduated from college; he put forth some real effort and graduated with honors in hopes of winning Jo. He proposes to her in spite of her objections and she tells him that although she is very fond of him, she does not love him in the way that he wants her to. Mr. Laurence is sympathetic with his grandson, but understands that love cannot be forced. In an attempt to consol Laurie and get his mind off of his feelings of rejection, Mr. Laurence plans a trip to London. At first Laurie objects, but promises of utter freedom to wander Europe while Mr. Laurence tends to business in London finally convince him to go. He has no interest in the trip however, and even his final words to Jo are a plea for her to reconsider.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_34_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 36

chapter 36

{"name": "chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html", "summary": "Jo uses the money she earned from the Volcano to take Beth for another visit to the ocean. During the little vacation, Jo learns that Beth never was in love with Laurie, but that the reason for her sadness of the previous year was that she had begun to realize she was dying. She seems to fade a little more each day. Beth has accepted the idea that her death is inevitable, and that it was meant to be. When the girls return home, Beth has weakened to the extent that their parents are able to see Beth's condition without being told.", "analysis": ""}

When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot her fear. But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks. It was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away. They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet. One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't." There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear. "I've known it for a good while, dear, and now I'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is." "Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble. "Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone. But when I saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo." "Oh, Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you? How could you shut me out, bear it all alone?" Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully. "Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right. I wasn't sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie--at least I thought so then." "And I thought you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth. Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, "Then you didn't, dearie? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while." "Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly. He is so good to me, how can I help It? But he could never be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime." "Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently, but I have no heart for such things, now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well." "I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped." "It shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, Beth. I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything. There must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's. Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety. It shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and Mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet for her. She could only sob out, "I try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together. By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity, "You'll tell them this when we go home?" "I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo, for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day. "Perhaps not. I've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by Father and Mother, won't you Jo?" "If I can. But, Beth, I don't give up yet. I'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true." said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully. Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, because I can't speak out except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not like the rest of you. I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up. I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven." Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came quite close to Beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed. "Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them my birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! She's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away." "She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time," began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth. "Jo, dear, don't hope any more. It won't do any good. I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me." Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth. She was right. There was no need of any words when they got home, for Father and Mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word.

chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html

Jo uses the money she earned from the Volcano to take Beth for another visit to the ocean. During the little vacation, Jo learns that Beth never was in love with Laurie, but that the reason for her sadness of the previous year was that she had begun to realize she was dying. She seems to fade a little more each day. Beth has accepted the idea that her death is inevitable, and that it was meant to be. When the girls return home, Beth has weakened to the extent that their parents are able to see Beth's condition without being told.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_35_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html", "summary": "We find Amy and Laurie in France where he has promised to spend Christmas with her. He seems glad to see her and admires the changes in her, but the sentiment is not shared. To her, he seems indifferent, and his dandy-type compliments are hollow and insincere. They attend a Christmas ball where his off-hand remarks and relief at getting out of a dance offend her. Amy deliberately ignores Laurie and dances with several others, spending most of the evening with an 18 year old Polish count. Laurie observes her in spite of himself, and when the count leaves, he spends the remainder of the ball with her. The narrator drops a not-so-subtle hint that the evening is the beginning of a relationship between the two.", "analysis": ""}

At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais--a charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind. Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American--a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her. "Oh, Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these 'mad English'. "I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am." "How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?" "Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were out." "I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in and we can talk at our ease. I was going for a drive and longing for company. Flo's saving up for tonight." "What happens then, a ball?" "A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt will be charmed." "Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her infinite satisfaction. "I'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to Castle Hill. The view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there?" "Often, years ago, but I don't mind having a look at it." "Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin." "Yes, I spent a month there and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him, so I go and come, and we get on capitally." "That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what. "Why, you see, he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still, so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that someone is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon in the old city. "The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass. It's going to the Church of St. John." While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge and vanished in the church. "Que pensez-vous?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad. "That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an admiring look. She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was 'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look. "If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay. At Avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in June. "Beth is very poorly, Mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say 'stay'. So I do, for I shall never have another chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page. "I think you are right, there. You could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear." He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, 'Genius burns!'. Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him. "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish. Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh collar of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene. As they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there, "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?" "I remember. It's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm. "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also. "Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight. "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk. But she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the Continent and been to Greece. So after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening. It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately prinked that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people. She had seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman. Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities. "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head. "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded. Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself. "My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on Aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said, surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand. In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away. She seldom ran--it did not suit her style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue. "Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her. "Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart. "Here are your flowers. I arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay'," said Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window. "How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty as this, I'm afraid." "Thank you. It isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Please don't." "I thought you liked that sort of thing." "Not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better." "I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home. The company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their Christmas ball. A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a German Serene Something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo. A stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters. Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she 'took the stage' that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted Laurie to know it. Therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "Do you care to dance?" "One usually does at a ball." Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible. "I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?" "I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with. "Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support... A daughter of the gods, Divinely tall, and most divinely fair," was all the satisfaction she got, however. The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish. Laurie resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence. She showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka redowa. But his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief. That was unpardonable, and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that 'little Amy was going to make a very charming woman'. It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises, and many Joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a dashing French-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The serene Teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he 'carried weight', he danced like an India-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a French Pickwick without glasses. Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility, and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment. It had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "Ah, I thought that would do him good!" "You look like Balzac's '_Femme Peinte Par Elle-Meme_'," he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other. "My rouge won't come off." and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright. "What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee. "Illusion." "Good name for it. It's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?" "It's as old as the hills. You have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now--stupide!" "I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see." "None of that, it is forbidden. I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous." Laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having 'little Amy' order him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection. "Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked with a quizzical look. "As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable. "Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession, the--the--illusion--you know", laughed Laurie, breaking down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word. Amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self. I study as well as play, and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things." Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but Laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.

chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html

We find Amy and Laurie in France where he has promised to spend Christmas with her. He seems glad to see her and admires the changes in her, but the sentiment is not shared. To her, he seems indifferent, and his dandy-type compliments are hollow and insincere. They attend a Christmas ball where his off-hand remarks and relief at getting out of a dance offend her. Amy deliberately ignores Laurie and dances with several others, spending most of the evening with an 18 year old Polish count. Laurie observes her in spite of himself, and when the count leaves, he spends the remainder of the ball with her. The narrator drops a not-so-subtle hint that the evening is the beginning of a relationship between the two.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_36_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 38

chapter 38

{"name": "chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html", "summary": "John and Meg endure a minor storm in their marriage. Meg has been devoting all of her time and energies to the twins to the exclusion of her husband. The housework has been allowed to slide while Meg spends the day in the nursery. When John gets home from work, he has to tread lightly and speak softly to avoid disturbing sleeping children, and Meg is not interested in talking about anything other than domestic affairs. John begins spending more and more time at the home of his friends the Scots. At length, Meg becomes depressed and feels that John is neglecting her. She turns to her mother for advice. Mrs. March explains that the fault is Meg's and urges her to let John have more to do with the children and to pay more attention to John herself. She advices her to make home so pleasant that John won't want to be anywhere else. Meg takes the advice to heart although Demi tests her resolve on the first night by refusing to stay in bed. She allows John to take over the task in spit of Demi's screams and soon discovers that John is able to handle the children with just the right mix of firmness and love. That evening she tells him of the discussion with her mother and renews her commitment to make their home a delightful sanctuary.", "analysis": ""}

In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when 'Vive la liberte!' becomes their motto. In America, as everyone knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married." Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever. As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of repose. Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life 'aisy', kept him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! They are just asleep after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided--"Leave my children for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night. His meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above. And when he read his paper of an evening, Demi's colic got into the shipping list and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news. The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual 'hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style. John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society. Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving Mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle. "Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly. John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the babies love me, they don't care if I am thin and pale and haven't time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?" To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation. "I wouldn't tell anyone except you, Mother, but I really do need advice, for if John goes on much longer I might as well be widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib with an injured air. "Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously. "He's away all day, and at night when I want to see him, he is continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the best of them." "So are women. Don't blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself." "But it can't be right for him to neglect me." "Don't you neglect him?" "Why, Mother, I thought you'd take my part!" "So I do, as far as sympathizing goes, but I think the fault is yours, Meg." "I don't see how." "Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure time?" "No, but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend." "I think you could, dear, and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's Mother who blames as well as Mother who sympathizes?" "Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for everything." Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever. "You have only made the mistake that most young wives make--forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time." "I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous, and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him without words." "Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you, and you are always in the nursery." "Oughtn't I to be there?" "Not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies. Don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well as yours, and the children need him. Let him feel that he has a part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all." "You really think so, Mother?" "I know it, Meg, for I've tried it, and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor Father took to his books, after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoiled her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then Father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home happiness. He does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together, always." "It is so, Mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours. Show me how, I'll do anything you say." "You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often proposed, let Hannah come and help you. She is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again. Go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours." "John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and things." "I don't believe he would. Love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers." "I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I thought I was right, and he never said anything." "He tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it. And no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given to them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear, good-by. Think over Mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all." Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but Papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character, we won't call it obstinacy, and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but Papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience. So Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to 'wrastle' with 'Parpar', he always got the worst of it, yet like the Englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all Mamma's love pats. A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But unfortunately Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage. So poor Meg sang and rocked, told stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance. "Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while Mamma runs down and gives poor Papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room. "Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel. "No, but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go bye-bye like Daisy. Will you, lovey?" "Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the desired day. Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once and said with pleased surprise, "Why, little mother, how gay we are tonight. Do you expect company?" "Only you, dear." "Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?" "No, I'm tired of being dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why shouldn't I when I have the time?" "I do it out of respect for you, my dear," said old-fashioned John. "Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot. "Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes right. I drink your health, dear." and John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently... "Opy doy. Me's tummin!" "It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said Meg, answering the call. "Mornin' now," announced Demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the 'cakies' with loving glances. "No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor Mamma. Then you can have the little cake with sugar on it." "Me loves Parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to Meg... "If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you." "Yes, of course. Come, Demi," and Meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery. Nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till morning. "Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful. Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, "More sudar, Marmar." "Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough. Give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg." "He won't stay there, he never does unless I sit by him." "I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as Mamma bids you." "S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted 'cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity. "You must never say that to Papa. I shall carry you if you don't go yourself." "Go 'way, me don't love Parpar." and Demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection. But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with dismay, for when Mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied Papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg, but John sat as unmoved as the post which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the 'big dark' which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for 'Marmar', as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly... "Let me stay with him, he'll be good now, John." "No, my dear. I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he must, if I stay here all night." "But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy. "No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't interfere, I'll manage him." "He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness." "He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me." When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted her docility. "Please let me kiss him once, John?" "Certainly. Demi, say good night to Mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day." Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind. "Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep. But he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now." Sitting on the stairs outside Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby. So held, John had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work. As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, "I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies. He does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me." When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, "Well, I really don't see what we are coming to." John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken. "She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding aloud, "That's very pretty. Is it what you call a breakfast cap?" "My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet." "I beg your pardon, it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?" "These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so," and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible. "It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin. "I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night. I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you, please?" "Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?" "Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less care, so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I hope?" Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin. All that we have any business to know is that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of labor system. The children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew homelike again, and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and everyone found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant here, it does me good, Meg," she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her. This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the 'house-band', and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.

chapter 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide17.html

John and Meg endure a minor storm in their marriage. Meg has been devoting all of her time and energies to the twins to the exclusion of her husband. The housework has been allowed to slide while Meg spends the day in the nursery. When John gets home from work, he has to tread lightly and speak softly to avoid disturbing sleeping children, and Meg is not interested in talking about anything other than domestic affairs. John begins spending more and more time at the home of his friends the Scots. At length, Meg becomes depressed and feels that John is neglecting her. She turns to her mother for advice. Mrs. March explains that the fault is Meg's and urges her to let John have more to do with the children and to pay more attention to John herself. She advices her to make home so pleasant that John won't want to be anywhere else. Meg takes the advice to heart although Demi tests her resolve on the first night by refusing to stay in bed. She allows John to take over the task in spit of Demi's screams and soon discovers that John is able to handle the children with just the right mix of firmness and love. That evening she tells him of the discussion with her mother and renews her commitment to make their home a delightful sanctuary.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_37_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 39

chapter 39

{"name": "chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide18.html", "summary": "Laurie spends a month instead of the planned week in France. He finds himself drawn to Amy, but she is disgusted with him. She is too lady-like and he too lazy for them to actually quarrel, but she accuses him of indolence and of neglecting his own talent and potential. When she discovers that the reason for his indifference is Jo's rejection, Amy is sympathetic but still cannot accept the changes in him. Laurie tries to affect an indifference to her scolding, but her words have a profound effect on him.", "analysis": ""}

Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part. He rather missed the 'petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society and were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at Nice no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise. "All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day. I preferred to stay at home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to sketch, will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon. "Well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without. "I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie. "Then I'll go with pleasure." and he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp... "Don't trouble yourself. It's no exertion to me, but you don't look equal to it." Laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch. The two never quarreled. Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring air. She answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable manner. It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough. Gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky. Valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled city on its shore. "This is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by. "No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just beyond his reach. "Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her. She put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself, but the next instant his American common sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came. "It's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech amused him. "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest. "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat. "Very soon." "You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks." "I dare say, short answers save trouble." "He expects you, and you really ought to go." "Hospitable creature! I know it." "Then why don't you do it?" "Natural depravity, I suppose." "Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked severe. "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better, in fact I think it agrees with you excellently," and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade. Amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture 'that boy' and in a minute she began again. "What are you doing just now?" "Watching lizards." "No, no. I mean what do you intend and wish to do?" "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me." "How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars and I will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch. I need a figure." "With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me, full length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it 'Dolce far niente'." "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. I intend to work hard," said Amy in her most energetic tone. "What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction. "What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name. "As usual, 'Go away, Teddy. I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face--a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone before she could study it and the listless expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie. "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone. "Wish I was!" "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life. You are so changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech. Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to say it to her mother, "It's all right, ma'am." That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said... "I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and 'let us be friendly', as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa corner and told secrets." Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay there. "I'm all ready for the secrets." and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes. "I've none to tell. You may begin." "Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home.." "You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I fancied Jo would send you volumes." "She's very busy. I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it. "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair." "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?" "That's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more." "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?" "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the chance." It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting. "Good! And here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy." Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face that made Laurie sit up and say gravely, "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?" "I don't promise to answer." "Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private opinion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it, hey?" "That's not for me to say," was Amy's grim reply, but her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge. "You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden. "No." "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees, won't you?" "Very likely." "Then you are fond of old Fred?" "I could be, if I tried." "But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied you'd like." "He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions. "I understand. Queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's girls." "True, nevertheless." A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay. "I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said sharply. "Do it for me, there's a dear girl." "I could, if I tried." and she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style. "Try, then. I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime. "You'd be angry in five minutes." "I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire. You are as cool and soft as snow." "You don't know what I can do. Snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good stirring up would prove it." "Stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees with you." Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and began. "Flo and I have got a new name for you. It's Lazy Laurence. How do you like it?" She thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies." "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?" "Pining to be told." "Well, I despise you." If she had even said 'I hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, accent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly... "Why, if you please?" "Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable." "Strong language, mademoiselle." "If you like it, I'll go on." "Pray do, it's quite interesting." "I thought you'd find it so. Selfish people always like to talk about themselves." "Am I selfish?" the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity. "Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as effective just then as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've studied you while we were frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends." "Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?" "You don't look as if you'd had much. At any rate, you are none the better for it, as far as I can see. I said when we first met that you had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah you like that old Vanity! But it's the truth, so I can't help saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you ought to be, you are only..." there she stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it. "Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former indifference. "I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating martyr at her feet. In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, "I will be good, oh, I will be good!" But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best gloves and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven, so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!" "So do I!" The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so. "I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie, and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps they would understand the change better than I do." "I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as touching as a broken one. "They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did like that Miss Randal and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time. "Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady. "I beg pardon, I thought..." and there she paused diplomatically. "No, you didn't, you knew perfectly well I never cared for anyone 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." "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," said 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 everyone knew that 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 effacious 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 madamoiselle 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 frere?" asked Amy, as they parted at her aunt's door. "Unfortunately I have an engagement. Au revoir, madamoiselle," 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." "Goodbye, 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 "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."

chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide18.html

Laurie spends a month instead of the planned week in France. He finds himself drawn to Amy, but she is disgusted with him. She is too lady-like and he too lazy for them to actually quarrel, but she accuses him of indolence and of neglecting his own talent and potential. When she discovers that the reason for his indifference is Jo's rejection, Amy is sympathetic but still cannot accept the changes in him. Laurie tries to affect an indifference to her scolding, but her words have a profound effect on him.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_38_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 40

chapter 40

{"name": "chapter 40", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide18.html", "summary": "In one of the shortest but most emotionally packed chapters of the novel, Beth dies. For the last year of her life she is given the best room in the house and is continuously surrounded by family. Her favorite is Jo who scarcely leaves the room, but tends the fire and waits on her tirelessly. In spite of her grief, Jo begins to feel that she will never really lose Beth, that even death will not be able to separate them.", "analysis": ""}

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 school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of 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 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. 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 Ones 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, Pilgrims'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 strand 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 forever more 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 fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye 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 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.

chapter 40

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide18.html

In one of the shortest but most emotionally packed chapters of the novel, Beth dies. For the last year of her life she is given the best room in the house and is continuously surrounded by family. Her favorite is Jo who scarcely leaves the room, but tends the fire and waits on her tirelessly. In spite of her grief, Jo begins to feel that she will never really lose Beth, that even death will not be able to separate them.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_39_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 41

chapter 41

{"name": "chapter 41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide18.html", "summary": "Laurie takes Amy's lecture to heart and decides that he can make Jo respect him even if he can't make her love him. He goes to Vienna to work with some musical friends and tries his hand at composing. He has little success and finally decides-after attending one of Mozart's grand operas that \"talent isn't genius.\" He begins to look for some sort of work to occupy himself even though he doesn't need to work for a living. In the meantime, he keeps up a lively correspondence with both Jo and Amy. Laurie soon realizes that he is actually \"forgetting\" Jo to the extent that he has to search himself to find the passion for her that he once had. In a final attempt to verify that she will never be his, he writes to her once again asking if she can find it in her heart to love him. Her response is that she is entirely devoted to Beth and that she does not want to hear the word \"love\" from him again. His thoughts then turn more and more to Amy. Amy finally receives the once expected proposal from Fred- but she refuses him. She has realized that having money or being the \"queen of society\" isn't really what she wants after all. From then on she and Laurie write several letters a week while Laurie waits for her to ask him to come. When word comes of Beth's death, he immediately packs up his things and goes to Velvey to be with Amy. It is soon obvious that they are in love. Laurie plans a romantic evening when he will tell her his feelings, but instead the words slip out in a metaphorical way while they are out rowing. Amy notices how well they \"pull\" together while rowing the boat, and Laurie asks her if she will always pull in the same boat with him. Of course, her answer is \"yes.\"", "analysis": ""}

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'. As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem which should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer. Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being. Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects--beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la Gummidge--and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer. When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman. Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It's genius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself... "She is right! Talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so. That music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I won't be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?" That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity for 'going to the devil', as he once forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say "All's well," kept him safe and steady. Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, "I don't believe it, boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not expect miracles." I dare say you don't, Mrs. Grundy, but it's true nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must. But mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes. If it is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to own it. Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us. Laurie's heart wouldn't ache. The wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end. As the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before him... "Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy." Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, "No, I won't! I haven't forgotten, I never can. I'll try again, and if that fails, why then..." Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn't she, wouldn't she--and let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for Jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't. She was wrapped up in Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious. "So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for her, I'm afraid," and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before. But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose. Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds were several of Jo's letters, and in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression, Laurie gathered up all Jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint Stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies. The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice, but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'. Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to answer, "Yes, thank you," but now she said, "No, thank you," kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears. The words, "Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I fancied you would ever like," and Laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "I shall marry for money." It troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly. She didn't want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly creature. She didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love him. It couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother. If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory. Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself, with a venerable air... "I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I've been through it all, and I can sympathize." With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy's letter luxuriously. While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when the next found her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for Laurie to come and comfort her. He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense. He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could not wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself. A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of Amy's character. Everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable love and longing... "Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you'd come to me!" I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only woman in the world who could fill Jo's place and make him happy. He did not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence. In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears, Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting. "I couldn't help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak quite naturally. "I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and..." He could not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words. "You needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said softly. "Beth is well and happy, and I mustn't wish her back, but I dread the going home, much as I long to see them all. We won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn't go right back, need you?" "Not if you want me, dear." "I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while." Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she wanted--the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed. "Poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick! I'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone. The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden. The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "Now I understand it all--the child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never thought of such a thing!" With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than her usual success. At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits. The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills. The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying, "Little children, love one another." In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo's sister was almost the same as Jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance. He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls. They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise. Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something... "You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good, for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious." "I'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There's room enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't trim," returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement. Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water. "How well we pull together, don't we?" said Amy, who objected to silence just then. "So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you, Amy?" very tenderly. "Yes, Laurie," very low. Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake.

chapter 41

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Laurie takes Amy's lecture to heart and decides that he can make Jo respect him even if he can't make her love him. He goes to Vienna to work with some musical friends and tries his hand at composing. He has little success and finally decides-after attending one of Mozart's grand operas that "talent isn't genius." He begins to look for some sort of work to occupy himself even though he doesn't need to work for a living. In the meantime, he keeps up a lively correspondence with both Jo and Amy. Laurie soon realizes that he is actually "forgetting" Jo to the extent that he has to search himself to find the passion for her that he once had. In a final attempt to verify that she will never be his, he writes to her once again asking if she can find it in her heart to love him. Her response is that she is entirely devoted to Beth and that she does not want to hear the word "love" from him again. His thoughts then turn more and more to Amy. Amy finally receives the once expected proposal from Fred- but she refuses him. She has realized that having money or being the "queen of society" isn't really what she wants after all. From then on she and Laurie write several letters a week while Laurie waits for her to ask him to come. When word comes of Beth's death, he immediately packs up his things and goes to Velvey to be with Amy. It is soon obvious that they are in love. Laurie plans a romantic evening when he will tell her his feelings, but instead the words slip out in a metaphorical way while they are out rowing. Amy notices how well they "pull" together while rowing the boat, and Laurie asks her if she will always pull in the same boat with him. Of course, her answer is "yes."

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all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/42.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_40_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 42

chapter 42

{"name": "chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide18.html", "summary": "Jo had promised Beth that she would take her place in being a comfort to their parents and in helping to keep the home running smoothly. However, she finds that it is more of a burden than she can handle with Beth gone. She and Marmee consol each other, and Jo finds some relief in the household chores that once had been Beth's. Seeing her loneliness and despair, Marmee urges Jo to take up her writing again. Jo does so hesitantly, but her first story is enthusiastically accepted and more requested. Jo receives word that Laurie and Amy are engaged. Jo is happy for them both but still feels lonely and unhappy for herself. She wanders into the garret where mementoes of their past are stored. There she comes across her old workbooks and a note from Frizt saying that he will be coming. Jo wishes he would come for she feels like everyone is going away from her and she would love to see her dear old friend.", "analysis": ""}

It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she 'comfort Father and Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister, how could she 'make the house cheerful' when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new, and where in all the world could she 'find some useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble and hard work. Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable. But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night, thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, "Oh, Beth, come back! Come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms. When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly, "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for I'm all wrong." "My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and did not fear to ask for it. Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called 'the church of one member', and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power. Other helps had Jo--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand... "You thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will bless you for't, see ef He don't." As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing for each other. "Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always _'perwisin'_ I could," said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in the topsy-turvy nursery. "It's just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will fall off." "Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them," returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob. Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she dropped. Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard, and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others? Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed the hill called Difficulty. "Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo. "I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things." "We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much." "Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts. An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success, and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once. "I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little story like that to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered. "There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret. Humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter. You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success." "If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine. I owe it all to you and Mother and Beth," said Jo, more touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from the world. So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes. When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for 'the children' before she read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make. "You like it, Mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets and looked at one another. "Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the 'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day." "How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to me." "Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled." "I'm not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I'm sober and sensible enough for anyone's confidante now." "So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else." "Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?" "I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now." "No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes', not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away." "I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward." "Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand it." "I do," and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie. "It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast'. I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!" "And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" and Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the workaday world again. By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true, she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to 'love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together'. Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart. "Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come." "Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my dear old Fritz. I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, and I'm all alone." And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof. Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say?

chapter 42

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Jo had promised Beth that she would take her place in being a comfort to their parents and in helping to keep the home running smoothly. However, she finds that it is more of a burden than she can handle with Beth gone. She and Marmee consol each other, and Jo finds some relief in the household chores that once had been Beth's. Seeing her loneliness and despair, Marmee urges Jo to take up her writing again. Jo does so hesitantly, but her first story is enthusiastically accepted and more requested. Jo receives word that Laurie and Amy are engaged. Jo is happy for them both but still feels lonely and unhappy for herself. She wanders into the garret where mementoes of their past are stored. There she comes across her old workbooks and a note from Frizt saying that he will be coming. Jo wishes he would come for she feels like everyone is going away from her and she would love to see her dear old friend.

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all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_41_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 43

chapter 43

{"name": "chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html", "summary": "Laurie and Amy come home with the news that they have gotten married. Aunt Carrol wouldn't allow Amy to travel without a chaperone, and Mr. Laurence wanted to come home. Since Laurie couldn't leave Amy behind, and Aunt Carrol wasn't yet ready to return stateside, they decided to get married in Europe. Laurie tells Jo that he will always lover her, but acknowledges that the love is altered and the she and Amy have changed places in his heart. While the family is admiring the new Mrs. Laurence, a knock comes at the door. The visitor is Professor Bhaer. The family immediately likes him although Laurie observes him with a little suspicion. The professor claims that he has come because he has business to tend. Jo is romantically drawn to him, but doesn't realize it yet. The narrator leaves us with the knowledge that Jo is Professor Bhaer's business.", "analysis": ""}

Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk. No one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that. There was a good deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it. "An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I'm old and can't enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it. Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, I dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but..." and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting. It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty. But it's not as bad as it looks, and one can get on quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly resolve that they never will be. At thirty they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason. And looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may miss the blossom time. That rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now. Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for 'the best nevvy in the world'. Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before her, a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show it. But, like Jenny in the ballad... "She could not think it he," and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully... "Oh my Teddy! Oh my Teddy!" "Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?" "Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?" "Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches." "Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him. "Oh, the dickens! Now I've done it," and he looked so guilty that Jo was down on him like a flash. "You've gone and got married!" "Yes, please, but I never will again," and he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, and triumph. "Actually married?" "Very much so, thank you." "Mercy on us. What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into her seat with a gasp. "A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation," returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction. "What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it." "Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade." Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, "The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now. So, come and 'fess, Teddy." "How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that but you," and Laurie sat down with an air of great content. "What does Amy call you?" "My lord." "That's like her. Well, you look it," and Jo's eye plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever. The pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity... "Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?" "Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever." "Now really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely. "How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion. "It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all coming up presently. I couldn't wait. I wanted to be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have 'first skim' as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream." "Of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened. I'm pining to know." "Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made Jo exclaim... "Fib number one. Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir." "Now she's beginning to marm it. Isn't it jolly to hear her?" said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But Grandpa wanted to come home. He went to please me, and I couldn't let him go alone, neither could I leave Amy, and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married, and then we can do as we like'." "Of course you did. You always have things to suit you." "Not always," and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily... "How did you ever get Aunt to agree?" "It was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only 'taking time by the fetlock', as my wife says." "Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?" interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last. "A trifle, perhaps, she's such a captivating little woman I can't help being proud of her. Well, then Uncle and Aunt were there to play propriety. We were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round, so we did it." "When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle. "Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris, a very quiet wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear little Beth." Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well. "Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute. "We wanted to surprise you. We thought we were coming directly home, at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives. My faith! Wasn't it love among the roses!" Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before... "Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you changed places in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me, but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it was one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love you both alike. But I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?" "I'll believe it, with all my heart, but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this. I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won't we, Laurie?" He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home to be a sad one, "I can't make it true that you children are really married and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!" "As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed' as Peggotty said of David, and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air. "You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are, and this last year has been such a hard one that I feel forty." "Poor Jo! We left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You are older. Here's a line, and there's another. Unless you smile, your eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone. What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look. But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone which she tried to make more cheerful, "No, I had Father and Mother to help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. I am lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it's good for me, and..." "You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her, as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all be blissfully happy and friendly together." "If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy," and Jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill and Laurie told her to hold on to him. He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his coming. "You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and laughing the next. You look a little wicked now. What is it, Grandma?" "I was wondering how you and Amy get on together." "Like angels!" "Yes, of course, but which rules?" "I don't mind telling you that she does now, at least I let her think so, it pleases her, you know. By-and-by we shall take turns, for marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties." "You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your life." "Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well. In fact, I rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you a favor all the while." "That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands. It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty" air, "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel." Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her pleasure. "I am sure of that. Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, you remember." "She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than any of your scoldings, a regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and married the good-for-nothing." "What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend you." "I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling, "Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?" In trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It was good to see him beam at 'my children', as he called the young pair. It was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart, and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made. The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that 'her ladyship' was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness. For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to become. "Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly. "She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside him. Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her 'pitty aunty', but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to have him. "Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you hit me in the face. Now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman," and with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted his boyish soul. "Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot; ain't it a relishin' sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks calling little Amy 'Mis. Laurence!'" muttered old Hannah, who could not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner. Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all burst out together--trying to tell the history of three years in half an hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and provide refreshment--for they would have been hoarse and faint if they had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the little dining room! Mr. March proudly escorted Mrs. Laurence. Mrs. March as proudly leaned on the arm of 'my son'. The old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered, "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, "I'll try to fill her place, sir." The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human nature and a pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little sinners attached themselves to 'Dranpa', who hadn't his spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on Father Laurence's arm. The others paired off as before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry. "Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?" "Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and wore diamonds and point lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction. "No more there is! Will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?" asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose. "I don't care," and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party vanishing above, and as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed. It won't do to be dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch door. She opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun. "Oh, Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in. "And I to see Miss Marsch, but no, you haf a party," and the Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to them. "No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us." Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously away, and come again another day, but how could he, when Jo shut the door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes. "If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You haf been ill, my friend?" He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it. "Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you last." "Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that," and he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand. "Father, Mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish. If the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Everyone greeted him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for his own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the more friendly because he was poor. For poverty enriches those who live above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a strange door, and when it opens, finds himself at home. The children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep. If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe the newcomer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long. He got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn into the circle. For Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eyes would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it. But Jo had her own eyes to take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt. A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do, and Jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands. "Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself, and then a sudden thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face. The maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them. Nobody knew where the evening went to, for Hannah skillfully abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr. Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of matches, made a move to go. "We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul. They were not all there. But no one found the words thoughtless or untrue, for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the household league that love made dissoluble. The little chair stood in its old place. The tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished when the needle grew 'so heavy', was still on its accustomed shelf. The beloved instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved, and above it Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am here." "Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil. But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, "Not tonight, dear. I can't show off tonight." But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she sang Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master could not have taught, and touched the listener's hearts with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard to say... Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal; and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss. "Now, we must finish with Mignon's song, for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo stood, saying... "You will sing with me? We go excellently well together." A pleasing fiction, by the way, for Jo had no more idea of music than a grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune. It didn't much matter, for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily and well, and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone. Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms, used to be the Professor's favorite line, for 'das land' meant Germany to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody, upon the words... There, oh there, might I with thee, O, my beloved, go and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither whenever he liked. The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been introduced simply as 'my sister', and no one had called her by her new name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting... "My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way." Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met. "I too shall go, but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here some days." He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo, and the mother's voice gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes, for Mrs. March was not so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed. "I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone. "I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as she wound up the clock. "I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her bed. She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city, and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor, somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon the subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture in the dark.

chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html

Laurie and Amy come home with the news that they have gotten married. Aunt Carrol wouldn't allow Amy to travel without a chaperone, and Mr. Laurence wanted to come home. Since Laurie couldn't leave Amy behind, and Aunt Carrol wasn't yet ready to return stateside, they decided to get married in Europe. Laurie tells Jo that he will always lover her, but acknowledges that the love is altered and the she and Amy have changed places in his heart. While the family is admiring the new Mrs. Laurence, a knock comes at the door. The visitor is Professor Bhaer. The family immediately likes him although Laurie observes him with a little suspicion. The professor claims that he has come because he has business to tend. Jo is romantically drawn to him, but doesn't realize it yet. The narrator leaves us with the knowledge that Jo is Professor Bhaer's business.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_42_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 44

chapter 44

{"name": "chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html", "summary": "We get a brief inside look an Amy and Laurie in their home in the Laurence mansion. They discuss the possibility of Mr. Bhaer marrying Jo. Laurie isn't jealous of the professor, but both are concerned about his lack of means. They long for a way to share their own wealth, but know that both the professor and Jo are too proud to accept obvious charity. They agree to watch for an opportunity and find a way to help Jo without her knowing.", "analysis": ""}

"Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made 'the baby' again. "Certainly. Go, dear, I forgot that you have any home but this," and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness. "I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it, but I can't get on without my little woman any more than a..." "Weathercock can without the wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile. Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home. "Exactly, for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly spell since I was married. Don't know anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?" "Lovely weather so far. I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear, and I'll find your bootjack. I suppose that's what you are rummaging after among my things. Men are so helpless, Mother," said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband. "What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores. "We have our plans. We don't mean to say much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight Grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoiled. I need something of the sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man." "And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at Laurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke. "After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame Recamier?" asked Laurie with a quizzical look at Amy. "Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon as a queen of society. "How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had gone. "Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port. "I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push. Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, "Mrs. Laurence." "My Lord!" "That man intends to marry our Jo!" "I hope so, don't you, dear?" "Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal richer." "Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor. Women never should marry for money..." Amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with malicious gravity... "Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty to make a rich match. That accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me." "Oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I said 'Yes'. I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes wish you were poor that I might show how much I love you." And Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words. "You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake." "Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told Mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence," and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face. "Yes, I am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me," and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction. Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "May I ask you a question, dear?" "Of course, you may." "Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?" "Oh, that's the trouble is it? I thought there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?" Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied. Her little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and confidence. "I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden. "Jo would find us out, and spoil it all. She is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful thing." "Bless her dear heart! She won't think so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in that way." "How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks to you, the dream has come true." "Ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people don't dare to offer charity. Yet there are a thousand ways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a blarnerying beggar. I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is harder." "Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the domestic admiration society. "Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heros, poor and friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition that I was ashamed of myself, and longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot boiling. If they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it out." "Yes, indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me, and whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them, as I was helped." "And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy making one's fellow creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?" "With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping as you ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar." "It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!" So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they.

chapter 44

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html

We get a brief inside look an Amy and Laurie in their home in the Laurence mansion. They discuss the possibility of Mr. Bhaer marrying Jo. Laurie isn't jealous of the professor, but both are concerned about his lack of means. They long for a way to share their own wealth, but know that both the professor and Jo are too proud to accept obvious charity. They agree to watch for an opportunity and find a way to help Jo without her knowing.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_43_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 45

chapter 45

{"name": "chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html", "summary": "The twins are visiting their grandparents and Jo whom they call Aunt Dodo. Daisy is a minature of Beth and Demi is an inquisitive and manipulative, lovable rascal. For him, his dignified grandfather will lie on the floor and twist his body to form the letters of the alphabet. Professor Bhaer finds Mr. March in this humorous position when he comes to visit one day. The children are aware of receiving less attention from Jo when \"the bearman\" is around, but they settle for climbing on him and searching his great-coat pockets for chocolates. On this particular day, Demi engages the professor in a discussion about girls, confessing that he kissed a little girl named \"Mary\" and she kissed him back. When Demi asks if \"great boys like great girls\" too, the professor acts embarrassed and gives an affirmative in a way that leaves no doubt about his feelings for Jo.", "analysis": ""}

I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a 'needler', and actually made a bag with four stitches in it. She likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his 'sewinsheen', a mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go 'wound and wound'. Also a basket hung over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, Marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up." Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other aggressor, while Daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window in her little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether it rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Everyone was a friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful worshipers. "Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish the whole world. As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dovecote would be blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her 'Beth', and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could see. Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?" He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk. "What makes my legs go, Dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night. "It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow head respectfully. "What is a little mine?" "It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you." "Open me. I want to see it go wound." "I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you up, and you go till He stops you." "Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?" "Yes, but I can't show you how, for it is done when we don't see." Demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked, "I dess Dod does it when I's asleep." A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said, "My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby? He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions." "If he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind." If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old gentleman could only join in Grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics. There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding philosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their parent's souls. Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers? "No more raisins, Demi. They'll make you sick," says Mamma to the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day. "Me likes to be sick." "I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty cakes." He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits Mamma by a shrewd bargain. "Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot. "Truly, Marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head. "Yes, truly. Anything you say," replies the shortsighted parent, preparing herself to sing, "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply... "Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins." Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt. Demi, with infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo like to play with 'the bear-man' better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers. Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes, but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the 'the bear-man' with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth. Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however likewise effective--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law. He was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose he was the attraction. The excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and reveled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him. Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face... "Father, Father, here's the Professor!" Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity, "Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment. We are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name." "I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly shouted, "It's a We, Dranpa, it's a We!" "He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was over. "What have you been at today, bubchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast. "Me went to see little Mary." "And what did you there?" "I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness. "Prut! Thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket. "Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. Don't little boys like little girls?" asked Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of bland satisfaction. "You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the Professor. "'Tisn't in mine head, it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas. "Thou shouldst save some for the little friend. Sweets to the sweet, mannling," and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired. .. "Do great boys like great girls, to, 'Fessor?" Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer 'couldn't tell a lie', so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that made Mr. March put down his clothesbrush, glance at Jo's retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the 'precocious chick' had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour. Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.

chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html

The twins are visiting their grandparents and Jo whom they call Aunt Dodo. Daisy is a minature of Beth and Demi is an inquisitive and manipulative, lovable rascal. For him, his dignified grandfather will lie on the floor and twist his body to form the letters of the alphabet. Professor Bhaer finds Mr. March in this humorous position when he comes to visit one day. The children are aware of receiving less attention from Jo when "the bearman" is around, but they settle for climbing on him and searching his great-coat pockets for chocolates. On this particular day, Demi engages the professor in a discussion about girls, confessing that he kissed a little girl named "Mary" and she kissed him back. When Demi asks if "great boys like great girls" too, the professor acts embarrassed and gives an affirmative in a way that leaves no doubt about his feelings for Jo.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/46.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_44_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 46

chapter 46

{"name": "chapter 46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html", "summary": "For two weeks Jo and Professor Bhaer meet each other daily when Jo goes for her evening walk to Meg's house. Jo is afraid of being laughed at and tries to keep her feelings hidden, but everyone is aware of change in her. Suddenly, with no goodbyes or explanations, the professor stays away for three days. One afternoon Jo takes her walk into town, saying she needs more writing paper and offering to do some shopping for Mrs. March. She soon wanders to a section of town that has nothing to do with her shopping, but she does not find Mr. Bhaer. It begins to rain, so she rushes toward home only to run into another pedestrian who happens to be Mr. Bhaer. Mr. Bhaer holds an umbrella for her and the two exchange a variety of comments that alternately build and squelch their individual hopes regarding each other's love. At length, Bhaer tells her that he has concluded his business and will be taking a professorship in a school in the west. At first he thinks she doesn't care, but on the walk home, he sees tears in her eyes and asks the reason. She tells him it is because he is going away. The professor's reaction is ecstatic; he offers his love even though he has no money to go with it. Before they enter the house, he proposes to her in the rain under the umbrella.", "analysis": ""}

While Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields. "I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don't know why I should give it up, just because I happen to meet the Professor on his way out," said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though there were two paths to Meg's whichever one she took she was sure to meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg's he always had something for the babies. If her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls. Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, "as Friedrich--I mean Mr. Bhaer--doesn't like tea." By the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in Jo's face. They never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise. And no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love. Jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer 'a capital old fellow' in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo's improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor's hat on the Marches' table nearly every evening. But he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms. For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity. Then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and then--alas for romance--very cross. "Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It's nothing to me, of course, but I should think he would have come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one dull afternoon. "You'd better take the little umbrella, dear. It looks like rain," said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact. "Yes, Marmee, do you want anything in town? I've got to run in and get some paper," returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother. "Yes, I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?" "I believe so," answered Jo absently. "If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea. I quite long to see the dear man," added Mrs. March. Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her heartache, "How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?" The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as if they wondered 'how the deuce she got there'. A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons. For the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with 'Hoffmann, Swartz, & Co.' over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air... "It serves me right! what business had I to put on all my best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I'm ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall trudge away, and do your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it's no more than you deserve. Now then!" With that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "I beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down. "I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many horse noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my friend?" "I'm shopping." Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said politely, "You haf no umbrella. May I go also, and take for you the bundles?" "Yes, thank you." Jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking away arm in arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day. "We thought you had gone," said Jo hastily, for she knew he was looking at her. Her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly. "Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?" he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily... "No, I didn't. I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we rather missed you, Father and Mother especially." "And you?" "I'm always glad to see you, sir." In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely... "I thank you, and come one more time before I go." "You are going, then?" "I haf no longer any business here, it is done." "Successfully, I hope?" said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his. "I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Junglings much help." "Tell me, please! I like to know all about the--the boys," said Jo eagerly. "That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?" "Indeed you should. How splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!" cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying. "Ah! But we shall not meet often, I fear, this place is at the West." "So far away!" and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or herself. Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands. Was the joy all for the boys? Then on hearing his destination, she said, "So far away!" in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter... "Here's the place for my errands. Will you come in? It won't take long." Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business. But owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss. She upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries. When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on the whole. "Should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if I go for my last call at your so pleasant home?" he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers. "What will we buy?" asked Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went in. "May they haf oranges and figs?" asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air. "They eat them when they can get them." "Do you care for nuts?" "Like a squirrel." "Hamburg grapes. Yes, we shall drink to the Fatherland in those?" Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again. "Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you," began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block. "Yes, sir?" and Jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it. "I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me." "Yes, sir," and Jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it. "I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?" "Yes, sir," and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator. "Perhaps also a shawl for Tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care. Yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a friendly thing to take the little mother." "I'll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer." "I'm going very fast, and he's getting dearer every minute," added Jo to herself, then with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to behold. Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family. "Your lady may prefer this. It's a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo's shoulders. "Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?" she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face. "Excellently well, we will haf it," answered the Professor, smiling to himself as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter. "Now shall we go home?" he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him. "Yes, it's late, and I'm _so_ tired." Jo's voice was more pathetic than she knew. For now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged. "This is not our omniboos," said the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers. "I beg your pardon. I didn't see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk. I'm used to plodding in the mud," returned Jo, winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes. Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away. The sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "Heart's dearest, why do you cry?" Now, if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion. Instead of which, that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "Because you are going away." "Ach, mein Gott, that is so good!" cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you. I came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?" he added, all in one breath. "Oh, yes!" said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it. It was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, Mr. Bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account of the mud. Neither could he offer Jo his hand, except figuratively, for both were full. Much less could he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it. So the only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard. If he had not loved Jo very much, I don't think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin. Fortunately, Mr. Bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found him more "Jove-like" than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over Jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending. Passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog. Little they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven. The Professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss. While Jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot. Of course, she was the first to speak--intelligibly, I mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "Oh, yes!" were not of a coherent or reportable character. "Friedrich, why didn't you..." "Ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since Minna died!" cried the Professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful delight. "I always call you so to myself--I forgot, but I won't unless you like it." "Like it? It is more sweet to me than I can tell. Say 'thou', also, and I shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine." "Isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?" asked Jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable. "Sentimental? Yes. Thank Gott, we Germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it. Your English 'you' is so cold, say 'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded Mr. Bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor. "Well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?" asked Jo bashfully. "Now I shall haf to show thee all my heart, and I so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter. See, then, my Jo--ah, the dear, funny little name--I had a wish to tell something the day I said goodbye in New York, but I thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so I spoke not. Wouldst thou have said 'Yes', then, if I had spoken?" "I don't know. I'm afraid not, for I didn't have any heart just then." "Prut! That I do not believe. It was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up. Ah, well, 'Die erste Liebe ist die beste', but that I should not expect." "Yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for I never had another. Teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy," said Jo, anxious to correct the Professor's mistake. "Good! Then I shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all. I haf waited so long, I am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, Professorin." "I like that," cried Jo, delighted with her new name. "Now tell me what brought you, at last, just when I wanted you?" "This," and Mr. Bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket. Jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt. "How could that bring you?" she asked, wondering what he meant. "I found it by chance. I knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me. Read and find him. I will see that you go not in the wet." IN THE GARRET Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago, By children now in their prime. Four little keys hung side by side, With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish pride, Long ago, on a rainy day. Four little names, one on each lid, Carved out by a boyish hand, And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happy band Once playing here, and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain, That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain. "Meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair. I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known care, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life-- Gifts to gentle child and girl, A bridal gown, lines to a wife, A tiny shoe, a baby curl. No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg's play. Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain. "Jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more, Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet, Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain-- "Be worthy, love, and love will come," In the falling summer rain. My Beth! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came. Death canonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine-- The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door. The songs she sang, without lament, In her prison-house of pain, Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain. Upon the last lid's polished field-- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield, "Amy" in letters gold and blue. Within lie snoods that bound her hair, Slippers that have danced their last, Faded flowers laid by with care, Fans whose airy toils are past, Gay valentines, all ardent flames, Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames, The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer, truer spells, Hearing, like a blithe refrain, The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain. Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, Four women, taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime. Four sisters, parted for an hour, None lost, one only gone before, Made by love's immortal power, Nearest and dearest evermore. Oh, when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father's sight, May they be rich in golden hours, Deeds that show fairer for the light, Lives whose brave music long shall ring, Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain. "It's very bad poetry, but I felt it when I wrote it, one day when I was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag. I never thought it would go where it could tell tales," said Jo, tearing up the verses the Professor had treasured so long. "Let it go, it has done its duty, and I will haf a fresh one when I read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said Mr. Bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind. "Yes," he added earnestly, "I read that, and I think to myself, She has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love. I haf a heart full, full for her. Shall I not go and say, 'If this is not too poor a thing to gif for what I shall hope to receive, take it in Gott's name?'" "And so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing I needed," whispered Jo. "I had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me. But soon I began to hope, and then I said, 'I will haf her if I die for it,' and so I will!" cried Mr. Bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down. Jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array. "What made you stay away so long?" she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent. "It was not easy, but I could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until I could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work. How could I ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?" "I'm glad you are poor. I couldn't bear a rich husband," said Jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "Don't fear poverty. I've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those I love, and don't call yourself old--forty is the prime of life. I couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!" The Professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it. As he couldn't, Jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two... "I may be strong-minded, but no one can say I'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens. I'm to carry my share, Friedrich, and help to earn the home. Make up your mind to that, or I'll never go," she added resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load. "We shall see. Haf you patience to wait a long time, Jo? I must go away and do my work alone. I must help my boys first, because, even for you, I may not break my word to Minna. Can you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?" "Yes, I know I can, for we love one another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear. I have my duty, also, and my work. I couldn't enjoy myself if I neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or impatience. You can do your part out West, I can do mine here, and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as God wills." "Ah! Thou gifest me such hope and courage, and I haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the Professor, quite overcome. Jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering tenderly, "Not empty now," and stooping down, kissed her Friedrich under the umbrella. It was dreadful, but she would have done it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness. Though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "Welcome home!" Jo led her lover in, and shut the door.

chapter 46

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html

For two weeks Jo and Professor Bhaer meet each other daily when Jo goes for her evening walk to Meg's house. Jo is afraid of being laughed at and tries to keep her feelings hidden, but everyone is aware of change in her. Suddenly, with no goodbyes or explanations, the professor stays away for three days. One afternoon Jo takes her walk into town, saying she needs more writing paper and offering to do some shopping for Mrs. March. She soon wanders to a section of town that has nothing to do with her shopping, but she does not find Mr. Bhaer. It begins to rain, so she rushes toward home only to run into another pedestrian who happens to be Mr. Bhaer. Mr. Bhaer holds an umbrella for her and the two exchange a variety of comments that alternately build and squelch their individual hopes regarding each other's love. At length, Bhaer tells her that he has concluded his business and will be taking a professorship in a school in the west. At first he thinks she doesn't care, but on the walk home, he sees tears in her eyes and asks the reason. She tells him it is because he is going away. The professor's reaction is ecstatic; he offers his love even though he has no money to go with it. Before they enter the house, he proposes to her in the rain under the umbrella.

thebestnotes

all_chapterized_books/514-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/thebestnotes/Little Women/section_45_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html", "summary": "Jo works and waits for a year while the professor fulfills his teaching obligation. After they are married they take up residence at Plumfield, the mansion willed to Jo by Aunt March. There Jo opens a school for boys. The Bhaer school at last gives the Laurences opportunity to spend their wealth for a worthy cause. They have a knack for finding boys who need the attention of the boys' home, and they always insist on paying \"a trifle\" for the support of the ones they send. Within five years of Jo's marriage, the Bhaer's have a lively home full of noisy boys, including two of their own. Amy's one shadow is that her only child is a frail little girl whom she fears losing, but Mrs. March encourages her to be hopeful. The story ends with the family all together-minus Beth-but with the addition of well-loved husbands and grandchildren.", "analysis": ""}

For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over--for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue--they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible. "It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter over some weeks later. "No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress. "You don't mean to live there?" "Yes, I do." "But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it." "He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it." "And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work." "The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," and Jo laughed. "Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?" "Boys. I want to open a school for little lads--a good, happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them." "That's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he. "I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly. "So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth. "It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her one all-absorbing son. "Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help. "I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything for them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!" Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a long while. "I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's been doing it all his life--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich, that he'll never be. Money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard. Such work is healthy, isn't it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach in his own way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them, and Mother will be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and revel in the little dears to my heart's content. Think what luxury-- Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me." As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he'd have an apoplectic fit. "I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard. "Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate." "She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer." "Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also--perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I've got a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much--plucky little souls--but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and I know all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?" "I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful look. "And I've succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I'll just point to you, and say 'There's your model, my lads'." Poor Laurie didn't know where to look, for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all faces turn approvingly upon him. "I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if I've got on at all, you may thank these two for it," and he laid one hand gently on his grandfather's head, and the other on Amy's golden one, for the three were never far apart. "I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth. It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted. Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her 'wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable 'cow with a crumpled horn' used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the 'Bhaer-garten', as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants. It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be--'a happy, homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness'. Every room in the big house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon had its owner. A regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for 'Mother Bhaer'. She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads, their penitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching little confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more. There were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys, boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was welcome to the 'Bhaer-garten', though some people predicted that his admission would ruin the school. Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness--Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well. There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire. Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down. Everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world. Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying... The gentle apple's winey juice. The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the bird's nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring in, while Amy with a beautiful motherly expression in her face sketched the various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch beside him. Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly. At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own sweet will. When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times--"Aunt March, God bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her memory green. "Now, Grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times three!" That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed, from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to Grandma's--for the children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March. Demi's miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut, Rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words--"To dear Grandma, from her little Beth." During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand success, for Mrs. March couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all. After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree. "I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'unlucky Jo' again, when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer, taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was rapturously churning. "And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys. "Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all mankind. "Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these," and Jo pointed from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to them. "My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world," and Meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and devout content. "My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I've begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing I've ever done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel." As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed for ... Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and sad and dreary. "She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale one. "I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can't love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, 'Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'" "There's no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that I'm far happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is getting gray and stout. I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty. We never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys, I can't help using their expressions now and then." "Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of countenance. "Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow. "I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy softly. "A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee dear," added Meg's tender voice. Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility... "Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!"

chapter 47

https://web.archive.org/web/20190903025235/http:/thebestnotes.com/booknotes/Little_Women_Alcott/Little_Women_Study_Guide19.html

Jo works and waits for a year while the professor fulfills his teaching obligation. After they are married they take up residence at Plumfield, the mansion willed to Jo by Aunt March. There Jo opens a school for boys. The Bhaer school at last gives the Laurences opportunity to spend their wealth for a worthy cause. They have a knack for finding boys who need the attention of the boys' home, and they always insist on paying "a trifle" for the support of the ones they send. Within five years of Jo's marriage, the Bhaer's have a lively home full of noisy boys, including two of their own. Amy's one shadow is that her only child is a frail little girl whom she fears losing, but Mrs. March encourages her to be hopeful. The story ends with the family all together-minus Beth-but with the addition of well-loved husbands and grandchildren.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_0_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 1

part 1, chapter 1

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5", "summary": "Playing Pilgrims The story begins on Christmas Eve, where the four daughters are gathered in their simple living room lamenting that, this year, they are too poor to have presents on Christmas. Meg is sixteen and quite pretty. She can be vain, especially about her soft, white hands. Jo is fifteen years old, a tomboy with a fierce temper. Jo loves to write stories and plays, which the girls act out. Beth is thirteen and exceptionally quiet, but she loves music and her family. Beth loves music and her family. Amy is the youngest at twelve. She is vain about her appearance and tries to act like a lady, using long words incorrectly. She enjoys drawing and longs to be a famous artist. Each of the girls only has one dollar, and their mother feels that spending money on presents is wasteful during wartime. To cheer themselves up, the girls decide they will each buy themselves a present. Meg wants nice things, Jo wants a book, Beth new music, and Amy drawing pencils. But as they prepare for their mother's arrival, they decide that instead of buying presents for themselves, they will all buy presents for their Mother, \"Marmee. When Marmee comes in, they enjoy a simple supper, and sit together by the fire to read a cherished letter from their Father. Mr. March, a philosopher, teacher, and pastor, was too old to be a soldier in the Union Army, so he joined as a chaplain. The whole family misses him dearly and worries about his safety. Father's letter reminds them to be dutiful, loving and kind, so when he returns he \"may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women. Inspired by the letter, the girls decide to play a game based on Pilgrim's Progress and each work toward improving a personal character flaw. Meg's goal is to be less vain and do her work dutifully without complaint. Jo hopes to be womanlier and less wild. Beth aims to be less bashful and happy with her work, not envying girls with nice pianos. Amy vows to be less selfish. Marmee promises to give them guidebooks and loving support for their journeys. Everyone sings together and then goes to bed", "analysis": "These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, \"Young readers like to know 'how people look.'\" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on \"Norna; or, The Witch's Curse,\" published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to \"give some clue to the plan of the story.\" By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context."}

I. PLAYING PILGRIMS. "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. "It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress. "I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff. "We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly, from her corner. The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,-- "We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time." She didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of father far away, where the fighting was. Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,-- "You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for every one; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't;" and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted. "But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintram for myself; I've wanted it _so_ long," said Jo, who was a bookworm. "I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth-brush and kettle-holder. "I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pencils; I really need them," said Amy decidedly. "Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner. "I know _I_ do,--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again. "You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out of the window or cry?" "It's naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get so stiff, I can't practise well at all;" and Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time. "I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice." "If you mean _libel_, I'd say so, and not talk about _labels_, as if papa was a pickle-bottle," advised Jo, laughing. "I know what I mean, and you needn't be _statirical_ about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your _vocabilary_," returned Amy, with dignity. "Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times. "You said the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money." "So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work, we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say." "Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. "Don't, Jo; it's so boyish!" "That's why I do it." "I detest rude, unlady-like girls!" "I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!" "'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time. "Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady." "I'm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the blue army-sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room. "Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that all the dish-washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch. "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant; but your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang." "If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth, ready to share the lecture. "You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family. As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman, and didn't like it. Elizabeth--or Beth, as every one called her--was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom disturbed. Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name suited her excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person,--in her own opinion at least. A regular snow-maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair, curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out. The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls; for mother was coming, and every one brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze. [Illustration: Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm] "They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair." "I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "No, I shall!" cried Amy. "I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided-- "I'm the man of the family now papa is away, and _I_ shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was gone." "I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; "let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves." "That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo. Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves." "Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo. "Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth. "I'll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy. "How will we give the things?" asked Meg. "Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo. [Illustration: I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair] "I used to be _so_ frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time. "Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air. "I don't mean to act any more after this time; I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about "dressing-up" frolics. "You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse to-night. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that." "I can't help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful; I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. [Illustration: Do it this way, clasp your hands so] "Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!'" and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery; and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun, with interest. "It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laugh, don't blame me. Come on, Meg." Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect; Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!" "It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows. "I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things. "Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think 'The Witch's Curse, an Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do. "No, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter. "Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady, with a "can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world. "Well, dearies, how have you got on to-day? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby." While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and fro between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave directions to every one, as she sat with her hands folded. As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper." A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "A letter! a letter! Three cheers for father!" "Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs. March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there. "Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger, and simper over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking in her tea, and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to get at the treat. Beth ate no more, but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready. "I think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg warmly. "Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a _vivan_--what's its name? or a nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan. "It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy. "When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice. "Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter." They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at her feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching. Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered; it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only at the end did the writer's heart overflow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home. [Illustration: It was a cheerful, hopeful letter] "Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women." Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "I _am_ a selfish girl! but I'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me by and by." "We all will!" cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks, and hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it." "I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman,' and not be rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down South. Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army-sock, and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home. [Illustration: How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress] Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim's Progress when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the house-top, where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a Celestial City." "What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!" said Jo. "I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled down stairs," said Meg. "My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant moment had come back to her. "I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve. "We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before father comes home." "Really, mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very literal young lady. "Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother. "Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people." Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much. "Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to be good, it's hard work, and we forget, and don't do our best." "We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and pulled us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions, like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty. "Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your guide-book," replied Mrs. March. They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table; then out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but to-night no one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them. [Illustration: No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano] At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed. No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoilt the most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could lisp "Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar," and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer. The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby. [Illustration: At nine they stopped work and sung as usual] [Illustration: A Merry Christmas]

part 1, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5

Playing Pilgrims The story begins on Christmas Eve, where the four daughters are gathered in their simple living room lamenting that, this year, they are too poor to have presents on Christmas. Meg is sixteen and quite pretty. She can be vain, especially about her soft, white hands. Jo is fifteen years old, a tomboy with a fierce temper. Jo loves to write stories and plays, which the girls act out. Beth is thirteen and exceptionally quiet, but she loves music and her family. Beth loves music and her family. Amy is the youngest at twelve. She is vain about her appearance and tries to act like a lady, using long words incorrectly. She enjoys drawing and longs to be a famous artist. Each of the girls only has one dollar, and their mother feels that spending money on presents is wasteful during wartime. To cheer themselves up, the girls decide they will each buy themselves a present. Meg wants nice things, Jo wants a book, Beth new music, and Amy drawing pencils. But as they prepare for their mother's arrival, they decide that instead of buying presents for themselves, they will all buy presents for their Mother, "Marmee. When Marmee comes in, they enjoy a simple supper, and sit together by the fire to read a cherished letter from their Father. Mr. March, a philosopher, teacher, and pastor, was too old to be a soldier in the Union Army, so he joined as a chaplain. The whole family misses him dearly and worries about his safety. Father's letter reminds them to be dutiful, loving and kind, so when he returns he "may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women. Inspired by the letter, the girls decide to play a game based on Pilgrim's Progress and each work toward improving a personal character flaw. Meg's goal is to be less vain and do her work dutifully without complaint. Jo hopes to be womanlier and less wild. Beth aims to be less bashful and happy with her work, not envying girls with nice pianos. Amy vows to be less selfish. Marmee promises to give them guidebooks and loving support for their journeys. Everyone sings together and then goes to bed

These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, "Young readers like to know 'how people look.'" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on "Norna; or, The Witch's Curse," published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to "give some clue to the plan of the story." By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_0_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 2

part 1, chapter 2

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5", "summary": "A Very Merry Christmas The girls wake up to find books under their pillows, with an inscription in each from their mother, and decide to read their books every morning. Inspired by the book, Amy acts on her wish to be less selfish by spending all her money on a large bottle of cologne for her mother, rather than saving some money for herself. The girls hide their presents. Marmee returns and asks the girls if they will send their Christmas breakfast to the nearby family of immigrants, where a single, sick mother lives with six children without food or firewood. Despite their hunger, the girls agree, and they all walk over to the Hummel family's home and spend the morning sharing their food and kindness. The Hummel children call the girls \"angels,\" and the girls are deeply happy to have \"loved our neighbor better than ourselves. Upon returning home, the girls surprise their mother with their gifts, who is very touched. They then prepare their Christmas play, written by Jo, and performed for twelve of their friends. Jo plays the male parts, and there are a few accidents, as all the props and sets are made by hand. The play is a great success, and afterwards the girls and audience are surprised by a luxurious and fancy feast. Mr. Laurence, the wealthy gentleman who lives next door, heard about the girls giving up their Christmas breakfast to the poor Hummels, and sent the elaborate supper as a reward. Mr. Laurence is perceived as proud, but the girls are curious about his bashful nephew", "analysis": "These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, \"Young readers like to know 'how people look.'\" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on \"Norna; or, The Witch's Curse,\" published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to \"give some clue to the plan of the story.\" By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context."}

II. A MERRY CHRISTMAS. Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was so crammed with goodies. Then she remembered her mother's promise, and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guide-book for any pilgrim going the long journey. She woke Meg with a "Merry Christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently Beth and Amy woke, to rummage and find their little books also,--one dove-colored, the other blue; and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day. In spite of her small vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given. "Girls," said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about it; but since father went away, and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things. You can do as you please; but _I_ shall keep my book on the table here, and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it will do me good, and help me through the day." Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her, and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face. "How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters' example. "I'm glad mine is blue," said Amy; and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting. "Where is mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later. "Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter come a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed. There never _was_ such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant. "She will be back soon, I think; so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. "Why, where is Amy's bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear. "She took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army-slippers. "How nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor. "Bless the child! she's gone and put 'Mother' on them instead of 'M. March.' How funny!" cried Jo, taking up one. "Isn't it right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are 'M. M.,' and I don't want any one to use these but Marmee," said Beth, looking troubled. "It's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea,--quite sensible, too, for no one can ever mistake now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo and a smile for Beth. "There's mother. Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed, and steps sounded in the hall. Amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her. "Where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early. "Don't laugh at me, Jo! I didn't mean any one should know till the time came. I only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave _all_ my money to get it, and I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more." As she spoke, Amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one; and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the spot, and Jo pronounced her "a trump," while Beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle. "You see I felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up: and I'm _so_ glad, for mine is the handsomest now." Another bang of the street-door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast. "Merry Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books; we read some, and mean to every day," they cried, in chorus. "Merry Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little new-born baby. Six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over there; and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold. My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?" They were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke; only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously,-- "I'm so glad you came before we began!" "May I go and help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth, eagerly. "_I_ shall take the cream and the muffins," added Amy, heroically giving up the articles she most liked. Meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate. "I thought you'd do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinner-time." They were soon ready, and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party. [Illustration: The procession set out] A poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bed-clothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm. How the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in! "Ach, mein Gott! it is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy. "Funny angels in hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them laughing. In a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own. The girls, meantime, spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds,--laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken English. "Das ist gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things, as they ate, and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who had been considered a "Sancho" ever since she was born. That was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of it; and when they went away, leaving comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on Christmas morning. "That's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set out their presents, while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor Hummels. Not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles; and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table. "She's coming! Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo, prancing about, while Meg went to conduct mother to the seat of honor. Beth played her gayest march, Amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched; and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents, and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a "perfect fit." There was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home-festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work. The morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theatre, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and--necessity being the mother of invention,--made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their productions,--pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter-boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond-shaped bits, left in sheets when the lids of tin preserve-pots were cut out. The furniture was used to being turned topsy-turvy, and the big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels. No gentlemen were admitted; so Jo played male parts to her heart's content, and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet-leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures, and appeared on all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece; and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society. On Christmas night, a dozen girls piled on to the bed which was the dress-circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp-smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the Operatic Tragedy began. "A gloomy wood," according to the one play-bill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made with a clothes-horse for a roof, bureaus for walls; and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it, and an old witch bending over it. The stage was dark, and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside; then Hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouched hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo, his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath. Bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern, and ordered Hagar to come forth with a commanding "What ho, minion! I need thee!" [Illustration: Out came Meg with gray horse-hair hanging about her face] Out came Meg, with gray horse-hair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him, and one to destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter:-- "Hither, hither, from thy home, Airy sprite, I bid thee come! Born of roses, fed on dew, Charms and potions canst thou brew? Bring me here, with elfin speed, The fragrant philter which I need; Make it sweet and swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song!" [Illustration: A little figure in cloudy white] A soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head. Waving a wand, it sang,-- "Hither I come, From my airy home, Afar in the silver moon. Take the magic spell, And use it well, Or its power will vanish soon!" And, dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from Hagar produced another apparition,--not a lovely one; for, with a bang, an ugly black imp appeared, and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo, and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, Hugo departed; and Hagar informed the audience that, as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she has cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play. A good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again; but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage-carpentering had been got up, no one murmured at the delay. It was truly superb! A tower rose to the ceiling; half-way up appeared a window, with a lamp burning at it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut love-locks, a guitar, and the boots, of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones. Zara replied, and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope-ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down, when, "Alas! alas for Zara!" she forgot her train,--it caught in the window; the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins! A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told you so!" With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside,-- "Don't laugh! Act as if it was all right!"--and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara: she also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them away, looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and hides; sees him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the timid little servant "Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon." The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the "minion," carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and, after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies; while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody. This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair rather marred the effect of the villain's death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together. Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can save her, if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away to find and rescue his lady-love. Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it; and, after a touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the "stern sire": he consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace. [Illustration: The lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing] Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check; for the cot-bed, on which the "dress-circle" was built, suddenly shut up, and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided, when Hannah appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper." This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was unheard-of since the departed days of plenty. There was ice-cream,--actually two dishes of it, pink and white,--and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot-house flowers! It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely. "Is it fairies?" asked Amy, "It's Santa Claus," said Beth. "Mother did it"; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows. "Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration. "All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March. "The Laurence boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don't know him!" exclaimed Meg. "Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago; and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse; and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast." "That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us; but he's bashful, and Meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" of satisfaction. "You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?" asked one of the girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence; but says he's very proud, and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn't come. Mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls." "Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally,--all about cricket, and so on,--when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day; for he needs fun, I'm sure he does," said Jo decidedly. [Illustration: We talked over the fence] "I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I've no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own." "It's a mercy you didn't, mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots. "But we'll have another play, some time, that he _can_ see. Perhaps he'll help act; wouldn't that be jolly?" "I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers with great interest. "They _are_ lovely! But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt. Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to father. I'm afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe"]

part 1, Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5

A Very Merry Christmas The girls wake up to find books under their pillows, with an inscription in each from their mother, and decide to read their books every morning. Inspired by the book, Amy acts on her wish to be less selfish by spending all her money on a large bottle of cologne for her mother, rather than saving some money for herself. The girls hide their presents. Marmee returns and asks the girls if they will send their Christmas breakfast to the nearby family of immigrants, where a single, sick mother lives with six children without food or firewood. Despite their hunger, the girls agree, and they all walk over to the Hummel family's home and spend the morning sharing their food and kindness. The Hummel children call the girls "angels," and the girls are deeply happy to have "loved our neighbor better than ourselves. Upon returning home, the girls surprise their mother with their gifts, who is very touched. They then prepare their Christmas play, written by Jo, and performed for twelve of their friends. Jo plays the male parts, and there are a few accidents, as all the props and sets are made by hand. The play is a great success, and afterwards the girls and audience are surprised by a luxurious and fancy feast. Mr. Laurence, the wealthy gentleman who lives next door, heard about the girls giving up their Christmas breakfast to the poor Hummels, and sent the elaborate supper as a reward. Mr. Laurence is perceived as proud, but the girls are curious about his bashful nephew

These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, "Young readers like to know 'how people look.'" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on "Norna; or, The Witch's Curse," published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to "give some clue to the plan of the story." By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_0_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 3

part 1, chapter 3

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5", "summary": "The Laurence Boy Meg and Jo are invited to a New Year's Eve dance at the Gardiner house. While getting ready, it is quickly apparent that tomboy Jo is ill suited for such a party, with a dress burnt from standing too close to the fire, gloves stained with lemonade, and little sense of proper, ladylike ways to behave. While trying to curl Meg's hair, Jo accidentally burns off the hair instead. Meg is much more ladylike, despite having to share her gloves with Jo, not having a silk dress and wearing very tight shoes. Meg tells Jo that she will raise her eyebrows if Jo is acting improperly. At the party, unable to dance because of her burnt dress, Jo stumbles into a corner where Theodore Laurence, nephew of their wealth neighbor, is also hiding. The boy, called Laurie, is fifteen like Jo, and he is quickly drawn out of his shyness by her boyish nature, and the two get along very well. Meg beckons Jo away saying she sprained her ankle in her tight, high-heeled shoes. Jo tries to get coffee and ice for Meg, but spills the coffee down her dress. Laurie helps Jo and entertains them both, then offers a ride home in his carriage. While Jo is reluctant to accept a favor, Laurie insists. Meg reflects that it is nice to sometimes feel elegant like a lady, but Jo points out that their family is just as happy as elegant people with fine things", "analysis": "These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, \"Young readers like to know 'how people look.'\" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on \"Norna; or, The Witch's Curse,\" published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to \"give some clue to the plan of the story.\" By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context."}

III. THE LAURENCE BOY. "Jo! Jo! where are you?" cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs. "Here!" answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the "Heir of Redclyffe," wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo's favorite refuge; and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn't mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks, and waited to hear the news. "Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for to-morrow night!" cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then proceeding to read it, with girlish delight. "'Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New-Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go; now what _shall_ we wear?" "What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?" answered Jo, with her mouth full. "If I only had a silk!" sighed Meg. "Mother says I may when I'm eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait." "I'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly, and I can't take any out." "You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like." "Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without," said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress. "You _must_ have gloves, or I won't go," cried Meg decidedly. "Gloves are more important than anything else; you can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be _so_ mortified." "Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing; it's no fun to go sailing round; I like to fly about and cut capers." "You can't ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn't get you any more this winter. Can't you make them do?" asked Meg anxiously. "I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are; that's all I can do. No! I'll tell you how we can manage--each wear one good one and carry a bad one; don't you see?" "Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her. "Then I'll go without. I don't care what people say!" cried Jo, taking up her book. "You may have it, you may! only don't stain it, and do behave nicely. Don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'Christopher Columbus!' will you?" "Don't worry about me; I'll be as prim as I can, and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story." So Meg went away to "accept with thanks," look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble. On New-Year's Eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing-maids, and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of "getting ready for the party." Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs. [Illustration: Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks] "Ought they to smoke like that?" asked Beth, from her perch on the bed. "It's the dampness drying," replied Jo. "What a queer smell! it's like burnt feathers," observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air. "There, now I'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said Jo, putting down the tongs. She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hair-dresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim. "Oh, oh, oh! what _have_ you done? I'm spoilt! I can't go! My hair, oh, my hair!" wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead. "Just my luck! you shouldn't have asked me to do it; I always spoil everything. I'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I've made a mess," groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret. "It isn't spoilt; just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I've seen many girls do it so," said Amy consolingly. "Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I'd let my hair alone," cried Meg petulantly. "So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again," said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep. After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the family Jo's hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits,--Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine." Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo's nineteen hair-pins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant or die! "Have a good time, dearies!" said Mrs. March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. "Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven, when I send Hannah for you." As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window,-- "Girls, girls! _have_ you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?" "Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers," cried Jo, adding, with a laugh, as they went on, "I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake." "It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied Meg, who had a good many little "aristocratic tastes" of her own. "Now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? and does my hair look _very_ bad?" said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs. Gardiner's dressing-room, after a prolonged prink. "I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?" returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush. "No, winking isn't lady-like; I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to any one: it isn't the thing." "How _do_ you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn't that music gay?" [Illustration: Mrs. Gardiner greeted them] Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs. Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her ease very soon; but Jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big red-headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the "Laurence boy." [Illustration: Face to face with the Laurence boy] "Dear me, I didn't know any one was here!" stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in. But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled,-- "Don't mind me; stay, if you like." "Sha'n't I disturb you?" "Not a bit; I only came here because I don't know many people, and felt rather strange at first, you know." "So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather." The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy,-- "I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us, don't you?" "Next door"; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo's prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home. That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way,-- "We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present." "Grandpa sent it." "But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?" "How is your cat, Miss March?" asked the boy, trying to look sober, while his black eyes shone with fun. "Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo," returned the young lady. "I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie." "Laurie Laurence,--what an odd name!" "My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead." "I hate my name, too--so sentimental! I wish every one would say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?" "I thrashed 'em." "I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it"; and Jo resigned herself with a sigh. "Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?" asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her. "I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and let Meg sail about. Don't you dance?" "Sometimes; you see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here." "Abroad!" cried Jo. "Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels." Laurie didn't seem to know where to begin; but Jo's eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers. "Don't I wish I'd been there!" cried Jo. "Did you go to Paris?" "We spent last winter there." "Can you talk French?" "We were not allowed to speak any thing else at Vevay." "Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce." "Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?" said Laurie good-naturedly. "How nicely you do it! Let me see,--you said, 'Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers,' didn't you?" "Oui, mademoiselle." "It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?" "Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady." Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticised and chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie's bashfulness soon wore off; for Jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the "Laurence boy" better than ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them. "Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?" It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask; but she checked herself in time, and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way. "I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books,--no, I mean studying hard"; and Jo blushed at the dreadful "pegging" which had escaped her. Laurie smiled, but didn't seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug,-- "Not for a year or two; I won't go before seventeen, anyway." "Aren't you but fifteen?" asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already. "Sixteen, next month." "How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it." "I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country." "What do you like?" "To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way." Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was; but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?" "If you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow. "I can't; for I told Meg I wouldn't, because--" There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh. "Because what?" asked Laurie curiously. "You won't tell?" "Never!" "Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and, though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know." But Laurie didn't laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently,-- "Never mind that; I'll tell you how we can manage: there's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come?" Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka; for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath; and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students' festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side-room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale. [Illustration: They sat down on the stairs] "I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so, I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain. "I knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night," answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke. "I can't have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send." "I'll go." "No, indeed! It's past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can't stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I'll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can." "I'll ask Laurie; he will go," said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her. "Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell any one. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. I can't dance any more; but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes." "They are going out to supper now. I'll stay with you; I'd rather." "No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I'm so tired, I can't stir!" So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining-room, which she found after going into a china-closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr. Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back. "Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!" exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it. "Can I help you?" said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other. "I was trying to get something for Meg, who is very tired, and some one shook me; and here I am, in a nice state," answered Jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove. "Too bad! I was looking for some one to give this to. May I take it to your sister?" "Oh, thank you! I'll show you where she is. I don't offer to take it myself, for I should only get into another scrape if I did." Jo led the way; and, as if used to waiting on ladies, Laurie drew up a little table, brought a second instalment of coffee and ice for Jo, and was so obliging that even particular Meg pronounced him a "nice boy." They had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of "Buzz," with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when Hannah appeared. Meg forgot her foot, and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of Jo, with an exclamation of pain. "Hush! Don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "It's nothing. I turned my foot a little, that's all"; and limped up-stairs to put her things on. Hannah scolded, Meg cried, and Jo was at her wits' end, till she decided to take things into her own hands. Slipping out, she ran down, and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage. It happened to be a hired waiter, who knew nothing about the neighborhood; and Jo was looking round for help, when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up, and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said. "It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?" began Jo, looking relieved, but hesitating to accept the offer. "I always go early,--I do, truly! Please let me take you home? It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say." That settled it; and, telling him of Meg's mishap, Jo gratefully accepted, and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party. Hannah hated rain as much as a cat does; so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant. Laurie went on the box; so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom. "I had a capital time. Did you?" asked Jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable. "Yes, till I hurt myself. Sallie's friend, Annie Moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her, when Sallie does. She is going in the spring, when the opera comes; and it will be perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered Meg, cheering up at the thought. "I saw you dancing with the red-headed man I ran away from. Was he nice?" "Oh, very! His hair is auburn, not red; and he was very polite, and I had a delicious redowa with him." "He looked like a grasshopper in a fit, when he did the new step. Laurie and I couldn't help laughing. Did you hear us?" "No; but it was very rude. What _were_ you about all that time, hidden away there?" Jo told her adventures, and, by the time she had finished, they were at home. With many thanks, they said "Good night," and crept in, hoping to disturb no one; but the instant their door creaked, two little night-caps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out,-- "Tell about the party! tell about the party!" With what Meg called "a great want of manners," Jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls; and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening. "I declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage, and sit in my dressing-gown, with a maid to wait on me," said Meg, as Jo bound up her foot with arnica, and brushed her hair. "I don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burnt hair, old gowns, one glove apiece, and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them." And I think Jo was quite right. [Illustration: Tell about the party] [Illustration: The kitten stuck like a burr just out of reach]

part 1, Chapter 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5

The Laurence Boy Meg and Jo are invited to a New Year's Eve dance at the Gardiner house. While getting ready, it is quickly apparent that tomboy Jo is ill suited for such a party, with a dress burnt from standing too close to the fire, gloves stained with lemonade, and little sense of proper, ladylike ways to behave. While trying to curl Meg's hair, Jo accidentally burns off the hair instead. Meg is much more ladylike, despite having to share her gloves with Jo, not having a silk dress and wearing very tight shoes. Meg tells Jo that she will raise her eyebrows if Jo is acting improperly. At the party, unable to dance because of her burnt dress, Jo stumbles into a corner where Theodore Laurence, nephew of their wealth neighbor, is also hiding. The boy, called Laurie, is fifteen like Jo, and he is quickly drawn out of his shyness by her boyish nature, and the two get along very well. Meg beckons Jo away saying she sprained her ankle in her tight, high-heeled shoes. Jo tries to get coffee and ice for Meg, but spills the coffee down her dress. Laurie helps Jo and entertains them both, then offers a ride home in his carriage. While Jo is reluctant to accept a favor, Laurie insists. Meg reflects that it is nice to sometimes feel elegant like a lady, but Jo points out that their family is just as happy as elegant people with fine things

These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, "Young readers like to know 'how people look.'" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on "Norna; or, The Witch's Curse," published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to "give some clue to the plan of the story." By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_0_part_5.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 5

part 1, chapter 5

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5", "summary": "Being Neighborly One day Jo, intent on getting to know Laurie, throws a snowball at Laurie's window. She learns that he has had a bad cold and is bored. He invites her over, and the girls all send gifts with Jo, including Beth's cats, which make Laurie laugh and forget his shyness. Jo learns that Laurie, in his loneliness, often watches their family's warm and loving activities, and she invites him to come visit. Jo tells stories about her family, and Laurie shows Jo their remarkable library, where she waits when Laurie goes to see the doctor. Looking at a portrait of Mr. Laurence, Jo muses to herself that he looks kind, but strong-willed, and that she should not be afraid of him. Jo is startled by Mr. Laurence, who had quietly come in the room and heard all she said. He compliments Jo's grandfather, whom he knew well, and Jo remarks that she thinks Laurie needs more company. Over tea, seeing Jo and Laurie get along, Mr. Laurence comes to agree that Laurie should spend more time with the March family. After playing the piano for Jo, which upsets Mr. Laurence, Laurie sends her away with thanks for the present her mother sent and promises to visit soon. Jo arrives home and describes the luxurious house and its inhabitants to her family. She learns from Marmee that Mr. Laurence's son married an Italian musician, despite his disapproval. When Laurie's parents died Mr. Laurence adopted him, but Laurie's talent for music reminds Mr. Laurence of his son, and makes him fear losing Laurie. Meg compliments Laurie's manners. Jo hopes that they will all be great friends, and Mrs. March agrees. Beth remarks that, just as in Pilgrim's Progress, they have found a Palace Beautiful - but first they must make it past the lions", "analysis": "These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, \"Young readers like to know 'how people look.'\" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on \"Norna; or, The Witch's Curse,\" published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to \"give some clue to the plan of the story.\" By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context."}

V. BEING NEIGHBORLY. [Illustration: Being neighborly] "What in the world are you going to do now, Jo?" asked Meg, one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other. "Going out for exercise," answered Jo, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I should think two long walks this morning would have been enough! It's cold and dull out; and I advise you to stay, warm and dry, by the fire, as I do," said Meg, with a shiver. "Never take advice! Can't keep still all day, and, not being a pussycat, I don't like to doze by the fire. I like adventures, and I'm going to find some." Meg went back to toast her feet and read "Ivanhoe"; and Jo began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for Beth to walk in when the sun came out; and the invalid dolls needed air. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. Both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls, and the flowers which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach-house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains. Yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house; for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson. To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights, which no one enjoyed. She had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the "Laurence boy," who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin. Since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him; but he had not been seen lately, and Jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where Beth and Amy were snow-balling one another. "That boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself. "His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!" The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things, and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. The plan of "going over" was not forgotten; and when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Laurence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused, and took a survey. All quiet,--curtains down at the lower windows; servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window. "There he is," thought Jo, "poor boy! all alone and sick this dismal day. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snow-ball, and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him." Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out,-- "How do you do? Are you sick?" [Illustration: Laurie opened the window] Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,-- "Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week." "I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?" "Nothing; it's as dull as tombs up here." "Don't you read?" "Not much; they won't let me." "Can't somebody read to you?" "Grandpa does, sometimes; but my books don't interest him, and I hate to ask Brooke all the time." "Have some one come and see you, then." "There isn't any one I'd like to see. Boys make such a row, and my head is weak." "Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet, and like to play nurse." "Don't know any." "You know us," began Jo, then laughed, and stopped. "So I do! Will you come, please?" cried Laurie. "I'm not quiet and nice; but I'll come, if mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut that window, like a good boy, and wait till I come." With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready; for, as Mrs. March said, he was "a little gentleman," and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh collar, and trying to tidy up the room, which, in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for "Mr. Laurie," and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady. "All right, show her up, it's Miss Jo," said Laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet Jo, who appeared, looking rosy and kind and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and Beth's three kittens in the other. "Here I am, bag and baggage," she said briskly. "Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc-mange; she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you'd laugh at them, but I couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something." It so happened that Beth's funny loan was just the thing; for, in laughing over the kits, Laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once. "That looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc-mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy's pet geranium. "It isn't anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea: it's so simple, you can eat it; and, being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat. What a cosy room this is!" "It might be if it was kept nice; but the maids are lazy, and I don't know how to make them mind. It worries me, though." "I'll right it up in two minutes; for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so,--and the things made straight on the mantel-piece so,--and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit. Now, then, you're fixed." And so he was; for, as she laughed and talked, Jo had whisked things into place, and given quite a different air to the room. Laurie watched her in respectful silence; and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully,-- "How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair, and let me do something to amuse my company." "No; I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?" and Jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by. "Thank you; I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk," answered Laurie. "Not a bit; I'll talk all day if you'll only set me going. Beth says I never know when to stop." "Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home a good deal, and sometimes goes out with a little basket?" asked Laurie, with interest. "Yes, that's Beth; she's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too." "The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?" "How did you find that out?" Laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "Why, you see, I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times. I beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are; and when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all round the table with your mother; her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, I can't help watching it. I haven't got any mother, you know;" and Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control. The solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to Jo's warm heart. She had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child. Laurie was sick and lonely; and, feeling how rich she was in home-love and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him. Her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said,-- "We'll never draw that curtain any more, and I give you leave to look as much as you like. I just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and Beth would sing to you if _I_ begged her to, and Amy would dance; Meg and I would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?" "I think he would, if your mother asked him. He's very kind, though he does not look so; and he lets me do what I like, pretty much, only he's afraid I might be a bother to strangers," began Laurie, brightening more and more. "We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother. We _want_ to know you, and I've been trying to do it this ever so long. We haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you." "You see grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and I have no one to go about with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can." "That's bad. You ought to make an effort, and go visiting everywhere you are asked; then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to. Never mind being bashful; it won't last long if you keep going." Laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness; for there was so much good-will in Jo, it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant. "Do you like your school?" asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire, and Jo looked about her, well pleased. "Don't go to school; I'm a business man--girl, I mean. I go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered Jo. Laurie opened his mouth to ask another question; but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable. Jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at Aunt March, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked Spanish, and the library where she revelled. Laurie enjoyed that immensely; and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo Aunt March, and, in the middle of a fine speech, how Poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter. [Illustration: Poll tweaked off his wig] "Oh! that does me no end of good. Tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa-cushion, red and shining with merriment. Much elated with her success, Jo did "tell on," all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived. Then they got to talking about books; and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself. "If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandpa is out, so you needn't be afraid," said Laurie, getting up. "I'm not afraid of anything," returned Jo, with a toss of the head. "I don't believe you are!" exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods. The atmosphere of the whole house being summer-like, Laurie led the way from room to room, letting Jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy; and so at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands, and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and sleepy-hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes; and, best of all, a great open fireplace, with quaint tiles all round it. "What richness!" sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velvet chair, and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction. "Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively. "A fellow can't live on books," said Laurie, shaking his head, as he perched on a table opposite. Before he could say more, a bell rung, and Jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "Mercy me! it's your grandpa!" "Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know," returned the boy, looking wicked. "I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it," said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door. "I'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged. I'm only afraid you are very tired talking to me; it was _so_ pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop," said Laurie gratefully. "The doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke. "Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him," said Laurie. "Don't mind me. I'm as happy as a cricket here," answered Jo. Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman, when the door opened again, and, without turning, she said decidedly, "I'm sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as handsome as _my_ grandfather, but I like him." "Thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her; and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence. Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said. For a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her; but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her: so she resolved to stay, and get out of the scrape as she could. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy gray eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones; and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal. The gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after that dreadful pause, "So you're not afraid of me, hey?" "Not much, sir." "And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?" "Not quite, sir." "And I've got a tremendous will, have I?" "I only said I thought so." "But you like me, in spite of it?" "Yes, I do, sir." That answer pleased the old gentleman; he gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying, with a nod, "You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He _was_ a fine man, my dear; but, what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend." [Illustration: Putting his finger under her chin] "Thank you, sir;" and Jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly. "What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?" was the next question, sharply put. "Only trying to be neighborly, sir;" and Jo told how her visit came about. "You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?" "Yes, sir; he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us," said Jo eagerly. "Tut, tut, tut! that was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?" "Doing nicely, sir;" and off went Jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the Hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were. "Just her father's way of doing good. I shall come and see your mother some fine day. Tell her so. There's the tea-bell; we have it early, on the boy's account. Come down, and go on being neighborly." "If you'd like to have me, sir." "Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't;" and Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. "What _would_ Meg say to this?" thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home. "Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?" said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running down stairs, and brought up with a start of surprise at the astonishing sight of Jo arm-in-arm with his redoubtable grandfather. "I didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance. "That's evident, by the way you racket down stairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman;" and having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, Mr. Laurence walked on, while Laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from Jo. The old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him. There was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh. "She's right; the lad _is_ lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him; and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself. If the Laurences had been what Jo called "prim and poky," she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward; but finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression. When they rose she proposed to go, but Laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit. It seemed quite fairylike to Jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung above her,--while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full; then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look Jo liked to see, "Please give these to your mother, and tell her I like the medicine she sent me very much." [Illustration: Please give these to your mother] They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing-room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open. "Do you play?" she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression. "Sometimes," he answered modestly. "Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth." "Won't you first?" "Don't know how; too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly." So Laurie played, and Jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea-roses. Her respect and regard for the "Laurence boy" increased very much, for he played remarkably well, and didn't put on any airs. She wished Beth could hear him, but she did not say so; only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to the rescue. "That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugar-plums are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. Going? Well, I'm much obliged to you, and I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good-night, Doctor Jo." He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said anything amiss. He shook his head. "No, it was me; he doesn't like to hear me play." "Why not?" "I'll tell you some day. John is going home with you, as I can't." "No need of that; I am not a young lady, and it's only a step. Take care of yourself, won't you?" "Yes; but you will come again, I hope?" "If you promise to come and see us after you are well." "I will." "Good-night, Laurie!" "Good-night, Jo, good-night!" When all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge. Mrs. March wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him; Meg longed to walk in the conservatory; Beth sighed for the grand piano; and Amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues. "Mother, why didn't Mr. Laurence like to have Laurie play?" asked Jo, who was of an inquiring disposition. "I am not sure, but I think it was because his son, Laurie's father, married an Italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud. The lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married. They both died when Laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home. I fancy the boy, who was born in Italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful. Laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and I dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician; at any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered,' as Jo said." "Dear me, how romantic!" exclaimed Meg. "How silly!" said Jo. "Let him be a musician, if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go." "That's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, I suppose. Italians are always nice," said Meg, who was a little sentimental. "What do you know about his eyes and his manners? You never spoke to him, hardly," cried Jo, who was _not_ sentimental. "I saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave. That was a nice little speech about the medicine mother sent him." "He meant the blanc-mange, I suppose." "How stupid you are, child! He meant you, of course." "Did he?" and Jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before. "I never saw such a girl! You don't know a compliment when you get it," said Meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter. "I think they are great nonsense, and I'll thank you not to be silly, and spoil my fun. Laurie's a nice boy, and I like him, and I won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish. We'll all be good to him, because he hasn't got any mother, and he _may_ come over and see us, mayn't he, Marmee?" "Yes, Jo, your little friend is very welcome, and I hope Meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can." "I don't call myself a child, and I'm not in my teens yet," observed Amy. "What do you say, Beth?" "I was thinking about our 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" answered Beth, who had not heard a word. "How we got out of the Slough and through the Wicket Gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying; and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our Palace Beautiful." "We have got to get by the lions, first," said Jo, as if she rather liked the prospect. [Illustration: Tail-piece]

part 1, Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-1-through-chapter-5

Being Neighborly One day Jo, intent on getting to know Laurie, throws a snowball at Laurie's window. She learns that he has had a bad cold and is bored. He invites her over, and the girls all send gifts with Jo, including Beth's cats, which make Laurie laugh and forget his shyness. Jo learns that Laurie, in his loneliness, often watches their family's warm and loving activities, and she invites him to come visit. Jo tells stories about her family, and Laurie shows Jo their remarkable library, where she waits when Laurie goes to see the doctor. Looking at a portrait of Mr. Laurence, Jo muses to herself that he looks kind, but strong-willed, and that she should not be afraid of him. Jo is startled by Mr. Laurence, who had quietly come in the room and heard all she said. He compliments Jo's grandfather, whom he knew well, and Jo remarks that she thinks Laurie needs more company. Over tea, seeing Jo and Laurie get along, Mr. Laurence comes to agree that Laurie should spend more time with the March family. After playing the piano for Jo, which upsets Mr. Laurence, Laurie sends her away with thanks for the present her mother sent and promises to visit soon. Jo arrives home and describes the luxurious house and its inhabitants to her family. She learns from Marmee that Mr. Laurence's son married an Italian musician, despite his disapproval. When Laurie's parents died Mr. Laurence adopted him, but Laurie's talent for music reminds Mr. Laurence of his son, and makes him fear losing Laurie. Meg compliments Laurie's manners. Jo hopes that they will all be great friends, and Mrs. March agrees. Beth remarks that, just as in Pilgrim's Progress, they have found a Palace Beautiful - but first they must make it past the lions

These chapters lay the foundation for the rest of Part I. Chapter 1 introduces the main storyline of Part I, the girls' effort to improve their characters. The Christmas gifts that they wish for not only provide insight into the girls' personalities, but also become rewards for their individual quests: at the end of Part I, each girl will receive a Christmas present very similar to the one she wished for in Chapter 1. Many of the major themes are introduced in these chapters, as well as the primary conflicts the characters will undergo. The story opens on the family unit, just as it will close in Part I and Part II, emphasizing the fundamental nature of family. The girls are complaining about their poverty, but find comfort in generously sacrificing their Christmas breakfast for the Hummels. This sacrifice not only feels personally rewarding, but is also in accordance with their Christian morality. They girls dedicate themselves to further self-improvement, with assistance and support from Mother, Father, and their guidebooks. Alcott uses various techniques to foreshadow the conflicts her characters will undergo. Meg twists her ankle because of her vanity, wearing high-heeled shoes that are too small. Jo is ignorant of Laurie's compliment of her and hopes they should all be friends. Beth is introduced by the narrator with a lament that so many girls like her are underappreciated until they are gone. Amy shares the misfortunes of her friend getting in trouble at school, not foreseeing her own downfall. We even see Laurie's conflict with his grandfather around music. Alcott's writing engages her readers in dialogue. Her narration is conversational, and she speaks to her readers directly. For example, she acknowledges, "Young readers like to know 'how people look.'" She will continue this style throughout the book, closing Part I by inviting feedback on its reception. Indeed, Alcott's decisions for Part II were partly influenced by the letters she received from readers asking her for specific endings. Alcott is not only in dialogue with her readers, but also with other literature. Alcott weaves her own writings through the story. The play the girls perform is modeled on "Norna; or, The Witch's Curse," published posthumously in 1893 in Comic Tragedies. Her characters are often reading or referring to contemporary and classic books, such as the Undine and Sintram and the Heir of Radclyffe and Arabian Nights. These books suggest character traits, such as the family's experience with poverty in The Vicar of Wakefield, opposition to slavery in Uncle Tom's Cabin, Jo's sense of adventure in Arabian Nights, Meg's sense of romance in Ivanhoe, and Aunt March's worldview in William Belsham's Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary. The most explicit allusion in Alcott's text is her use of John Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. The only Preface is an excerpt from the book, intended to "give some clue to the plan of the story." By applying this allegory of salvation to her girls, Alcott imbues their domestic struggles with a sense of heroic importance. Scholars debate whether the guidebook Marmee gives her girls is Pilgrim's Progress or The New Testament. Either way, the girls' journeys are clearly placed in a Christian context.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_1_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 6

part 1, chapter 6

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-6-through-chapter-9", "summary": "Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful One of the lions to get past before the Marches can enjoy the Palace Beautiful is their awkwardness because they are poor and the Laurences are wealthy. However, they soon learn that Laurie feels himself the benefactor, and they accept the mutual benefit. The March family's philosophy and hard work influences Laurie, and everyone enjoys the Laurence home except Beth, who cannot overcome her fear of the gruff Mr. Laurence. Mr. Laurence hears of this, and asks Mrs. March, so Beth can hear, if one of the girls could come over and play the piano to keep it in tune. Beth approaches him, and Mr. Laurence kindly tells her she reminds him of his own granddaughter. The next day Beth gathers her courage to go to the big house, where she finds easy music on the piano, and then returns daily. To thank Mr. Laurence, Beth makes him a pair of slippers. In return, Mr. Laurence surprises Beth by giving her the cabinet piano that his granddaughter used to play. Beth is so moved that she decides to go thank Mr. Laurence in person, before she becomes too afraid. Mr. Laurence pulls her onto his knee and, remembering his lost granddaughter, Beth kisses him, and the two become fast friends", "analysis": "This section draws most heavily on Pilgrim's Progress, with each of the girls facing a challenge similar to that faced by Christian in the book. Beth must pass the lions, her fear of Mr. Laurence. For Christian, this is a test of faith, for in fact the lions are chained. Beth's faith in the kindness of the Laurences, her gratitude, and her pity for Mr. Laurence losing his granddaughter help her overcome her burden of bashfulness. When going into the Valley of Humiliation, Christian slips a little along the way, despite the help of Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence. Amy's burden is selfishness, and her purchase of the limes is a selfish and indulgent \"slip.\" While Marmee condemns the corporal punishment, she agrees that Amy needed the lesson, which Amy learns. Like Christian, Jo meets Apollyon, a monster who tries to destroy him. The allusion serves to emphasize how evil Jo's temper is and likens it to an external demon she must defeat. Marmee urges Jo to use her faith in God to defeat her temper, as Christian defeats the monster. Like Christian, Meg passes through Vanity Fair, a fair devised to tempt passers-by into all indulging in the lusts of their heart. Also like Christian, Meg's dress is different from that of the other girls. While Christian ultimately escapes unscathed, Meg is tempted, but learns that her vanities cannot be indulged without consequences. Alcott uses simile to compare Meg to a jackdaw, who in Aesop's fable borrows fancy feathers to try being selected as king of the birds, but then is exposed as a fraud. Poverty is a dominant theme in this section of the book. The difference in their wealth is initially a barrier to friendship with the Laurences, but as both parties are noble, they overcome that divide. Marmee later tells Meg and Jo, \"Money is a needful and a precious thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.\" Both Amy and Meg struggle to accept living genuinely within their means, but cannot resist the attention that comes with luxuries like limes or silk dresses. Like the jackdaw in Aesop's fable, both are humiliated. The pressures and expectations of society differ from the morality espoused by the March family. Indeed, Alcott references Marmee reading Maria Edgeworth to the girls, whose popular story \"The Purple Jar\" urged the sensible choice of useful rather than pretty items. In this chapter, we also see Meg concerned about poverty's affect on her marital prospects. The gossip at the party spoils her innocence and marks the beginning of Meg's transition from childhood to adulthood, to Jo's dismay. Marmee recognizes that the \"time has come\" to discuss her plans for marriage with her daughters. Marmee's description contradicts the dominant view of women's roles at the time, for though she describes marriage with a good man as \"the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman,\" she also urges the girls not to marry for riches, or to demean themselves in aspiring for this goal. Marmee embodies her wish for her girls not to fear marriage with a poor but loving man. She misses him, but takes comfort in knowing she is doing her duty to him and to her country, as well as in her Heavenly Father. This quick transition from discussing Father to discussing God, along with Father's absence and gentle encouragement from afar, draws easy comparisons between the two. Father, as a chaplain and minister, is a distant source of Christian comfort for the girls, and he inspires them to be good. The comparison also reflects on Alcott's portrayal of God, as similar to the kind of loving Father the girls know."}

VI. BETH FINDS THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL. The big house did prove a Palace Beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one; but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid Beth. The other lion was the fact that they were poor and Laurie rich; for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return. But, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for Mrs. March's motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs. So they soon forgot their pride, and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater. All sorts of pleasant things happened about that time; for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring. Every one liked Laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that "the Marches were regularly splendid girls." With the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary boy into their midst, and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls. Never having known mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him; and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led. He was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that Mr. Brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports; for Laurie was always playing truant, and running over to the Marches. "Never mind; let him take a holiday, and make it up afterwards," said the old gentleman. "The good lady next door says he is studying too hard, and needs young society, amusement, and exercise. I suspect she is right, and that I've been coddling the fellow as if I'd been his grandmother. Let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy. He can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there; and Mrs. March is doing more for him than we can." What good times they had, to be sure! Such plays and tableaux, such sleigh-rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house. Meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked, and revel in bouquets; Jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms; Amy copied pictures, and enjoyed beauty to her heart's content; and Laurie played "lord of the manor" in the most delightful style. But Beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the "Mansion of Bliss," as Meg called it. She went once with Jo; but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "Hey!" so loud, that he frightened her so much her "feet chattered on the floor," she told her mother; and she ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the dear piano. No persuasions or enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to Mr. Laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters. During one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if fascinated. At the back of his chair she stopped, and stood listening, with her great eyes wide open, and her cheeks red with the excitement of this unusual performance. Taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, Mr. Laurence talked on about Laurie's lessons and teachers; and presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March,-- "The boy neglects his music now, and I'm glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it. But the piano suffers for want of use. Wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and practise on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?" Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation; and the thought of practising on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile,-- "They needn't see or speak to any one, but run in at any time; for I'm shut up in my study at the other end of the house, Laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing-room after nine o'clock." Here he rose, as if going, and Beth made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired. "Please tell the young ladies what I say; and if they don't care to come, why, never mind." Here a little hand slipped into his, and Beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way,-- "O sir, they do care, very, very much!" [Illustration: O sir, they do care very much] "Are you the musical girl?" he asked, without any startling "Hey!" as he looked down at her very kindly. "I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me--and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke. "Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day; so come, and drum away as much as you like, and I shall be obliged to you." "How kind you are, sir!" Beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore; but she was not frightened now, and gave the big hand a grateful squeeze, because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard,-- "I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day, madam;" and away he went, in a great hurry. Beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not at home. How blithely she sung that evening, and how they all laughed at her, because she woke Amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep. Next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, Beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side-door, and made her way, as noiselessly as any mouse, to the drawing-room, where her idol stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano; and, with trembling fingers, and frequent stops to listen and look about, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend. She stayed till Hannah came to take her home to dinner; but she had no appetite, and could only sit and smile upon every one in a general state of beatitude. After that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing-room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen. She never knew that Mr. Laurence often opened his study-door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked; she never saw Laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away; she never suspected that the exercise-books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit; and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much. So she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped. Perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her; at any rate, she deserved both. [Illustration: Mr. Laurence often opened his study door] "Mother, I'm going to work Mr. Laurence a pair of slippers. He is so kind to me, I must thank him, and I don't know any other way. Can I do it?" asked Beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his. "Yes, dear. It will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him. The girls will help you about them, and I will pay for the making up," replied Mrs. March, who took peculiar pleasure in granting Beth's requests, because she so seldom asked anything for herself. After many serious discussions with Meg and Jo, the pattern was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun. A cluster of grave yet cheerful pansies, on a deeper purple ground, was pronounced very appropriate and pretty; and Beth worked away early and late, with occasional lifts over hard parts. She was a nimble little needle-woman, and they were finished before any one got tired of them. Then she wrote a very short, simple note, and, with Laurie's help, got them smuggled on to the study-table one morning before the old gentleman was up. When this excitement was over, Beth waited to see what would happen. All that day passed, and a part of the next, before any acknowledgment arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crotchety friend. On the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an errand, and give poor Joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise. As she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four, heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed,-- "Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!" "O Beth, he's sent you--" began Amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy; but she got no further, for Jo quenched her by slamming down the window. Beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense. At the door, her sisters seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all pointing, and all saying at once, "Look there! look there!" Beth did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise; for there stood a little cabinet-piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed, like a sign-board, to "Miss Elizabeth March." "For me?" gasped Beth, holding on to Jo, and feeling as if she should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether. "Yes; all for you, my precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't you think he's the dearest old man in the world? Here's the key in the letter. We didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says," cried Jo, hugging her sister, and offering the note. "You read it! I can't, I feel so queer! Oh, it is too lovely!" and Beth hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present. Jo opened the paper, and began to laugh, for the first words she saw were,-- "MISS MARCH: "_Dear Madam_,--" "How nice it sounds! I wish some one would write to me so!" said Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant. "'I have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but I never had any that suited me so well as yours,'" continued Jo. "'Heart's-ease is my favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver. I like to pay my debts; so I know you will allow "the old gentleman" to send you something which once belonged to the little granddaughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, I remain, "'Your grateful friend and humble servant, "'JAMES LAURENCE.'" "There, Beth, that's an honor to be proud of, I'm sure! Laurie told me how fond Mr. Laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept all her little things carefully. Just think, he's given you her piano. That comes of having big blue eyes and loving music," said Jo, trying to soothe Beth, who trembled, and looked more excited than she had ever been before. "See the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk, puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and stool, all complete," added Meg, opening the instrument and displaying its beauties. "'Your humble servant, James Laurence'; only think of his writing that to you. I'll tell the girls. They'll think it's splendid," said Amy, much impressed by the note. "Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of the baby-pianny," said Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows. So Beth tried it; and every one pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard. It had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie order; but, perfect as it was, I think the real charm of it lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as Beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright pedals. "You'll have to go and thank him," said Jo, by way of a joke; for the idea of the child's really going never entered her head. "Yes, I mean to. I guess I'll go now, before I get frightened thinking about it." And, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, Beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the Laurences' door. "Well, I wish I may die if it ain't the queerest thing I ever see! The pianny has turned her head! She'd never have gone in her right mind," cried Hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite speechless by the miracle. They would have been still more amazed if they had seen what Beth did afterward. If you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study-door before she gave herself time to think; and when a gruff voice called out, "Come in!" she did go in, right up to Mr. Laurence, who looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a small quaver in her voice, "I came to thank you, sir, for--" But she didn't finish; for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech, and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she put both arms round his neck, and kissed him. [Illustration: She put both arms around his neck and kissed him] If the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman wouldn't have been more astonished; but he liked it,--oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly!--and was so touched and pleased by that confiding little kiss that all his crustiness vanished; and he just set her on his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he had got his own little granddaughter back again. Beth ceased to fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cosily as if she had known him all her life; for love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride. When she went home, he walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was. When the girls saw that performance, Jo began to dance a jig, by way of expressing her satisfaction; Amy nearly fell out of the window in her surprise; and Meg exclaimed, with uplifted hands, "Well, I do believe the world is coming to an end!"

part 1, Chapter 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-6-through-chapter-9

Beth Finds the Palace Beautiful One of the lions to get past before the Marches can enjoy the Palace Beautiful is their awkwardness because they are poor and the Laurences are wealthy. However, they soon learn that Laurie feels himself the benefactor, and they accept the mutual benefit. The March family's philosophy and hard work influences Laurie, and everyone enjoys the Laurence home except Beth, who cannot overcome her fear of the gruff Mr. Laurence. Mr. Laurence hears of this, and asks Mrs. March, so Beth can hear, if one of the girls could come over and play the piano to keep it in tune. Beth approaches him, and Mr. Laurence kindly tells her she reminds him of his own granddaughter. The next day Beth gathers her courage to go to the big house, where she finds easy music on the piano, and then returns daily. To thank Mr. Laurence, Beth makes him a pair of slippers. In return, Mr. Laurence surprises Beth by giving her the cabinet piano that his granddaughter used to play. Beth is so moved that she decides to go thank Mr. Laurence in person, before she becomes too afraid. Mr. Laurence pulls her onto his knee and, remembering his lost granddaughter, Beth kisses him, and the two become fast friends

This section draws most heavily on Pilgrim's Progress, with each of the girls facing a challenge similar to that faced by Christian in the book. Beth must pass the lions, her fear of Mr. Laurence. For Christian, this is a test of faith, for in fact the lions are chained. Beth's faith in the kindness of the Laurences, her gratitude, and her pity for Mr. Laurence losing his granddaughter help her overcome her burden of bashfulness. When going into the Valley of Humiliation, Christian slips a little along the way, despite the help of Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence. Amy's burden is selfishness, and her purchase of the limes is a selfish and indulgent "slip." While Marmee condemns the corporal punishment, she agrees that Amy needed the lesson, which Amy learns. Like Christian, Jo meets Apollyon, a monster who tries to destroy him. The allusion serves to emphasize how evil Jo's temper is and likens it to an external demon she must defeat. Marmee urges Jo to use her faith in God to defeat her temper, as Christian defeats the monster. Like Christian, Meg passes through Vanity Fair, a fair devised to tempt passers-by into all indulging in the lusts of their heart. Also like Christian, Meg's dress is different from that of the other girls. While Christian ultimately escapes unscathed, Meg is tempted, but learns that her vanities cannot be indulged without consequences. Alcott uses simile to compare Meg to a jackdaw, who in Aesop's fable borrows fancy feathers to try being selected as king of the birds, but then is exposed as a fraud. Poverty is a dominant theme in this section of the book. The difference in their wealth is initially a barrier to friendship with the Laurences, but as both parties are noble, they overcome that divide. Marmee later tells Meg and Jo, "Money is a needful and a precious thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for." Both Amy and Meg struggle to accept living genuinely within their means, but cannot resist the attention that comes with luxuries like limes or silk dresses. Like the jackdaw in Aesop's fable, both are humiliated. The pressures and expectations of society differ from the morality espoused by the March family. Indeed, Alcott references Marmee reading Maria Edgeworth to the girls, whose popular story "The Purple Jar" urged the sensible choice of useful rather than pretty items. In this chapter, we also see Meg concerned about poverty's affect on her marital prospects. The gossip at the party spoils her innocence and marks the beginning of Meg's transition from childhood to adulthood, to Jo's dismay. Marmee recognizes that the "time has come" to discuss her plans for marriage with her daughters. Marmee's description contradicts the dominant view of women's roles at the time, for though she describes marriage with a good man as "the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman," she also urges the girls not to marry for riches, or to demean themselves in aspiring for this goal. Marmee embodies her wish for her girls not to fear marriage with a poor but loving man. She misses him, but takes comfort in knowing she is doing her duty to him and to her country, as well as in her Heavenly Father. This quick transition from discussing Father to discussing God, along with Father's absence and gentle encouragement from afar, draws easy comparisons between the two. Father, as a chaplain and minister, is a distant source of Christian comfort for the girls, and he inspires them to be good. The comparison also reflects on Alcott's portrayal of God, as similar to the kind of loving Father the girls know.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_1_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 7

part 1, chapter 7

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-6-through-chapter-9", "summary": "Amy's Valley of Humiliation Amy sighs for money, wishing she could buy pickled limes to treat her friends at school. Meg gives her a quarter, and Amy brings the limes to school. One unkind girl reports the limes to Mr. Davis, the teacher. Mr. Davis makes Amy throw the limes into the snow, then strikes her palm and makes her stand in front of the class until lunch. For Amy, the experience is deeply humiliating, since Amy's parents had never hit her. At recess, Amy takes her possessions and goes straight home. Marmee withdraws Amy from the school, but she lectures Amy on breaking the rules, and encourages her to be more modest. Amy, upon reflection, realizes that Laurie is accomplished, but not conceited, so people enjoy his natural charm", "analysis": "This section draws most heavily on Pilgrim's Progress, with each of the girls facing a challenge similar to that faced by Christian in the book. Beth must pass the lions, her fear of Mr. Laurence. For Christian, this is a test of faith, for in fact the lions are chained. Beth's faith in the kindness of the Laurences, her gratitude, and her pity for Mr. Laurence losing his granddaughter help her overcome her burden of bashfulness. When going into the Valley of Humiliation, Christian slips a little along the way, despite the help of Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence. Amy's burden is selfishness, and her purchase of the limes is a selfish and indulgent \"slip.\" While Marmee condemns the corporal punishment, she agrees that Amy needed the lesson, which Amy learns. Like Christian, Jo meets Apollyon, a monster who tries to destroy him. The allusion serves to emphasize how evil Jo's temper is and likens it to an external demon she must defeat. Marmee urges Jo to use her faith in God to defeat her temper, as Christian defeats the monster. Like Christian, Meg passes through Vanity Fair, a fair devised to tempt passers-by into all indulging in the lusts of their heart. Also like Christian, Meg's dress is different from that of the other girls. While Christian ultimately escapes unscathed, Meg is tempted, but learns that her vanities cannot be indulged without consequences. Alcott uses simile to compare Meg to a jackdaw, who in Aesop's fable borrows fancy feathers to try being selected as king of the birds, but then is exposed as a fraud. Poverty is a dominant theme in this section of the book. The difference in their wealth is initially a barrier to friendship with the Laurences, but as both parties are noble, they overcome that divide. Marmee later tells Meg and Jo, \"Money is a needful and a precious thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.\" Both Amy and Meg struggle to accept living genuinely within their means, but cannot resist the attention that comes with luxuries like limes or silk dresses. Like the jackdaw in Aesop's fable, both are humiliated. The pressures and expectations of society differ from the morality espoused by the March family. Indeed, Alcott references Marmee reading Maria Edgeworth to the girls, whose popular story \"The Purple Jar\" urged the sensible choice of useful rather than pretty items. In this chapter, we also see Meg concerned about poverty's affect on her marital prospects. The gossip at the party spoils her innocence and marks the beginning of Meg's transition from childhood to adulthood, to Jo's dismay. Marmee recognizes that the \"time has come\" to discuss her plans for marriage with her daughters. Marmee's description contradicts the dominant view of women's roles at the time, for though she describes marriage with a good man as \"the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman,\" she also urges the girls not to marry for riches, or to demean themselves in aspiring for this goal. Marmee embodies her wish for her girls not to fear marriage with a poor but loving man. She misses him, but takes comfort in knowing she is doing her duty to him and to her country, as well as in her Heavenly Father. This quick transition from discussing Father to discussing God, along with Father's absence and gentle encouragement from afar, draws easy comparisons between the two. Father, as a chaplain and minister, is a distant source of Christian comfort for the girls, and he inspires them to be good. The comparison also reflects on Alcott's portrayal of God, as similar to the kind of loving Father the girls know."}

VII. AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION. [Illustration: The Cyclops] "That boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he?" said Amy, one day, as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed. "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? and very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend. "I didn't say anything about his eyes, and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding." "Oh, my goodness! that little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops," exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. "You needn't be so rude; it's only a 'lapse of lingy,' as Mr. Davis says," retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. "Why?" asked Meg kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder. "I need it so much; I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag-money for a month." "In debt, Amy? What do you mean?" and Meg looked sober. "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop." "Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls;" and Meg tried to keep her countenance, Amy looked so grave and important. "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it, too. It's nothing but limes now, for every one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and trading them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime; if she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and don't offer even a suck. They treat by turns; and I've had ever so many, but haven't returned them; and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know." "How much will pay them off, and restore your credit?" asked Meg, taking out her purse. "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes?" "Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money. Make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know." "Oh, thank you! It must be so nice to have pocket-money! I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and I'm actually suffering for one." Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to treat, circulated through her "set," and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess; and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about "some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people, who were not too proud to ask for them;" and she instantly crushed "that Snow girl's" hopes by the withering telegram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any." A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments, and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing-gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post-office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen, with tyrannical tempers, and no more talent for teaching than Dr. Blimber. Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, Algebra, and ologies of all sorts, so he was called a fine teacher; and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia; and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved: therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a school-girl, "he was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear." The word "limes" was like fire to powder; his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity. "Young ladies, attention, if you please!" At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance. "Miss March, come to the desk." Amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience. "Bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat. "Don't take all," whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind. Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfortunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath. "Is that all?" "Not quite," stammered Amy. "Bring the rest immediately." With a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed. "You are sure there are no more?" "I never lie, sir." "So I see. Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window." There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times; and as each doomed couple--looking oh! so plump and juicy--fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish children, who were their sworn foes. This--this was too much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears. As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous "Hem!" and said, in his most impressive manner,-- "Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I _never_ break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand." Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with "old Davis," as, of course, he was called, and it's my private belief that he _would_ have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate. "Your hand, Miss March!" was the only answer her mute appeal received; and, too proud to cry or beseech, Amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck; and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down. [Illustration: Amy bore without flinching several tingling blows] "You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun. That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few enemies; but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it; and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic figure before them. During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience; for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought,-- "I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!" The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end at last, and the word "Recess!" had never seemed so welcome to her before. "You can go, Miss March," said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable. He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home; and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not say much, but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears; Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this; Jo wrathfully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; and Hannah shook her fist at the "villain," and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle. No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous. Just before school closed, Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression, as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother; then collected Amy's property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet. "Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day, with Beth," said Mrs. March, that evening. "I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else." "That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes," sighed Amy, with the air of a martyr. "I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy. "Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school?" cried Amy. "I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a milder method. You are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long; even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty." "So it is!" cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with Jo. "I knew a girl, once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it; never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if any one had told her." "I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly. "You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery. [Illustration: You do know her] Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best, and sung delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea,-- "Is Laurie an accomplished boy?" "Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent; he will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting," replied her mother. "And he isn't conceited, is he?" asked Amy. "Not in the least; that is why he is so charming, and we all like him so much." "I see; it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant; but not to show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully. "These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display them," said Mrs. March. "Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added Jo; and the lecture ended in a laugh. [Illustration: Girls, where are you going?]

part 1, Chapter 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-6-through-chapter-9

Amy's Valley of Humiliation Amy sighs for money, wishing she could buy pickled limes to treat her friends at school. Meg gives her a quarter, and Amy brings the limes to school. One unkind girl reports the limes to Mr. Davis, the teacher. Mr. Davis makes Amy throw the limes into the snow, then strikes her palm and makes her stand in front of the class until lunch. For Amy, the experience is deeply humiliating, since Amy's parents had never hit her. At recess, Amy takes her possessions and goes straight home. Marmee withdraws Amy from the school, but she lectures Amy on breaking the rules, and encourages her to be more modest. Amy, upon reflection, realizes that Laurie is accomplished, but not conceited, so people enjoy his natural charm

This section draws most heavily on Pilgrim's Progress, with each of the girls facing a challenge similar to that faced by Christian in the book. Beth must pass the lions, her fear of Mr. Laurence. For Christian, this is a test of faith, for in fact the lions are chained. Beth's faith in the kindness of the Laurences, her gratitude, and her pity for Mr. Laurence losing his granddaughter help her overcome her burden of bashfulness. When going into the Valley of Humiliation, Christian slips a little along the way, despite the help of Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence. Amy's burden is selfishness, and her purchase of the limes is a selfish and indulgent "slip." While Marmee condemns the corporal punishment, she agrees that Amy needed the lesson, which Amy learns. Like Christian, Jo meets Apollyon, a monster who tries to destroy him. The allusion serves to emphasize how evil Jo's temper is and likens it to an external demon she must defeat. Marmee urges Jo to use her faith in God to defeat her temper, as Christian defeats the monster. Like Christian, Meg passes through Vanity Fair, a fair devised to tempt passers-by into all indulging in the lusts of their heart. Also like Christian, Meg's dress is different from that of the other girls. While Christian ultimately escapes unscathed, Meg is tempted, but learns that her vanities cannot be indulged without consequences. Alcott uses simile to compare Meg to a jackdaw, who in Aesop's fable borrows fancy feathers to try being selected as king of the birds, but then is exposed as a fraud. Poverty is a dominant theme in this section of the book. The difference in their wealth is initially a barrier to friendship with the Laurences, but as both parties are noble, they overcome that divide. Marmee later tells Meg and Jo, "Money is a needful and a precious thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for." Both Amy and Meg struggle to accept living genuinely within their means, but cannot resist the attention that comes with luxuries like limes or silk dresses. Like the jackdaw in Aesop's fable, both are humiliated. The pressures and expectations of society differ from the morality espoused by the March family. Indeed, Alcott references Marmee reading Maria Edgeworth to the girls, whose popular story "The Purple Jar" urged the sensible choice of useful rather than pretty items. In this chapter, we also see Meg concerned about poverty's affect on her marital prospects. The gossip at the party spoils her innocence and marks the beginning of Meg's transition from childhood to adulthood, to Jo's dismay. Marmee recognizes that the "time has come" to discuss her plans for marriage with her daughters. Marmee's description contradicts the dominant view of women's roles at the time, for though she describes marriage with a good man as "the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman," she also urges the girls not to marry for riches, or to demean themselves in aspiring for this goal. Marmee embodies her wish for her girls not to fear marriage with a poor but loving man. She misses him, but takes comfort in knowing she is doing her duty to him and to her country, as well as in her Heavenly Father. This quick transition from discussing Father to discussing God, along with Father's absence and gentle encouragement from afar, draws easy comparisons between the two. Father, as a chaplain and minister, is a distant source of Christian comfort for the girls, and he inspires them to be good. The comparison also reflects on Alcott's portrayal of God, as similar to the kind of loving Father the girls know.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_1_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 8

part 1, chapter 8

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-6-through-chapter-9", "summary": "Jo Meets Apollyon Laurie invites Jo and Meg to the theater, and Amy begs to go along, but Jo refuses. To get revenge, Amy burns up a book manuscript, a collection of stories that Jo had been writing for several years. Jo, who has a hot temper, shakes Amy and boxes her ears. Gradually Amy realizes she was wrong, but Jo will not forgive her. The next day Jo goes skating with Laurie. Amy follows, but Jo does not tell her which ice is safe, and Amy falls through the ice. Laurie rescues Amy, with Jo's help. At home, with Amy safe, Jo confesses to her Mother that she was consumed by anger and could have lost Amy as a result. Marmee then tells Jo that she, too, once had a very bad temper, but that she has learned to control it. Jo's Father has been a great help to her, and she tries to be an example for her girls. Jo takes great comfort and inspiration from her Mother sharing this weakness, and prays that she will never again let her anger bring her so close to tragedy", "analysis": "This section draws most heavily on Pilgrim's Progress, with each of the girls facing a challenge similar to that faced by Christian in the book. Beth must pass the lions, her fear of Mr. Laurence. For Christian, this is a test of faith, for in fact the lions are chained. Beth's faith in the kindness of the Laurences, her gratitude, and her pity for Mr. Laurence losing his granddaughter help her overcome her burden of bashfulness. When going into the Valley of Humiliation, Christian slips a little along the way, despite the help of Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence. Amy's burden is selfishness, and her purchase of the limes is a selfish and indulgent \"slip.\" While Marmee condemns the corporal punishment, she agrees that Amy needed the lesson, which Amy learns. Like Christian, Jo meets Apollyon, a monster who tries to destroy him. The allusion serves to emphasize how evil Jo's temper is and likens it to an external demon she must defeat. Marmee urges Jo to use her faith in God to defeat her temper, as Christian defeats the monster. Like Christian, Meg passes through Vanity Fair, a fair devised to tempt passers-by into all indulging in the lusts of their heart. Also like Christian, Meg's dress is different from that of the other girls. While Christian ultimately escapes unscathed, Meg is tempted, but learns that her vanities cannot be indulged without consequences. Alcott uses simile to compare Meg to a jackdaw, who in Aesop's fable borrows fancy feathers to try being selected as king of the birds, but then is exposed as a fraud. Poverty is a dominant theme in this section of the book. The difference in their wealth is initially a barrier to friendship with the Laurences, but as both parties are noble, they overcome that divide. Marmee later tells Meg and Jo, \"Money is a needful and a precious thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.\" Both Amy and Meg struggle to accept living genuinely within their means, but cannot resist the attention that comes with luxuries like limes or silk dresses. Like the jackdaw in Aesop's fable, both are humiliated. The pressures and expectations of society differ from the morality espoused by the March family. Indeed, Alcott references Marmee reading Maria Edgeworth to the girls, whose popular story \"The Purple Jar\" urged the sensible choice of useful rather than pretty items. In this chapter, we also see Meg concerned about poverty's affect on her marital prospects. The gossip at the party spoils her innocence and marks the beginning of Meg's transition from childhood to adulthood, to Jo's dismay. Marmee recognizes that the \"time has come\" to discuss her plans for marriage with her daughters. Marmee's description contradicts the dominant view of women's roles at the time, for though she describes marriage with a good man as \"the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman,\" she also urges the girls not to marry for riches, or to demean themselves in aspiring for this goal. Marmee embodies her wish for her girls not to fear marriage with a poor but loving man. She misses him, but takes comfort in knowing she is doing her duty to him and to her country, as well as in her Heavenly Father. This quick transition from discussing Father to discussing God, along with Father's absence and gentle encouragement from afar, draws easy comparisons between the two. Father, as a chaplain and minister, is a distant source of Christian comfort for the girls, and he inspires them to be good. The comparison also reflects on Alcott's portrayal of God, as similar to the kind of loving Father the girls know."}

VIII. JO MEETS APOLLYON. "Girls, where are you going?" asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out, with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity. "Never mind; little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned Jo sharply. Now if there _is_ anything mortifying to our feelings, when we are young, it is to be told that; and to be bidden to "run away, dear," is still more trying to us. Amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour. Turning to Meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "Do tell me! I should think you might let me go, too; for Beth is fussing over her piano, and I haven't got anything to do, and am _so_ lonely." "I can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began Meg; but Jo broke in impatiently, "Now, Meg, be quiet, or you will spoil it all. You can't go, Amy; so don't be a baby, and whine about it." "You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are; you were whispering and laughing together, on the sofa, last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?" "Yes, we are; now do be still, and stop bothering." Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket. "I know! I know! you're going to the theatre to see the 'Seven Castles!'" she cried; adding resolutely, "and I _shall_ go, for mother said I might see it; and I've got my rag-money, and it was mean not to tell me in time." "Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said Meg soothingly. "Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time." "I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me; I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good," pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could. "Suppose we take her. I don't believe mother would mind, if we bundle her up well," began Meg. "If _she_ goes _I_ sha'n't; and if I don't, Laurie won't like it; and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child, when she wanted to enjoy herself. Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "I _shall_ go; Meg says I may; and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it." "You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit alone; so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our pleasure; or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper, when you weren't asked. You sha'n't stir a step; so you may just stay where you are," scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry. Sitting on the floor, with one boot on, Amy began to cry, and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing; for now and then she forgot her grown-up ways, and acted like a spoilt child. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters, in a threatening tone, "You'll be sorry for this, Jo March; see if you ain't." "Fiddlesticks!" returned Jo, slamming the door. They had a charming time, for "The Seven Castles of the Diamond Lake" were as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish. But, in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and gorgeous princes and princesses, Jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it; the fairy queen's yellow curls reminded her of Amy; and between the acts she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her "sorry for it." She and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury, because she was such an angel afterward. Poor Jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her; and it took years of patient effort to subdue it. When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air as they came in; never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire, and receive a glowing description of the play. On going up to put away her best hat, Jo's first look was toward the bureau; for, in their last quarrel, Amy had soothed her feelings by turning Jo's top drawer upside down on the floor. Everything was in its place, however; and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs. There Jo was mistaken; for next day she made a discovery which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited, and demanding breathlessly, "Has any one taken my book?" Meg and Beth said "No," at once, and looked surprised; Amy poked the fire, and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise, and was down upon her in a minute. "Amy, you've got it?" "No, I haven't." "You know where it is, then?" "No, I don't." "That's a fib!" cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy. "It isn't. I haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't care." "You know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or I'll make you," and Jo gave her a slight shake. "Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again," cried Amy, getting excited in her turn. "Why not?" "I burnt it up." [Illustration: I burnt it up] "What! my little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before father got home? Have you really burnt it?" said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously. "Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so--" Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head; crying, in a passion of grief and anger,-- "You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never forgive you as long as I live." Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself; and, with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone. The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister. Jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her. Beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and Meg refused to defend her pet; Mrs. March looked grave and grieved, and Amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any of them. When the tea-bell rung, Jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all Amy's courage to say meekly,-- "Please forgive me, Jo; I'm very, very sorry." "I never shall forgive you," was Jo's stern answer; and, from that moment, she ignored Amy entirely. No one spoke of the great trouble,--not even Mrs. March,--for all had learned by experience that when Jo was in that mood words were wasted; and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature, softened Jo's resentment, and healed the breach. It was not a happy evening; for, though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home-peace was disturbed. They felt this most when singing-time came; for Beth could only play, Jo stood dumb as a stone, and Amy broke down, so Meg and mother sung alone. But, in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flute-like voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune. As Jo received her good-night kiss, Mrs. March whispered gently,-- "My dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger; forgive each other, help each other, and begin again to-morrow." Jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away; but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really _couldn't_ quite forgive yet. So she winked hard, shook her head, and said, gruffly because Amy was listening,-- "It was an abominable thing, and she don't deserve to be forgiven." With that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night. Amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating. Jo still looked like a thunder-cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning; she dropped her precious turn-over in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of fidgets, Meg was pensive, Beth _would_ look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good, and yet wouldn't try, when other people set them a virtuous example. "Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know," said Jo to herself, and off she went. Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation,-- "There! she promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a cross-patch to take me." "Don't say that; you _were_ very naughty, and it _is_ hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book; but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said Meg. "Go after them; don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, then take a quiet minute, and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again, with all her heart." "I'll try," said Amy, for the advice suited her; and, after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill. It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back; Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap. "I'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right, before we begin to race," Amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young Russian, in his fur-trimmed coat and cap. Jo heard Amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing her fingers, as she tried to put her skates on; but Jo never turned, and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles. She had cherished her anger till it grew strong, and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do, unless cast out at once. As Laurie turned the bend, he shouted back,-- "Keep near the shore; it isn't safe in the middle." Jo heard, but Amy was just struggling to her feet, and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear,-- "No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself." Laurie had vanished round the bend; Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still, with a strange feeling at her heart; then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with the sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. She tried to call Laurie, but her voice was gone; she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them; and, for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring, with a terror-stricken face, at the little blue hood above the black water. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out,-- "Bring a rail; quick, quick!" How she did it, she never knew; but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and, lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt. [Illustration: Held Amy up by his arms and hockey] "Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can; pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates," cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps, which never seemed so intricate before. Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home; and, after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets, before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken; but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails, and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her, and began to bind up the hurt hands. "Are you sure she is safe?" whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice. "Quite safe, dear; she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied her mother cheerfully. "Laurie did it all; I only let her go. Mother, if she _should_ die, it would be my fault"; and Jo dropped down beside the bed, in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her. "It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it; I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than ever. O mother, what shall I do? what shall I do?" cried poor Jo, in despair. "Watch and pray, dear; never get tired of trying; and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault," said Mrs. March, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder, and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that Jo cried harder than ever. "You don't know, you can't guess how bad it is! It seems as if I could do anything when I'm in a passion; I get so savage, I could hurt any one, and enjoy it. I'm afraid I _shall_ do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me. O mother, help me, do help me!" "I will, my child, I will. Don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve, with all your soul, that you will never know another like it. Jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them. You think your temper is the worst in the world; but mine used to be just like it." "Yours, mother? Why, you are never angry!" and, for the moment, Jo forgot remorse in surprise. "I've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo; but I have learned not to show it; and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so." The patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to Jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof. She felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her; the knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it; though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray, to a girl of fifteen. "Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together, and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds, or people worry you?" asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before. "Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips; and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away a minute, and give myself a little shake, for being so weak and wicked," answered Mrs. March, with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's dishevelled hair. "How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me--for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about; and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings, and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear." "My good mother used to help me--" "As you do us--" interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss. "But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to any one else. I had a hard time, Jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my failures; for, in spite of my efforts, I never seemed to get on. Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. But by and by, when I had four little daughters round me, and we were poor, then the old trouble began again; for I am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything." "Poor mother! what helped you then?" "Your father, Jo. He never loses patience,--never doubts or complains,--but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully, that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practise all the virtues I would have my little girls possess, for I was their example. It was easier to try for your sakes than for my own; a startled or surprised look from one of you, when I spoke sharply, rebuked me more than any words could have done; and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward I could receive for my efforts to be the woman I would have them copy." "O mother, if I'm ever half as good as you, I shall be satisfied," cried Jo, much touched. "I hope you will be a great deal better, dear; but you must keep watch over your 'bosom enemy,' as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life. You have had a warning; remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known to-day." "I will try, mother; I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind, but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight or went away: was he reminding you then?" asked Jo softly. "Yes; I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look." Jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled, as she spoke; and, fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, "Was it wrong to watch you, and to speak of it? I didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all I think to you, and feel so safe and happy here." "My Jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me, and know how much I love them." "I thought I'd grieved you." "No, dear; but speaking of father reminded me how much I miss him, how much I owe him, and how faithfully I should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him." "Yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said Jo, wondering. "I gave my best to the country I love, and kept my tears till he was gone. Why should I complain, when we both have merely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it in the end? If I don't seem to need help, it is because I have a better friend, even than father, to comfort and sustain me. My child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning, and may be many; but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your Heavenly Father as you do that of your earthly one. The more you love and trust Him, the nearer you will feel to Him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom. His love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of life-long peace, happiness, and strength. Believe this heartily, and go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother." Jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and, in the silence which followed, the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words; for in that sad, yet happy hour, she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control; and, led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the Friend who welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother. Amy stirred, and sighed in her sleep; and, as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before. "I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn't forgive her, and to-day, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?" said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow. As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss. [Illustration: Packing the go abroady trunk]

part 1, Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-6-through-chapter-9

Jo Meets Apollyon Laurie invites Jo and Meg to the theater, and Amy begs to go along, but Jo refuses. To get revenge, Amy burns up a book manuscript, a collection of stories that Jo had been writing for several years. Jo, who has a hot temper, shakes Amy and boxes her ears. Gradually Amy realizes she was wrong, but Jo will not forgive her. The next day Jo goes skating with Laurie. Amy follows, but Jo does not tell her which ice is safe, and Amy falls through the ice. Laurie rescues Amy, with Jo's help. At home, with Amy safe, Jo confesses to her Mother that she was consumed by anger and could have lost Amy as a result. Marmee then tells Jo that she, too, once had a very bad temper, but that she has learned to control it. Jo's Father has been a great help to her, and she tries to be an example for her girls. Jo takes great comfort and inspiration from her Mother sharing this weakness, and prays that she will never again let her anger bring her so close to tragedy

This section draws most heavily on Pilgrim's Progress, with each of the girls facing a challenge similar to that faced by Christian in the book. Beth must pass the lions, her fear of Mr. Laurence. For Christian, this is a test of faith, for in fact the lions are chained. Beth's faith in the kindness of the Laurences, her gratitude, and her pity for Mr. Laurence losing his granddaughter help her overcome her burden of bashfulness. When going into the Valley of Humiliation, Christian slips a little along the way, despite the help of Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence. Amy's burden is selfishness, and her purchase of the limes is a selfish and indulgent "slip." While Marmee condemns the corporal punishment, she agrees that Amy needed the lesson, which Amy learns. Like Christian, Jo meets Apollyon, a monster who tries to destroy him. The allusion serves to emphasize how evil Jo's temper is and likens it to an external demon she must defeat. Marmee urges Jo to use her faith in God to defeat her temper, as Christian defeats the monster. Like Christian, Meg passes through Vanity Fair, a fair devised to tempt passers-by into all indulging in the lusts of their heart. Also like Christian, Meg's dress is different from that of the other girls. While Christian ultimately escapes unscathed, Meg is tempted, but learns that her vanities cannot be indulged without consequences. Alcott uses simile to compare Meg to a jackdaw, who in Aesop's fable borrows fancy feathers to try being selected as king of the birds, but then is exposed as a fraud. Poverty is a dominant theme in this section of the book. The difference in their wealth is initially a barrier to friendship with the Laurences, but as both parties are noble, they overcome that divide. Marmee later tells Meg and Jo, "Money is a needful and a precious thing,--and, when well used, a noble thing,--but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for." Both Amy and Meg struggle to accept living genuinely within their means, but cannot resist the attention that comes with luxuries like limes or silk dresses. Like the jackdaw in Aesop's fable, both are humiliated. The pressures and expectations of society differ from the morality espoused by the March family. Indeed, Alcott references Marmee reading Maria Edgeworth to the girls, whose popular story "The Purple Jar" urged the sensible choice of useful rather than pretty items. In this chapter, we also see Meg concerned about poverty's affect on her marital prospects. The gossip at the party spoils her innocence and marks the beginning of Meg's transition from childhood to adulthood, to Jo's dismay. Marmee recognizes that the "time has come" to discuss her plans for marriage with her daughters. Marmee's description contradicts the dominant view of women's roles at the time, for though she describes marriage with a good man as "the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman," she also urges the girls not to marry for riches, or to demean themselves in aspiring for this goal. Marmee embodies her wish for her girls not to fear marriage with a poor but loving man. She misses him, but takes comfort in knowing she is doing her duty to him and to her country, as well as in her Heavenly Father. This quick transition from discussing Father to discussing God, along with Father's absence and gentle encouragement from afar, draws easy comparisons between the two. Father, as a chaplain and minister, is a distant source of Christian comfort for the girls, and he inspires them to be good. The comparison also reflects on Alcott's portrayal of God, as similar to the kind of loving Father the girls know.

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Little Women.part 1.chapter 10

part 1, chapter 10

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14", "summary": "The P. C. and P. O. In the spring, the girls tend to their garden plots and form a secret society named the Pickwick Club, after Dickens, with each dressing and acting like a particular character. They create a weekly newspaper, which the narrator assures the readers is a copy of a genuine newspaper composed by four real girls. Jo proposes adding Laurie to the club, and Meg and Amy at first oppose, wanting to be private, but Beth speaks on Laurie's behalf and wins the day. Jo then shocks the club by revealing that Laurie was hiding in the closet all along. Laurie apologizes for the trick, and makes amends with the presentation of a post office, a converted birdhouse to sit in the hedge between the two houses. Delighted with the gift, the club enjoys a lively discussion and benefits from Laurie's presence. The post office, the narrator tells us, flourishes as well, passing trinkets and tickets as well as even a few love letters in the future", "analysis": "This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's \"Pickwick Society\" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of \"v\" for \"w\" in \"dewote\" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to \"Delectable Mountain\" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their \"Celestial City.\" Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg \"there is no place like America for us workers.\" Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being \"free and easy\" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, \"We don't cheat in America.\" As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term \"Yankee\" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, \"Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies.\" Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are \"demonstrative\" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie."}

X. THE P. C. AND P. O. As spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts. The garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with. Hannah used to say, "I'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef I see 'em in Chiny;" and so she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters. Meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange-tree in it. Jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments; this year it was to be a plantation of sun-flowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed "Aunt Cockle-top" and her family of chicks. Beth had old-fashioned, fragrant flowers in her garden,--sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the bird, and catnip for the pussies. Amy had a bower in hers,--rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at,--with honeysuckles and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it; tall, white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there. Gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower-hunts employed the fine days; and for rainy ones, they had house diversions,--some old, some new,--all more or less original. One of these was the "P. C."; for, as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one; and, as all of the girls admired Dickens, they called themselves the Pickwick Club. With a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every Saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows: Three chairs were arranged in a row before a table, on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big "P. C." in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper, called "The Pickwick Portfolio," to which all contributed something; while Jo, who revelled in pens and ink, was the editor. At seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the club-room, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity. Meg, as the eldest, was Samuel Pickwick; Jo, being of a literary turn, Augustus Snodgrass; Beth, because she was round and rosy, Tracy Tupman, and Amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was Nathaniel Winkle. Pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short-comings. [Illustration: Mr. Pickwick] On one occasion, Mr. Pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glasses, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and, having stared hard at Mr. Snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read:-- The Pickwick Portfolio. MAY 20, 18-- Poet's Corner. ANNIVERSARY ODE. Again we meet to celebrate With badge and solemn rite, Our fifty-second anniversary, In Pickwick Hall, to-night. We all are here in perfect health, None gone from our small band; Again we see each well-known face, And press each friendly hand. Our Pickwick, always at his post, With reverence we greet, As, spectacles on nose, he reads Our well-filled weekly sheet. Although he suffers from a cold, We joy to hear him speak, For words of wisdom from him fall, In spite of croak or squeak. Old six-foot Snodgrass looms on high, With elephantine grace, And beams upon the company, With brown and jovial face. Poetic fire lights up his eye, He struggles 'gainst his lot. Behold ambition on his brow, And on his nose a blot! Next our peaceful Tupman comes, So rosy, plump, and sweet. Who chokes with laughter at the puns, And tumbles off his seat. Prim little Winkle too is here, With every hair in place, A model of propriety, Though he hates to wash his face. The year is gone, we still unite To joke and laugh and read, And tread the path of literature That doth to glory lead. Long may our paper prosper well, Our club unbroken be, And coming years their blessings pour On the useful, gay "P. C." A. SNODGRASS. THE MASKED MARRIAGE. A TALE OF VENICE. Gondola after gondola swept up to the marble steps, and left its lovely load to swell the brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of Count de Adelon. Knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks and flower-girls, all mingled gayly in the dance. Sweet voices and rich melody filled the air; and so with mirth and music the masquerade went on. "Has your Highness seen the Lady Viola to-night?" asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who floated down the hall upon his arm. "Yes; is she not lovely, though so sad! Her dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds Count Antonio, whom she passionately hates." "By my faith, I envy him. Yonder he comes, arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask. When that is off we shall see how he regards the fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour. "'Tis whispered that she loves the young English artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the old count," said the lady, as they joined the dance. The revel was at its height when a priest appeared, and, withdrawing the young pair to an alcove hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel. Instant silence fell upon the gay throng; and not a sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of orange-groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the hush, as Count de Adelon spoke thus:-- "My lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which I have gathered you here to witness the marriage of my daughter. Father, we wait your services." All eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a low murmur of amazement went through the throng, for neither bride nor groom removed their masks. Curiosity and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained all tongues till the holy rite was over. Then the eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding an explanation. "Gladly would I give it if I could; but I only know that it was the whim of my timid Viola, and I yielded to it. Now, my children, let the play end. Unmask, and receive my blessing." But neither bent the knee; for the young bridegroom replied, in a tone that startled all listeners, as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of Ferdinand Devereux, the artist lover; and, leaning on the breast where now flashed the star of an English earl, was the lovely Viola, radiant with joy and beauty. "My lord, you scornfully bade me claim your daughter when I could boast as high a name and vast a fortune as the Count Antonio. I can do more; for even your ambitious soul cannot refuse the Earl of Devereux and De Vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady, now my wife." The count stood like one changed to stone; and, turning to the bewildered crowd, Ferdinand added, with a gay smile of triumph, "To you, my gallant friends, I can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has done; and that you may all win as fair a bride as I have, by this masked marriage." S. PICKWICK. * * * * * Why is the P. C. like the Tower of Babel? It is full of unruly members. * * * * * THE HISTORY OF A SQUASH. Once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became a vine, and bore many squashes. One day in October, when they were ripe, he picked one and took it to market. A grocer-man bought and put it in his shop. That same morning, a little girl, in a brown hat and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went and bought it for her mother. She lugged it home, cut it up, and boiled it in the big pot; mashed some of it, with salt and butter, for dinner; and to the rest she added a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg, and some crackers; put it in a deep dish, and baked it till it was brown and nice; and next day it was eaten by a family named March. T. TUPMAN. * * * * * MR. PICKWICK, _Sir_:-- I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can't write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which will be all _commy la fo_ that means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school time Yours respectably, N. WINKLE. [The above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past misdemeanors. If our young friend studied punctuation, it would be well.] A SAD ACCIDENT. On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress. On rushing, in a body, to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes. A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes; for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly. On being removed from this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises; and, we are happy to add, is now doing well. ED. *************************************************************** * * * THE PUBLIC BEREAVEMENT. * * * * It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious * * disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat * * Paw. This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large * * circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty * * attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to * * all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole * * community. * * * * When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the * * butcher's cart; and it is feared that some villain, tempted * * by her charms, basely stole her. Weeks have passed, but no * * trace of her has been discovered; and we relinquish all * * hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her dish, * * and weep for her as one lost to us forever. * * * *************************************************************** * * * * * A sympathizing friend sends the following gem:-- A LAMENT FOR S. B. PAT PAW. We mourn the loss of our little pet, And sigh o'er her hapless fate, For never more by the fire she'll sit, Nor play by the old green gate. The little grave where her infant sleeps, Is 'neath the chestnut tree; But o'er _her_ grave we may not weep, We know not where it may be. Her empty bed, her idle ball, Will never see her more; No gentle tap, no loving purr Is heard at the parlor-door. Another cat comes after her mice, A cat with a dirty face; But she does not hunt as our darling did, Nor play with her airy grace. Her stealthy paws tread the very hall Where Snowball used to play, But she only spits at the dogs our pet So gallantly drove away. She is useful and mild, and does her best, But she is not fair to see; And we cannot give her your place, dear, Nor worship her as we worship thee. A. S. ADVERTISEMENTS. MISS ORANTHY BLUGGAGE, the accomplished Strong-Minded Lecturer, will deliver her famous Lecture on "WOMAN AND HER POSITION," at Pickwick Hall, next Saturday Evening, after the usual performances. A WEEKLY MEETING will be held at Kitchen Place, to teach young ladies how to cook. Hannah Brown will preside; and all are invited to attend. THE DUSTPAN SOCIETY will meet on Wednesday next, and parade in the upper story of the Club House. All members to appear in uniform and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely. MRS. BETH BOUNCER will open her new assortment of Doll's Millinery next week. The latest Paris Fashions have arrived, and orders are respectfully solicited. A NEW PLAY will appear at the Barnville Theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which will surpass anything ever seen on the American stage. "THE GREEK SLAVE, or Constantine the Avenger," is the name of this thrilling drama!!! HINTS. If S. P. didn't use so much soap on his hands, he wouldn't always be late at breakfast. A. S. is requested not to whistle in the street. T. T. please don't forget Amy's napkin. N. W. must not fret because his dress has not nine tucks. WEEKLY REPORT. Meg--Good. Jo--Bad. Beth--Very good. Amy--Middling. As the President finished reading the paper (which I beg leave to assure my readers is a _bona fide_ copy of one written by _bona fide_ girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then Mr. Snodgrass rose to make a proposition. "Mr. President and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, "I wish to propose the admission of a new member,--one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice. I propose Mr. Theodore Laurence as an honorary member of the P. C. Come now, do have him." Jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh; but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word, as Snodgrass took his seat. "We'll put it to vote," said the President. "All in favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying 'Ay.'" A loud response from Snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a timid one from Beth. "Contrary minded say 'No.'" Meg and Amy were contrary minded; and Mr. Winkle rose to say, with great elegance, "We don't wish any boys; they only joke and bounce about. This is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper." "I'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward," observed Pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful. Up rose Snodgrass, very much in earnest. "Sir, I give you my word as a gentleman, Laurie won't do anything of the sort. He likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions, and keep us from being sentimental, don't you see? We can do so little for him, and he does so much for us, I think the least we can do is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome if he comes." This artful allusion to benefits conferred brought Tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind. "Yes, we ought to do it, even if we _are_ afraid. I say he _may_ come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes." This spirited burst from Beth electrified the club, and Jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly. "Now then, vote again. Everybody remember it's our Laurie, and say 'Ay!'" cried Snodgrass excitedly. "Ay! ay! ay!" replied three voices at once. "Good! Bless you! Now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the _fetlock_,' as Winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present the new member;" and, to the dismay of the rest of the club, Jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed Laurie sitting on a rag-bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter. [Illustration: Jo threw open the door of the closet] "You rogue! you traitor! Jo, how could you?" cried the three girls, as Snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth; and, producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy. "The coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began Mr. Pickwick, trying to get up an awful frown, and only succeeding in producing an amiable smile. But the new member was equal to the occasion; and, rising, with a grateful salutation to the Chair, said, in the most engaging manner, "Mr. President and ladies,--I beg pardon, gentlemen,--allow me to introduce myself as Sam Weller, the very humble servant of the club." "Good! good!" cried Jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming-pan on which she leaned. "My faithful friend and noble patron," continued Laurie, with a wave of the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed for the base stratagem of to-night. I planned it, and she only gave in after lots of teasing." "Come now, don't lay it all on yourself; you know I proposed the cupboard," broke in Snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly. "Never you mind what she says. I'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the new member, with a Welleresque nod to Mr. Pickwick. "But on my honor, I never will do so again, and henceforth _dewote_ myself to the interest of this immortal club." "Hear! hear!" cried Jo, clashing the lid of the warming-pan like a cymbal. "Go on, go on!" added Winkle and Tupman, while the President bowed benignly. "I merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between adjoining nations, I have set up a post-office in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden; a fine, spacious building, with padlocks on the doors, and every convenience for the mails,--also the females, if I may be allowed the expression. It's the old martin-house; but I've stopped up the door, and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts of things, and save our valuable time. Letters, manuscripts, books, and bundles can be passed in there; and, as each nation has a key, it will be uncommonly nice, I fancy. Allow me to present the club key; and, with many thanks for your favor, take my seat." Great applause as Mr. Weller deposited a little key on the table, and subsided; the warming-pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored. A long discussion followed, and every one came out surprising, for every one did her best; so it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member. No one ever regretted the admittance of Sam Weller, for a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have. He certainly did add "spirit" to the meetings, and "a tone" to the paper; for his orations convulsed his hearers, and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental. Jo regarded them as worthy of Bacon, Milton, or Shakespeare; and remodelled her own works with good effect, she thought. The P. O. was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real office. Tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden-seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, scoldings and puppies. The old gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny telegrams; and his gardener, who was smitten with Hannah's charms, actually sent a love-letter to Jo's care. How they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love-letters that little post-office would hold in the years to come! [Illustration: Jo spent the morning on the river]

part 1, Chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14

The P. C. and P. O. In the spring, the girls tend to their garden plots and form a secret society named the Pickwick Club, after Dickens, with each dressing and acting like a particular character. They create a weekly newspaper, which the narrator assures the readers is a copy of a genuine newspaper composed by four real girls. Jo proposes adding Laurie to the club, and Meg and Amy at first oppose, wanting to be private, but Beth speaks on Laurie's behalf and wins the day. Jo then shocks the club by revealing that Laurie was hiding in the closet all along. Laurie apologizes for the trick, and makes amends with the presentation of a post office, a converted birdhouse to sit in the hedge between the two houses. Delighted with the gift, the club enjoys a lively discussion and benefits from Laurie's presence. The post office, the narrator tells us, flourishes as well, passing trinkets and tickets as well as even a few love letters in the future

This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's "Pickwick Society" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of "v" for "w" in "dewote" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to "Delectable Mountain" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their "Celestial City." Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg "there is no place like America for us workers." Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being "free and easy" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, "We don't cheat in America." As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term "Yankee" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, "Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies." Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are "demonstrative" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_2_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 11

part 1, chapter 11

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14", "summary": "Experiments In the summer, Meg and Jo celebrate that their employers are off for three months elsewhere, so they have vacation. The girls decide that after their hard work, they want to spend their days in idle enjoyment. Amy and Beth wish to have a rest as well, and Marmee grants permission for a one-week experiment, warning that they will miss the balance of some work and some play. The girls indulge in their activities, Meg buying and fixing up clothes new clothes, Jo reading to her heart's delight, Beth arranging her closet and learning music, and Amy drawing. They find the days growing longer and more tiring and pervaded with ennui. Marmee and Hannah make up for their housework, until the weekend, when Marmee gives Hannah a vacation and spends the day resting and going out. The girls are relieved to have some work to do, but are surprised by how challenging the housework is. Meg spoils breakfast and Jo says she will make dinner and invites Laurie. Jo attempts to manage the kitchen, but ends up with burnt bread, salty strawberries, sour cream, meager lobster, and lumpy blancmange. In addition to Laurie, Miss Crocker, an elderly neighborhood gossip, calls for dinner and experiences the entire mess. Despite Jo's disappointment, they all enjoy a laugh over the meal, followed by a somber funeral for Pip, Beth's bird who was not fed all week. The girls continue to work into the evening, cleaning up and managing tea, and feel exhausted when Marmee returns. Marmee asks if the girls enjoyed their experiment, and explains that she deliberately went away so they could see the effects of everyone deciding to be idle, rather than each doing her own duty. Work, she explains, helps everyone feel independent and useful, and it is important to balance work with time for pleasure. The girls each pledge to spend their summers learning a useful skill or accomplishment", "analysis": "This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's \"Pickwick Society\" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of \"v\" for \"w\" in \"dewote\" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to \"Delectable Mountain\" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their \"Celestial City.\" Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg \"there is no place like America for us workers.\" Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being \"free and easy\" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, \"We don't cheat in America.\" As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term \"Yankee\" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, \"Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies.\" Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are \"demonstrative\" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie."}

XI. EXPERIMENTS. "The first of June! The Kings are off to the seashore to-morrow, and I'm free. Three months' vacation,--how I shall enjoy it!" exclaimed Meg, coming home one warm day to find Jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while Beth took off her dusty boots, and Amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party. "Aunt March went to-day, for which, oh, be joyful!" said Jo. "I was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her; if she had, I should have felt as if I ought to do it; but Plumfield is about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and I'd rather be excused. We had a flurry getting the old lady off, and I had a fright every time she spoke to me, for I was in such a hurry to be through that I was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to part from me. I quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright, for, as it drove off, she popped out her head, saying, 'Josy-phine, won't you--?' I didn't hear any more, for I basely turned and fled; I did actually run, and whisked round the corner, where I felt safe." "Poor old Jo! she came in looking as if bears were after her," said Beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air. "Aunt March is a regular samphire, is she not?" observed Amy, tasting her mixture critically. "She means _vampire_, not sea-weed; but it doesn't matter; it's too warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured Jo. "What shall you do all your vacation?" asked Amy, changing the subject, with tact. "I shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied Meg, from the depths of the rocking-chair. "I've been routed up early all winter, and had to spend my days working for other people; so now I'm going to rest and revel to my heart's content." "No," said Jo; "that dozy way wouldn't suit me. I've laid in a heap of books, and I'm going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in the old apple-tree, when I'm not having l------" "Don't say 'larks!'" implored Amy, as a return snub for the "samphire" correction. "I'll say 'nightingales,' then, with Laurie; that's proper and appropriate, since he's a warbler." "Don't let us do any lessons, Beth, for a while, but play all the time, and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed Amy. "Well, I will, if mother doesn't mind. I want to learn some new songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer; they are dreadfully out of order, and really suffering for clothes." "May we, mother?" asked Meg, turning to Mrs. March, who sat sewing, in what they called "Marmee's corner." "You may try your experiment for a week, and see how you like it. I think by Saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as bad as all work and no play." "Oh, dear, no! it will be delicious, I'm sure," said Meg complacently. "I now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, Sairy Gamp,' says. Fun forever, and no grubbing!" cried Jo, rising, glass in hand, as the lemonade went round. They all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the rest of the day. Next morning, Meg did not appear till ten o'clock; her solitary breakfast did not taste nice, and the room seemed lonely and untidy; for Jo had not filled the vases, Beth had not dusted, and Amy's books lay scattered about. Nothing was neat and pleasant but "Marmee's corner," which looked as usual; and there Meg sat, to "rest and read," which meant yawn, and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would get with her salary. Jo spent the morning on the river, with Laurie, and the afternoon reading and crying over "The Wide, Wide World," up in the apple-tree. Beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet, where her family resided; but, getting tired before half done, she left her establishment topsy-turvy, and went to her music, rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash. Amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw, under the honeysuckles, hoping some one would see and inquire who the young artist was. As no one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-long-legs, who examined her work with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home dripping. [Illustration: Amy sat down to draw] At tea-time they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a delightful, though unusually long day. Meg, who went shopping in the afternoon, and got a "sweet blue muslin," had discovered, after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her slightly cross. Jo had burnt the skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading too long. Beth was worried by the confusion of her closet, and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at once; and Amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for Katy Brown's party was to be the next day; and now, like Flora McFlimsey, she had "nothing to wear." But these were mere trifles; and they assured their mother that the experiment was working finely. She smiled, said nothing, and, with Hannah's help, did their neglected work, keeping home pleasant, and the domestic machinery running smoothly. It was astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the "resting and revelling" process. The days kept getting longer and longer; the weather was unusually variable, and so were tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed every one, and Satan found plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do. As the height of luxury, Meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes, in her attempts to furbish them up à la Moffat. Jo read till her eyes gave out, and she was sick of books; got so fidgety that even good-natured Laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with Aunt March. Beth got on pretty well, for she was constantly forgetting that it was to be _all play, and no work_, and fell back into her old ways now and then; but something in the air affected her, and, more than once, her tranquillity was much disturbed; so much so, that, on one occasion, she actually shook poor dear Joanna, and told her she was "a fright." Amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small; and when her sisters left her to amuse and care for herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self a great burden. She didn't like dolls, fairy-tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the time; tea-parties didn't amount to much, neither did picnics, unless very well conducted. "If one could have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go travelling, the summer would be delightful; but to stay at home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a Boaz," complained Miss Malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and _ennui_. No one would own that they were tired of the experiment; but, by Friday night, each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was nearly done. Hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, Mrs. March, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner; so she gave Hannah a holiday, and let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system. When they got up on Saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining-room, and no mother anywhere to be seen. "Mercy on us! what _has_ happened?" cried Jo, staring about her in dismay. Meg ran upstairs, and soon came back again, looking relieved, but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed. "Mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay quietly in her room all day, and let us do the best we can. It's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like herself; but she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble, but take care of ourselves." "That's easy enough, and I like the idea; I'm aching for something to do--that is, some new amusement, you know," added Jo quickly. In fact it _was_ an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of Hannah's saying, "Housekeeping ain't no joke." There was plenty of food in the larder, and, while Beth and Amy set the table, Meg and Jo got breakfast, wondering, as they did so, why servants ever talked about hard work. "I shall take some up to mother, though she said we were not to think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said Meg, who presided, and felt quite matronly behind the teapot. So a tray was fitted out before any one began, and taken up, with the cook's compliments. The boiled tea was very bitter, the omelette scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus; but Mrs. March received her repast with thanks, and laughed heartily over it after Jo was gone. "Poor little souls, they will have a hard time, I'm afraid; but they won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the more palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt,--a motherly little deception, for which they were grateful. Many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook at her failures. "Never mind, I'll get the dinner, and be servant; you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders," said Jo, who knew still less than Meg about culinary affairs. This obliging offer was gladly accepted; and Margaret retired to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the sofa, and shutting the blinds, to save the trouble of dusting. Jo, with perfect faith in her own powers, and a friendly desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting Laurie to dinner. "You'd better see what you have got before you think of having company," said Meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act. "Oh, there's corned beef and plenty of potatoes; and I shall get some asparagus, and a lobster, 'for a relish,' as Hannah says. We'll have lettuce, and make a salad. I don't know how, but the book tells. I'll have blanc-mange and strawberries for dessert; and coffee, too, if you want to be elegant." "Don't try too many messes, Jo, for you can't make anything but gingerbread and molasses candy, fit to eat. I wash my hands of the dinner-party; and, since you have asked Laurie on your own responsibility, you may just take care of him." "I don't want you to do anything but be civil to him, and help to the pudding. You'll give me your advice if I get in a muddle, won't you?" asked Jo, rather hurt. "Yes; but I don't know much, except about bread, and a few trifles. You had better ask mother's leave before you order anything," returned Meg prudently. "Of course I shall; I'm not a fool," and Jo went off in a huff at the doubts expressed of her powers. "Get what you like, and don't disturb me; I'm going out to dinner, and can't worry about things at home," said Mrs. March, when Jo spoke to her. "I never enjoyed housekeeping, and I'm going to take a vacation to-day, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself." The unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably, and reading, early in the morning, made Jo feel as if some natural phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger. "Everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going down stairs. "There's Beth crying; that's a sure sign that something is wrong with this family. If Amy is bothering, I'll shake her." Feeling very much out of sorts herself, Jo hurried into the parlor to find Beth sobbing over Pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage, with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for want of which he had died. "It's all my fault--I forgot him--there isn't a seed or a drop left. O Pip! O Pip! how could I be so cruel to you?" cried Beth, taking the poor thing in her hands, and trying to restore him. [Illustration: O Pip! O Pip!] Jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino-box for a coffin. "Put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive," said Amy hopefully. "He's been starved, and he sha'n't be baked, now he's dead. I'll make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden; and I'll never have another bird, never, my Pip! for I am too bad to own one," murmured Beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands. "The funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go. Now, don't cry, Bethy; it's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and Pip has had the worst of the experiment. Make the shroud, and lay him in my box; and, after the dinner-party, we'll have a nice little funeral," said Jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal. Leaving the others to console Beth, she departed to the kitchen, which was in a most discouraging state of confusion. Putting on a big apron, she fell to work, and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when she discovered that the fire was out. "Here's a sweet prospect!" muttered Jo, slamming the stove-door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders. Having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the water heated. The walk revived her spirits; and, flattering herself that she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid strawberries. By the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived, and the stove was red-hot. Hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, Meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and forgotten it. Meg was entertaining Sallie Gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open, and a floury, crocky, flushed, and dishevelled figure appeared, demanding tartly,-- "I say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?" Sallie began to laugh; but Meg nodded, and lifted her eyebrows as high as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish, and put the sour bread into the oven without further delay. Mrs. March went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a word of comfort to Beth, who sat making a winding-sheet, while the dear departed lay in state in the domino-box. A strange sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the corner; and despair seized them, when, a few minutes later, Miss Crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner. Now, this lady was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw everything, and gossiped about all she saw. They disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor, and had few friends. So Meg gave her the easy-chair, and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions, criticised everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew. Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that morning; and the dinner she served up became a standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that something more than energy and good-will is necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour, and was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever. The bread burnt black; for the salad-dressing so aggravated her, that she let everything else go till she had convinced herself that she could not make it fit to eat. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked, till it was unshelled, and its meagre proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce-leaves. The potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at last. The blanc-mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully "deaconed." "Well, they can eat beef, and bread and butter, if they are hungry; only it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing," thought Jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread for Laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and Miss Crocker, whose curious eyes would mark all failures, and whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide. Poor Jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left; while Amy giggled, Meg looked distressed, Miss Crocker pursed up her lips, and Laurie talked and laughed with all his might, to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene. Jo's one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it. Her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath, as the pretty glass plates went round, and every one looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream. Miss Crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily. Jo, who had refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at Laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth, and he kept his eye fixed on his plate. Amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately. [Illustration: Miss Crocker made a wry face] "Oh, what is it?" exclaimed Jo trembling. "Salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied Meg, with a tragic gesture. Jo uttered a groan, and fell back in her chair; remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator. She turned scarlet, and was on the verge of crying, when she met Laurie's eyes, which _would_ look merry in spite of his heroic efforts; the comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks. So did every one else, even "Croaker," as the girls called the old lady; and the unfortunate dinner ended gayly, with bread and butter, olives and fun. "I haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral," said Jo, as they rose; and Miss Crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's dinner-table. They did sober themselves, for Beth's sake; Laurie dug a grave under the ferns in the grove, little Pip was laid in, with many tears, by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph, composed by Jo, while she struggled with the dinner:-- "Here lies Pip March, Who died the 7th of June; Loved and lamented sore, And not forgotten soon." At the conclusion of the ceremonies, Beth retired to her room, overcome with emotion and lobster; but there was no place of repose, for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up pillows and putting things in order. Meg helped Jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon, and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper. Laurie took Amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper. Mrs. March came home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the afternoon; and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success of one part of the experiment. Before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was a scramble to get ready to see them; then tea must be got, errands done; and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected till the last minute. As twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered in the porch where the June roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled. "What a dreadful day this has been!" begun Jo, usually the first to speak. "It has seemed shorter than usual, but _so_ uncomfortable," said Meg. "Not a bit like home," added Amy. "It can't seem so without Marmee and little Pip," sighed Beth, glancing, with full eyes, at the empty cage above her head. "Here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird to-morrow, if you want it." As she spoke, Mrs. March came and took her place among them, looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs. "Are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another week of it?" she asked, as Beth nestled up to her, and the rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun. "I don't!" cried Jo decidedly. "Nor I," echoed the others. "You think, then, that it is better to have a few duties, and live a little for others, do you?" "Lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed Jo, shaking her head. "I'm tired of it, and mean to go to work at something right off." "Suppose you learn plain cooking; that's a useful accomplishment, which no woman should be without," said Mrs. March, laughing inaudibly at the recollection of Jo's dinner-party; for she had met Miss Crocker, and heard her account of it. "Mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd get on?" cried Meg, who had had suspicions all day. "Yes; I wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing her share faithfully. While Hannah and I did your work, you got on pretty well, though I don't think you were very happy or amiable; so I thought, as a little lesson, I would show you what happens when every one thinks only of herself. Don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?" "We do, mother, we do!" cried the girls. "Then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again; for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them. Work is wholesome, and there is plenty for every one; it keeps us from _ennui_ and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion." "We'll work like bees, and love it too; see if we don't!" said Jo. "I'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task; and the next dinner-party I have shall be a success." "I'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, Marmee. I can and I will, though I'm not fond of sewing; that will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they are," said Meg. "I'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls. I am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing," was Beth's resolution; while Amy followed their example by heroically declaring, "I shall learn to make button-holes, and attend to my parts of speech." "Very good! then I am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it; only don't go to the other extreme, and delve like slaves. Have regular hours for work and play; make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it well. Then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty." "We'll remember, mother!" and they did. [Illustration: We'll work like bees]

part 1, Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14

Experiments In the summer, Meg and Jo celebrate that their employers are off for three months elsewhere, so they have vacation. The girls decide that after their hard work, they want to spend their days in idle enjoyment. Amy and Beth wish to have a rest as well, and Marmee grants permission for a one-week experiment, warning that they will miss the balance of some work and some play. The girls indulge in their activities, Meg buying and fixing up clothes new clothes, Jo reading to her heart's delight, Beth arranging her closet and learning music, and Amy drawing. They find the days growing longer and more tiring and pervaded with ennui. Marmee and Hannah make up for their housework, until the weekend, when Marmee gives Hannah a vacation and spends the day resting and going out. The girls are relieved to have some work to do, but are surprised by how challenging the housework is. Meg spoils breakfast and Jo says she will make dinner and invites Laurie. Jo attempts to manage the kitchen, but ends up with burnt bread, salty strawberries, sour cream, meager lobster, and lumpy blancmange. In addition to Laurie, Miss Crocker, an elderly neighborhood gossip, calls for dinner and experiences the entire mess. Despite Jo's disappointment, they all enjoy a laugh over the meal, followed by a somber funeral for Pip, Beth's bird who was not fed all week. The girls continue to work into the evening, cleaning up and managing tea, and feel exhausted when Marmee returns. Marmee asks if the girls enjoyed their experiment, and explains that she deliberately went away so they could see the effects of everyone deciding to be idle, rather than each doing her own duty. Work, she explains, helps everyone feel independent and useful, and it is important to balance work with time for pleasure. The girls each pledge to spend their summers learning a useful skill or accomplishment

This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's "Pickwick Society" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of "v" for "w" in "dewote" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to "Delectable Mountain" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their "Celestial City." Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg "there is no place like America for us workers." Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being "free and easy" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, "We don't cheat in America." As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term "Yankee" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, "Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies." Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are "demonstrative" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_2_part_4.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 13

part 1, chapter 13

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14", "summary": "Castles in the Air After a frustrating day, Laurie spies the March girls going on a picnic and decides to follow them. He finds them in a clearing, and is given permission to join as long as he is not idle. The girls explain that as part of their Pilgrim's Progress game, they have been working on their goals over the vacation. In order to be outdoors, they come to this clearing, which they call Delectable Mountain, carrying poles and bags, and continue their work while looking out over the landscape. They discuss Heaven, and then each describes her or his favorite Castle in the Air, or dream for the future. Laurie wishes to be a famous musician in Germany. Meg wishes a nice home full of luxurious things and kind people. Jo wishes to write books, be famous, and have a stable of Arabian steeds. Amy wishes to go to Rome and be the most famous artist in the world, and Beth wishes just to stay at home with her family. Laurie is afraid his grandfather will force him to go into business, despite Laurie's wishes, and says he would run away if there were anyone else to stay with grandfather. Jo encourages him for a moment, but Meg reminds him to be dutiful toward his grandfather and trust that he will be just and kind, as he has been with Mr. Brooke. Meg then describes what she heard from Mr. Laurence about Mr. Brooke, that he had given up better paying jobs to take care of his mother and now takes care of another elderly woman. That evening, listening to Beth play for Mr. Laurence, Laurie decides to stay with his grandfather and give up his 'castle' of being a musician", "analysis": "This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's \"Pickwick Society\" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of \"v\" for \"w\" in \"dewote\" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to \"Delectable Mountain\" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their \"Celestial City.\" Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg \"there is no place like America for us workers.\" Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being \"free and easy\" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, \"We don't cheat in America.\" As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term \"Yankee\" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, \"Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies.\" Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are \"demonstrative\" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie."}

XIII. CASTLES IN THE AIR. Laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock, one warm September afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out. He was in one of his moods; for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. The hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried Mr. Brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practising half the afternoon, frightened the maid-servants half out of their wits, by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stable-man about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his hammock, to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself. Staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean, in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the Marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition. "What in the world are those girls about now?" thought Laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. Meg had a cushion, Jo a book, Beth a basket, and Amy a portfolio. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river. "Well, that's cool!" said Laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me. They can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key. Perhaps they forgot it; I'll take it to them, and see what's going on." Though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one; then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket; so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them. Taking the shortest way to the boat-house, he waited for them to appear: but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation. A grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets. "Here's a landscape!" thought Laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already. It _was_ rather a pretty little picture; for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood-people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers, but old friends. Meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose, in her pink dress, among the green. Beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things of them. Amy was sketching a group of ferns, and Jo was knitting as she read aloud. A shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away, because uninvited; yet lingering, because home seemed very lonely, and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit. He stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that Beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile. [Illustration: It was rather a pretty little picture] "May I come in, please? or shall I be a bother?" he asked, advancing slowly. Meg lifted her eyebrows, but Jo scowled at her defiantly, and said, at once, "Of course you may. We should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this." "I always liked your games; but if Meg doesn't want me, I'll go away." "I've no objection, if you do something; it's against the rules to be idle here," replied Meg, gravely but graciously. "Much obliged; I'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the Desert of Sahara down there. Shall I sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once? Bring on your bears; I'm ready," and Laurie sat down, with a submissive expression delightful to behold. "Finish this story while I set my heel," said Jo, handing him the book. "Yes'm," was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of an admission into the "Busy Bee Society." The story was not a long one, and, when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit. "Please, ma'am, could I inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?" "Would you tell him?" asked Meg of her sisters. "He'll laugh," said Amy warningly. "Who cares?" said Jo. "I guess he'll like it," added Beth. "Of course I shall! I give you my word I won't laugh. Tell away, Jo, and don't be afraid." "The idea of being afraid of you! Well, you see we used to play 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer." "Yes, I know," said Laurie, nodding wisely. "Who told you?" demanded Jo. "Spirits." "No, I did; I wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal. He did like it, so don't scold, Jo," said Beth meekly. "You can't keep a secret. Never mind; it saves trouble now." "Go on, please," said Laurie, as Jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased. "Oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours? Well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task, and worked at it with a will. The vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle." "Yes, I should think so;" and Laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days. "Mother likes to have us out of doors as much as possible; so we bring our work here, and have nice times. For the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago. We call this hill the 'Delectable Mountain,' for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time." Jo pointed, and Laurie sat up to examine; for through an opening in the wood one could look across the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky. The sun was low, and the heavens plowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset. Gold and purple clouds lay on the hill-tops; and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks, that shone like the airy spires of some Celestial City. "How beautiful that is!" said Laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind. "It's often so; and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied Amy, wishing she could paint it. "Jo talks about the country where we hope to live some time,--the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens, and haymaking. It would be nice, but I wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it," said Beth musingly. "There is a lovelier country even than that, where we _shall_ go, by and by, when we are good enough," answered Meg, with her sweet voice. "It seems so long to wait, so hard to do; I want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate." "You'll get there, Beth, sooner or later; no fear of that," said Jo; "I'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all." "You'll have me for company, if that's any comfort. I shall have to do a deal of travelling before I come in sight of your Celestial City. If I arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, Beth?" Something in the boy's face troubled his little friend; but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "If people really want to go, and really try all their lives, I think they will get in; for I don't believe there are any locks on that door, or any guards at the gate. I always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor Christian as he comes up from the river." "Wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?" said Jo, after a little pause. "I've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which I'd have," said Laurie, lying flat, and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him. "You'd have to take your favorite one. What is it?" asked Meg. "If I tell mine, will you tell yours?" "Yes, if the girls will too." "We will. Now, Laurie." "After I'd seen as much of the world as I want to, I'd like to settle in Germany, and have just as much music as I choose. I'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me; and I'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself, and live for what I like. That's my favorite castle. What's yours, Meg?" Margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "I should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things,--nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money. I am to be mistress of it, and manage it as I like, with plenty of servants, so I never need work a bit. How I should enjoy it! for I wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make every one love me dearly." [Illustration: Waved a brake before her face] "Wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?" asked Laurie slyly. "I said 'pleasant people,' you know;" and Meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face. "Why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband, and some angelic little children? You know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt Jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books. "You'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours," answered Meg petulantly. "Wouldn't I, though? I'd have a stable full of Arabian steeds, rooms piled with books, and I'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as Laurie's music. I want to do something splendid before I go into my castle,--something heroic or wonderful, that won't be forgotten after I'm dead. I don't know what, but I'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all, some day. I think I shall write books, and get rich and famous: that would suit me, so that is _my_ favorite dream." "Mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help take care of the family," said Beth contentedly. "Don't you wish for anything else?" asked Laurie. "Since I had my little piano, I am perfectly satisfied. I only wish we may all keep well and be together; nothing else." "I have ever so many wishes; but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to Rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was Amy's modest desire. "We're an ambitious set, aren't we? Every one of us, but Beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect. I do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said Laurie, chewing grass, like a meditative calf. "I've got the key to my castle in the air; but whether I can unlock the door remains to be seen," observed Jo mysteriously. "I've got the key to mine, but I'm not allowed to try it. Hang college!" muttered Laurie, with an impatient sigh. "Here's mine!" and Amy waved her pencil. "I haven't got any," said Meg forlornly. "Yes, you have," said Laurie at once. "Where?" "In your face." "Nonsense; that's of no use." "Wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew. Meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions, and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which Mr. Brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight. "If we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said Jo, always ready with a plan. "Bless me! how old I shall be,--twenty-seven!" exclaimed Meg who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen. "You and I shall be twenty-six, Teddy, Beth twenty-four, and Amy twenty-two. What a venerable party!" said Jo. "I hope I shall have done something to be proud of by that time; but I'm such a lazy dog, I'm afraid I shall 'dawdle,' Jo." "You need a motive, mother says; and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly." "Is she? By Jupiter I will, if I only get the chance!" cried Laurie, sitting up with sudden energy. "I ought to be satisfied to please grandfather, and I do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard. He wants me to be an India merchant, as he was, and I'd rather be shot. I hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and I don't care how soon they go to the bottom when I own them. Going to college ought to satisfy him, for if I give him four years he ought to let me off from the business; but he's set, and I 've got to do just as he did, unless I break away and please myself, as my father did. If there was any one left to stay with the old gentleman, I'd do it to-morrow." Laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation; for he was growing up very fast, and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself. "I advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said Jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called "Teddy's wrongs." "That's not right, Jo; you mustn't talk in that way, and Laurie mustn't take your bad advice. You should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said Meg, in her most maternal tone. "Do your best at college, and, when he sees that you try to please him, I'm sure he won't be hard or unjust to you. As you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission. Don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty; and you'll get your reward, as good Mr. Brooke has, by being respected and loved." "What do you know about him?" asked Laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself, after his unusual outbreak. "Only what your grandpa told us about him,--how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person, because he wouldn't leave her; and how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother; and never tells any one, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be." "So he is, dear old fellow!" said Laurie heartily, as Meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story. "It's like grandpa to find out all about him, without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him. Brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me, and treating him in her beautiful friendly way. He thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style. If ever I do get my wish, you see what I'll do for Brooke." "Begin to do something now, by not plaguing his life out," said Meg sharply. "How do you know I do, miss?" "I can always tell by his face, when he goes away. If you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly; if you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better." "Well, I like that! So you keep an account of my good and bad marks in Brooke's face, do you? I see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but I didn't know you'd got up a telegraph." [Illustration: I see him bow and smile] "We haven't; don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him I said anything! It was only to show that I cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried Meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech. "_I_ don't tell tales," replied Laurie, with his "high and mighty" air, as Jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore. "Only if Brooke is going to be a thermometer, I must mind and have fair weather for him to report." "Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly; I only thought Jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for, by and by. You are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother, and say just what we think. Forgive me, I meant it kindly." And Meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid. Ashamed of his momentary pique, Laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "I'm the one to be forgiven; I'm cross, and have been out of sorts all day. I like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if I am grumpy sometimes; I thank you all the same." Bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible,--wound cotton for Meg, recited poetry to please Jo, shook down cones for Beth, and helped Amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the "Busy Bee Society." In the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that Hannah had put the tea "to draw," and they would just have time to get home to supper. "May I come again?" asked Laurie. "Yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said Meg smiling. "I'll try." "Then you may come, and I'll teach you to knit as the Scotchmen do; there's a demand for socks just now," added Jo, waving hers, like a big blue worsted banner, as they parted at the gate. That night, when Beth played to Mr. Laurence in the twilight, Laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little David, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much. Remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "I'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for I am all he has." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Jo was very busy]

part 1, Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14

Castles in the Air After a frustrating day, Laurie spies the March girls going on a picnic and decides to follow them. He finds them in a clearing, and is given permission to join as long as he is not idle. The girls explain that as part of their Pilgrim's Progress game, they have been working on their goals over the vacation. In order to be outdoors, they come to this clearing, which they call Delectable Mountain, carrying poles and bags, and continue their work while looking out over the landscape. They discuss Heaven, and then each describes her or his favorite Castle in the Air, or dream for the future. Laurie wishes to be a famous musician in Germany. Meg wishes a nice home full of luxurious things and kind people. Jo wishes to write books, be famous, and have a stable of Arabian steeds. Amy wishes to go to Rome and be the most famous artist in the world, and Beth wishes just to stay at home with her family. Laurie is afraid his grandfather will force him to go into business, despite Laurie's wishes, and says he would run away if there were anyone else to stay with grandfather. Jo encourages him for a moment, but Meg reminds him to be dutiful toward his grandfather and trust that he will be just and kind, as he has been with Mr. Brooke. Meg then describes what she heard from Mr. Laurence about Mr. Brooke, that he had given up better paying jobs to take care of his mother and now takes care of another elderly woman. That evening, listening to Beth play for Mr. Laurence, Laurie decides to stay with his grandfather and give up his 'castle' of being a musician

This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's "Pickwick Society" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of "v" for "w" in "dewote" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to "Delectable Mountain" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their "Celestial City." Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg "there is no place like America for us workers." Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being "free and easy" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, "We don't cheat in America." As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term "Yankee" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, "Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies." Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are "demonstrative" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_2_part_5.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 14

part 1, chapter 14

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14", "summary": "Secrets Jo finishes a manuscript and then goes into town on a mysterious errand. Laurie sees her from a gymnasium, which Jo mistakes for a billiard saloon and chastises him. Laurie says he only goes to saloons occasionally, but Jo warns him to be careful not to get too wild, or Mother will prevent him visiting, as she does other fashionable gentlemen like Ned Moffat. After the lecture, Laurie and Jo agree to exchange secrets. Jo has left two stories with a newspaperman, and is waiting to see if he will print them, and Laurie encourages her. Laurie's secret is that John Brooke has one of Meg's gloves, which is why only one was returned in Chapter 12. Laurie thinks the budding romance is quite lovely, but Jo feels upset and confused. To make her feel better, Laurie convinces her to run down the hill with him, like a boy. Jo gives in, and feels better, but Meg comes along and chastises her for romping. Jo defends herself, never wishing to grow old, feeling already that Meg is growing away from her. Meg is coming from hearing about a lovely wedding and confesses to being envious, which Jo says she is glad for so that Meg will never marry someone poor. For the next two weeks, Jo acts very strangely, is rude to Mr. Brooke, attached to Meg, and always laughing with Laurie. Jo comes in one day with a newspaper story and reads it aloud to the girls, who quite like it, and are shocked to learn that Jo is the author. Jo is delighted that someday she may be able to write to support herself and help the family", "analysis": "This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's \"Pickwick Society\" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of \"v\" for \"w\" in \"dewote\" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to \"Delectable Mountain\" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their \"Celestial City.\" Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg \"there is no place like America for us workers.\" Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being \"free and easy\" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, \"We don't cheat in America.\" As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term \"Yankee\" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, \"Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies.\" Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are \"demonstrative\" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie."}

XIV. SECRETS. Jo was very busy in the garret, for the October days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short. For two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing Jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while Scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers. Quite absorbed in her work, Jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish, and threw down her pen, exclaiming,-- "There, I've done my best! If this won't suit I shall have to wait till I can do better." Lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons; then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been. Jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen, which hung against the wall. In it she kept her papers and a few books, safely shut away from Scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way, by eating the leaves. From this tin receptacle Jo produced another manuscript; and, putting both in her pocket, crept quietly down stairs, leaving her friends to nibble her pens and taste her ink. She put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and, going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road. Once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious. If any one had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar; for, on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street; having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the door-way, looked up the dirty stairs, and, after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street, and walked away as rapidly as she came. This manœuvre she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite. On returning for the third time, Jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out. There was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and, after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite door-way, saying, with a smile and a shiver,-- "It's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need some one to help her home." In ten minutes Jo came running down stairs with a very red face, and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort. When she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod; but he followed, asking with an air of sympathy,-- "Did you have a bad time?" "Not very." "You got through quickly." "Yes, thank goodness!" "Why did you go alone?" "Didn't want any one to know." "You're the oddest fellow I ever saw. How many did you have out?" Jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him; then began to laugh, as if mightily amused at something. "There are two which I want to have come out, but I must wait a week." "What are you laughing at? You are up to some mischief, Jo," said Laurie, looking mystified. "So are you. What were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?" "Begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and I was taking a lesson in fencing." "I'm glad of that." "Why?" "You can teach me, and then when we play Hamlet, you can be Laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene." Laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves. "I'll teach you whether we play Hamlet or not; it's grand fun, and will straighten you up capitally. But I don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'I'm glad,' in that decided way; was it, now?" "No, I was glad that you were not in the saloon, because I hope you never go to such places. Do you?" "Not often." "I wish you wouldn't." "It's no harm, Jo. I have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players; so, as I'm fond of it, I come sometimes and have a game with Ned Moffat or some of the other fellows." "Oh dear, I'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys. I did hope you'd stay respectable, and be a satisfaction to your friends," said Jo, shaking her head. "Can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?" asked Laurie, looking nettled. "That depends upon how and where he takes it. I don't like Ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it. Mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come; and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now." "Won't she?" asked Laurie anxiously. "No, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them." "Well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet; I'm not a fashionable party, and don't mean to be; but I do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?" "Yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you? or there will be an end of all our good times." "I'll be a double-distilled saint." "I can't bear saints: just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you. I don't know what I _should_ do if you acted like Mr. King's son; he had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, I believe, and was altogether horrid." "You think I'm likely to do the same? Much obliged." "No, I don't--oh, _dear_, no!--but I hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and I sometimes wish you were poor; I shouldn't worry then." "Do you worry about me, Jo?" "A little, when you look moody or discontented, as you sometimes do; for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, I'm afraid it would be hard to stop you." Laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and Jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips still smiled as if at her warnings. "Are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?" he asked presently. "Of course not; why?" "Because if you are, I'll take a 'bus; if you are not, I'd like to walk with you, and tell you something very interesting." "I won't preach any more, and I'd like to hear the news immensely." "Very well, then; come on. It's a secret, and if I tell you, you must tell me yours." "I haven't got any," began Jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had. "You know you have,--you can't hide anything; so up and 'fess, or I won't tell," cried Laurie. "Is your secret a nice one?" "Oh, isn't it! all about people you know, and such fun! You ought to hear it, and I've been aching to tell it this long time. Come, you begin." "You'll not say anything about it at home, will you?" "Not a word." "And you won't tease me in private?" "I never tease." "Yes, you do; you get everything you want out of people. I don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler." "Thank you; fire away." "Well, I've left two stories with a newspaper man, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered Jo, in her confidant's ear. "Hurrah for Miss March, the celebrated American authoress!" cried Laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen Irish children; for they were out of the city now. [Illustration: Hurrah for Miss March] "Hush! It won't come to anything, I dare say; but I couldn't rest till I had tried, and I said nothing about it, because I didn't want any one else to be disappointed." "It won't fail. Why, Jo, your stories are works of Shakespeare, compared to half the rubbish that is published every day. Won't it be fun to see them in print; and sha'n't we feel proud of our authoress?" Jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in; and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs. "Where's _your_ secret? Play fair, Teddy, or I'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement. "I may get into a scrape for telling; but I didn't promise not to, so I will, for I never feel easy in my mind till I've told you any plummy bit of news I get. I know where Meg's glove is." "Is that all?" said Jo, looking disappointed, as Laurie nodded and twinkled, with a face full of mysterious intelligence. "It's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when I tell you where it is." "Tell, then." Laurie bent, and whispered three words in Jo's ear, which produced a comical change. She stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "How do you know?" "Saw it." "Where?" "Pocket." "All this time?" "Yes; isn't that romantic?" "No, it's horrid." "Don't you like it?" "Of course I don't. It's ridiculous; it won't be allowed. My patience! what would Meg say?" "You are not to tell any one; mind that." "I didn't promise." "That was understood, and I trusted you." "Well, I won't for the present, any way; but I'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me." "I thought you'd be pleased." "At the idea of anybody coming to take Meg away? No, thank you." "You'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away." "I'd like to see any one try it," cried Jo fiercely. "So should I!" and Laurie chuckled at the idea. "I don't think secrets agree with me; I feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said Jo, rather ungratefully. "Race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested Laurie. No one was in sight; the smooth road sloped invitingly before her; and finding the temptation irresistible, Jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her, and scattering hair-pins as she ran. Laurie reached the goal first, and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment; for his Atalanta came panting up, with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face. [Illustration: Jo darted away] "I wish I was a horse; then I could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath. It was capital; but see what a guy it's made me. Go, pick up my things, like a cherub as you are," said Jo, dropping down under a maple-tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves. Laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and Jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again. But some one did pass, and who should it be but Meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls. "What in the world are you doing here?" she asked, regarding her dishevelled sister with well-bred surprise. "Getting leaves," meekly answered Jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up. "And hair-pins," added Laurie, throwing half a dozen into Jo's lap. "They grow on this road, Meg; so do combs and brown straw hats." "You have been running, Jo; how could you? When _will_ you stop such romping ways?" said Meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs, and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties. "Never till I'm stiff and old, and have to use a crutch. Don't try to make me grow up before my time, Meg: it's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden; let me be a little girl as long as I can." As she spoke, Jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips; for lately she had felt that Margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and Laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time, and now seemed very near. He saw the trouble in her face, and drew Meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "Where have you been calling, all so fine?" "At the Gardiners', and Sallie has been telling me all about Belle Moffat's wedding. It was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in Paris. Just think how delightful that must be!" "Do you envy her, Meg?" said Laurie. "I'm afraid I do." "I'm glad of it!" muttered Jo, tying on her hat with a jerk. "Why?" asked Meg, looking surprised. "Because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said Jo, frowning at Laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said. "I shall never '_go_ and marry' any one," observed Meg, walking on with great dignity, while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and "behaving like children," as Meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on. For a week or two, Jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered. She rushed to the door when the postman rang; was rude to Mr. Brooke whenever they met; would sit looking at Meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake, and then to kiss her, in a very mysterious manner; Laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about "Spread Eagles," till the girls declared they had both lost their wits. On the second Saturday after Jo got out of the window, Meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of Laurie chasing Jo all over the garden, and finally capturing her in Amy's bower. What went on there, Meg could not see; but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers. "What shall we do with that girl? She never _will_ behave like a young lady," sighed Meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face. "I hope she won't; she is so funny and dear as she is," said Beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at Jo's having secrets with any one but her. "It's very trying, but we never can make her _commy la fo_," added Amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way,--two agreeable things, which made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike. In a few minutes Jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read. [Illustration: Jo laid herself on the sofa and affected to read] "Have you anything interesting there?" asked Meg, with condescension. "Nothing but a story; won't amount to much, I guess," returned Jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight. "You'd better read it aloud; that will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said Amy, in her most grown-up tone. "What's the name?" asked Beth, wondering why Jo kept her face behind the sheet. "The Rival Painters." "That sounds well; read it," said Meg. With a loud "Hem!" and a long breath, Jo began to read very fast. The girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end. "I like that about the splendid picture," was Amy's approving remark, as Jo paused. "I prefer the lovering part. Viola and Angelo are two of our favorite names; isn't that queer?" said Meg, wiping her eyes, for the "lovering part" was tragical. "Who wrote it?" asked Beth, who had caught a glimpse of Jo's face. The reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and, with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement, replied in a loud voice, "Your sister." "You?" cried Meg, dropping her work. "It's very good," said Amy critically. "I knew it! I knew it! O my Jo, I _am_ so proud!" and Beth ran to hug her sister, and exult over this splendid success. Dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure! how Meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words, "Miss Josephine March," actually printed in the paper; how graciously Amy criticised the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead; how Beth got excited, and skipped and sung with joy; how Hannah came in to exclaim "Sakes alive, well I never!" in great astonishment at "that Jo's doin's;" how proud Mrs. March was when she knew it; how Jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it; and how the "Spread Eagle" might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the House of March, as the paper passed from hand to hand. "Tell us all about it." "When did it come?" "How much did you get for it?" "What _will_ father say?" "Won't Laurie laugh?" cried the family, all in one breath, as they clustered about Jo; for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy. "Stop jabbering, girls, and I'll tell you everything," said Jo, wondering if Miss Burney felt any grander over her "Evelina" than she did over her "Rival Painters." Having told how she disposed of her tales, Jo added, "And when I went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories. It was good practice, he said; and when the beginners improved, any one would pay. So I let him have the two stories, and to-day this was sent to me, and Laurie caught me with it, and insisted on seeing it, so I let him; and he said it was good, and I shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and I _am_ so happy, for in time I may be able to support myself and help the girls." Jo's breath gave out here; and, wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears; for to be independent, and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.

part 1, Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-10-through-chapter-14

Secrets Jo finishes a manuscript and then goes into town on a mysterious errand. Laurie sees her from a gymnasium, which Jo mistakes for a billiard saloon and chastises him. Laurie says he only goes to saloons occasionally, but Jo warns him to be careful not to get too wild, or Mother will prevent him visiting, as she does other fashionable gentlemen like Ned Moffat. After the lecture, Laurie and Jo agree to exchange secrets. Jo has left two stories with a newspaperman, and is waiting to see if he will print them, and Laurie encourages her. Laurie's secret is that John Brooke has one of Meg's gloves, which is why only one was returned in Chapter 12. Laurie thinks the budding romance is quite lovely, but Jo feels upset and confused. To make her feel better, Laurie convinces her to run down the hill with him, like a boy. Jo gives in, and feels better, but Meg comes along and chastises her for romping. Jo defends herself, never wishing to grow old, feeling already that Meg is growing away from her. Meg is coming from hearing about a lovely wedding and confesses to being envious, which Jo says she is glad for so that Meg will never marry someone poor. For the next two weeks, Jo acts very strangely, is rude to Mr. Brooke, attached to Meg, and always laughing with Laurie. Jo comes in one day with a newspaper story and reads it aloud to the girls, who quite like it, and are shocked to learn that Jo is the author. Jo is delighted that someday she may be able to write to support herself and help the family

This section of the book is very literary. Alcott employs Dickens's "Pickwick Society" to demonstrate a shared knowledge among her characters that brings them closer with one another and with any familiar readers. Laurie's exchange of "v" for "w" in "dewote" signifies all of the characters' familiarity with Dickens. Alcott includes a newspaper she produced as a child, and references her own works and poetry. As with Pilgrim's Progress, the girls' employment of a grand story of adventure to discuss their domestic dramas gives their experiences greater meaning and importance. The characters embrace this consciously when they climb up the hill to "Delectable Mountain" and look out over Boston, imagining it is their "Celestial City." Alcott includes and alludes to several of her own works, which enhance the realism of the book, a clearly intentional tactic, as Alcott stresses the bona fide nature of the newspaper. Her contemporary allusions also invite her readers to identify with the girls as similar to themselves, who have likely also cried over Wide, Wide, World or read about Flora McFlimsey in Harper's Weekly. The section concludes with Jo's first successful publications. However, there is a distinction drawn between the March family's and Laurie's references to characters and stories to enhance their conversation and Fred Vaughn's plagiarism from The Sea Lion while playing Rig-marole. Work is another major theme in this section. The girls' experiment helps them find solace in balancing work and pleasure, even during their vacation. Kate Vaughn is surprised that Meg is a governess and is rude to the tutor Mr. Brooke. John defends work as a form of independence, and tells Meg "there is no place like America for us workers." Laurie finds work a cure for his irritability when he comes across the girls discussing their Castles in the Air. The castles they envision, though, are filled with genius and luxury, rather than housework. The visit of the Vaughns provides one of the first opportunities for Alcott to portray the distinctly American traits of her characters, being "free and easy" rather than standoffish, fighting with the spirit of '76, and saying, "We don't cheat in America." As both Americans and Northerners, her characters embrace the term "Yankee" proudly. When Fred accuses Yanks of being tricky, Jo responds, "Yanks have a trick of being generous to their enemies." Kate Vaughn concludes that American girls are "demonstrative" but likeable. In this section, several characters and the reader are informed of Mr. Brooke's affection for Meg, but Meg is still unaware. Thus, Alcott employs dramatic irony, whereby the reader interprets Mr. Brooke's and Jo's actions differently than Meg does. Jo is deeply upset about the changes she foresees, viewing Meg's marriage as a threat to the sanctity of the family. Becoming more womanly is Jo's particular burden, but the idea that womanhood threatens the family causes Jo to revert to childlike ways, running down the hill with Laurie.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_3_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 15

part 1, chapter 15

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 15", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19", "summary": "A Telegram On a gray November day, just as Marmee arrives home, a telegram arrives from Washington Hospital informing Marmee that Father is very ill, and asking her to come at once. Mother, the girls, and Hannah feel the world changing. They gather in fear and hope, until Hannah recovers and finds work a cure for despair. All start running errands and making preparations. Mr. Laurence offers himself as an escort, but as he is too old, he insists that Mr. Brooke go instead. Meg is the first to learn of this, and is deeply grateful to him. Aunt March sends money with a chiding note. Late that afternoon, Jo finally returns from town with a queer expression and $25, a significant sum of money. Everyone is shocked to learn she has sold her hair, in order to make Father comfortable and bring him home. She had to convince the barber to take it, helped by his wife, who had a son in the war. The family eats and prepares for bed, despite their concerns for Father", "analysis": "In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a \"panacea for most afflictions.\" Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they \"can never be fatherless.\" Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him \"Greatheart\", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death."}

XV. A TELEGRAM. [Illustration: November is the most disagreeable month in the year] "November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said Margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frost-bitten garden. "That's the reason I was born in it," observed Jo pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose. "If something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month," said Beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even November. "I dare say; but nothing pleasant ever _does_ happen in this family," said Meg, who was out of sorts. "We go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun. We might as well be in a treadmill." "My patience, how blue we are!" cried Jo. "I don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out. Oh, don't I wish I could manage things for you as I do for my heroines! You're pretty enough and good enough already, so I'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly; then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn every one who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my Lady Something, in a blaze of splendor and elegance." "People don't have fortunes left them in that style now-a-days; men have to work, and women to marry for money. It's a dreadfully unjust world," said Meg bitterly. "Jo and I are going to make fortunes for you all; just wait ten years, and see if we don't," said Amy, who sat in a corner, making mud pies, as Hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces. "Can't wait, and I'm afraid I haven't much faith in ink and dirt, though I'm grateful for your good intentions." Meg sighed, and turned to the frost-bitten garden again; Jo groaned, and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but Amy spatted away energetically; and Beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling, "Two pleasant things are going to happen right away: Marmee is coming down the street, and Laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had something nice to tell." In they both came, Mrs. March with her usual question, "Any letter from father, girls?" and Laurie to say in his persuasive way, "Won't some of you come for a drive? I've been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and I'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn. It's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and I'm going to take Brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out. Come, Jo, you and Beth will go, won't you?" "Of course we will." "Much obliged, but I'm busy;" and Meg whisked out her work-basket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive often with the young gentleman. "We three will be ready in a minute," cried Amy, running away to wash her hands. "Can I do anything for you, Madam Mother?" asked Laurie, leaning over Mrs. March's chair, with the affectionate look and tone he always gave her. "No, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear. It's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been. Father is as regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps." A sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after Hannah came in with a letter. "It's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said, handing it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage. [Illustration: One of them horrid telegraph things] At the word "telegraph," Mrs. March snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart. Laurie dashed down stairs for water, while Meg and Hannah supported her, and Jo read aloud, in a frightened voice,-- "MRS. MARCH: "Your husband is very ill. Come at once. "S. HALE, "Blank Hospital, Washington" How still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them. Mrs. March was herself again directly; read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, "I shall go at once, but it may be too late. O children, children, help me to bear it!" For several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears. Poor Hannah was the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example; for, with her, work was the panacea for most afflictions. "The Lord keep the dear man! I won't waste no time a cryin', but git your things ready right away, mum," she said, heartily, as she wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her own hard one, and went away, to work like three women in one. "She's right; there's no time for tears now. Be calm, girls, and let me think." They tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking pale, but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them. "Where's Laurie?" she asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts, and decided on the first duties to be done. "Here, ma'am. Oh, let me do something!" cried the boy, hurrying from the next room, whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see. "Send a telegram saying I will come at once. The next train goes early in the morning. I'll take that." "What else? The horses are ready; I can go anywhere, do anything," he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth. "Leave a note at Aunt March's. Jo, give me that pen and paper." Tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, Jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum for her father. "Now go, dear; but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace; there is no need of that." Mrs. March's warning was evidently thrown away; for five minutes later Laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life. "Jo, run to the rooms, and tell Mrs. King that I can't come. On the way get these things. I'll put them down; they'll be needed, and I must go prepared for nursing. Hospital stores are not always good. Beth, go and ask Mr. Laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine: I'm not too proud to beg for father; he shall have the best of everything. Amy, tell Hannah to get down the black trunk; and, Meg, come and help me find my things, for I'm half bewildered." Writing, thinking, and directing, all at once, might well bewilder the poor lady, and Meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little while, and let them work. Every one scattered like leaves before a gust of wind; and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell. Mr. Laurence came hurrying back with Beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence, which comforted her very much. There was nothing he didn't offer, from his own dressing-gown to himself as escort. But that last was impossible. Mrs. March would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long journey; yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for travelling. He saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly. No one had time to think of him again till, as Meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke. [Illustration: She came suddenly upon Mr. Brooke] "I'm very sorry to hear of this, Miss March," he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit. "I came to offer myself as escort to your mother. Mr. Laurence has commissions for me in Washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there." Down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as Meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude, that Mr. Brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to make. "How kind you all are! Mother will accept, I'm sure; and it will be such a relief to know that she has some one to take care of her. Thank you very, very much!" Meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother. Everything was arranged by the time Laurie returned with a note from Aunt March, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had often said before,--that she had always told them it was absurd for March to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice next time. Mrs. March put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly, in a way which Jo would have understood if she had been there. The short afternoon wore away; all the other errands were done, and Meg and her mother busy at some necessary needle-work, while Beth and Amy got tea, and Hannah finished her ironing with what she called a "slap and a bang," but still Jo did not come. They began to get anxious; and Laurie went off to find her, for no one ever knew what freak Jo might take into her head. He missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret, in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying, with a little choke in her voice, "That's my contribution towards making father comfortable and bringing him home!" "My dear, where did you get it? Twenty-five dollars! Jo, I hope you haven't done anything rash? "No, it's mine honestly; I didn't beg, borrow, or steal it. I earned it; and I don't think you'll blame me, for I only sold what was my own." As she spoke, Jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short. "Your hair! Your beautiful hair!" "O Jo, how could you? Your one beauty." "My dear girl, there was no need of this." "She doesn't look like my Jo any more, but I love her dearly for it!" As every one exclaimed, and Beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, Jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive any one a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush, and trying to look as if she liked it, "It doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, Beth. It will be good for my vanity; I was getting too proud of my wig. It will do my brains good to have that mop taken off; my head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said I could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order. I'm satisfied; so please take the money, and let's have supper." "Tell me all about it, Jo. _I_ am not quite satisfied, but I can't blame you, for I know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love. But, my dear, it was not necessary, and I'm afraid you will regret it, one of these days," said Mrs. March. "No, I won't!" returned Jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned. "What made you do it?" asked Amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair. "Well, I was wild to do something for father," replied Jo, as they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble. "I hate to borrow as much as mother does, and I knew Aunt March would croak; she always does, if you ask for a ninepence. Meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and I only got some clothes with mine, so I felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if I sold the nose off my face to get it." "You needn't feel wicked, my child: you had no winter things, and got the simplest with your own hard earnings," said Mrs. March, with a look that warmed Jo's heart. "I hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as I went along I kept thinking what I could do, and feeling as if I'd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself. In a barber's window I saw tails of hair with the prices marked; and one black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars. It came over me all of a sudden that I had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, I walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for mine." "I don't see how you dared to do it," said Beth, in a tone of awe. "Oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair. He rather stared, at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair. He said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place; the work put into it made it dear, and so on. It was getting late, and I was afraid, if it wasn't done right away, that I shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when I start to do a thing, I hate to give it up; so I begged him to take it, and told him why I was in such a hurry. It was silly, I dare say, but it changed his mind, for I got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly,-- "'Take it, Thomas, and oblige the young lady; I'd do as much for our Jimmy any day if I had a spire of hair worth selling.'" "Who was Jimmy?" asked Amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along. "Her son, she said, who was in the army. How friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they? She talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely." [Illustration: The man clipped] "Didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?" asked Meg, with a shiver. "I took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it. I never snivel over trifles like that; I will confess, though, I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short, rough ends on my head. It almost seemed as if I'd an arm or a leg off. The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep. I'll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable I don't think I shall ever have a mane again." Mrs. March folded the wavy, chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk. She only said "Thank you, deary," but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about Mr. Brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day to-morrow, and the happy times they would have when father came home to be nursed. No one wanted to go to bed, when, at ten o'clock, Mrs. March put by the last finished job, and said, "Come, girls." Beth went to the piano and played the father's favorite hymn; all began bravely, but broke down one by one, till Beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler. "Go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early, and shall need all the sleep we can get. Good-night, my darlings," said Mrs. March, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another. They kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room. Beth and Amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but Meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life. Jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek,-- "Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?" "No, not now." "What then?" "My--my hair!" burst out poor Jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow. It did not sound at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner. "I'm not sorry," protested Jo, with a choke. "I'd do it again to-morrow, if I could. It's only the vain, selfish part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don't tell any one, it's all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty. How came you to be awake?" "I can't sleep, I'm so anxious," said Meg. "Think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off." "I tried it, but felt wider awake than ever." "What did you think of?" "Handsome faces,--eyes particularly," answered Meg, smiling to herself, in the dark. "What color do you like best?" "Brown--that is, sometimes; blue are lovely." Jo laughed, and Meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air. The clocks were striking midnight, and the rooms were very still, as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlid here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds, and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, "Be comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Letters]

part 1, Chapter 15

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19

A Telegram On a gray November day, just as Marmee arrives home, a telegram arrives from Washington Hospital informing Marmee that Father is very ill, and asking her to come at once. Mother, the girls, and Hannah feel the world changing. They gather in fear and hope, until Hannah recovers and finds work a cure for despair. All start running errands and making preparations. Mr. Laurence offers himself as an escort, but as he is too old, he insists that Mr. Brooke go instead. Meg is the first to learn of this, and is deeply grateful to him. Aunt March sends money with a chiding note. Late that afternoon, Jo finally returns from town with a queer expression and $25, a significant sum of money. Everyone is shocked to learn she has sold her hair, in order to make Father comfortable and bring him home. She had to convince the barber to take it, helped by his wife, who had a son in the war. The family eats and prepares for bed, despite their concerns for Father

In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a "panacea for most afflictions." Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they "can never be fatherless." Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him "Greatheart", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_3_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 16

part 1, chapter 16

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 16", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19", "summary": "Letters The early morning finds the girls diligently reading their guidebooks, seeking comfort in their time of worry. The girls agree to say goodbye to Marmee cheerfully, and not add to her woes. She leaves them in Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. She encourages them to stay busy with work and not to grieve or fear too heavily, Mr. Brooke takes Mrs. March to the train station in a carriage, and the girls turn to their work. When they see that Marmee had mended their stockings before leaving, they all cry together at her thoughtfulness. Hannah treats them with coffee, and then the girls go off to their days, Meg at the Kings, Jo to Aunt March, and Beth and Amy to help Hannah at home. Mr. Brooke sends a telegraph as soon as they arrive in Washington, reporting that Mr. March is on the mend, and daily reports following. The girls are relieved that Father is mending, and all write of how Meg is acting as head of the house, Jo throwing herself haphazardly into work, Beth helping Hannah most with errands and chores, Amy staying sweet, Mr. Laurence sending over anything he can, and Laurie keeping everyone lively and as merry as possible", "analysis": "In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a \"panacea for most afflictions.\" Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they \"can never be fatherless.\" Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him \"Greatheart\", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death."}

XVI. LETTERS. In the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp, and read their chapter with an earnestness never felt before; for now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort; and, as they dressed, they agreed to say good-by cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them. Everything seemed very strange when they went down,--so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within. Breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even Hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her night-cap on. The big trunk stood ready in the hall, mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution. Meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself; Jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once; and the little girls' wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them. Nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near, and they sat waiting for the carriage, Mrs. March said to the girls, who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag,-- "Children, I leave you to Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. Hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as if you were his own. I have no fears for you, yet I am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly. Don't grieve and fret when I am gone, or think that you can comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget. Go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace. Hope and keep busy; and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless." "Yes, mother." "Meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult Hannah, and, in any perplexity, go to Mr. Laurence. Be patient, Jo, don't get despondent or do rash things; write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer us all. Beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties; and you, Amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home." "We will, mother! we will!" The rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen. That was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well: no one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to father, remembering, as they spoke, that it might be too late to deliver them. They kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away. Laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and Mr. Brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him "Mr. Greatheart" on the spot. "Good-by, my darlings! God bless and keep us all!" whispered Mrs. March, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the carriage. As she rolled away, the sun came out, and, looking back, she saw it shining on the group at the gate, like a good omen. They saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands; and the last thing she beheld, as she turned the corner, was the four bright faces, and behind them, like a body-guard, old Mr. Laurence, faithful Hannah, and devoted Laurie. [Illustration: She rolled away] "How kind every one is to us!" she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face. "I don't see how they can help it," returned Mr. Brooke, laughing so infectiously that Mrs. March could not help smiling; and so the long journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words. "I feel as if there had been an earthquake," said Jo, as their neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves. "It seems as if half the house was gone," added Meg forlornly. Beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely-mended hose which lay on mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them. It was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts; and, in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down, and cried bitterly. Hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and, when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffee-pot. "Now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret. Come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work, and be a credit to the family." Coffee was a treat, and Hannah showed great tact in making it that morning. No one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee-pot. They drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again. "'Hope and keep busy;' that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best. I shall go to Aunt March, as usual. Oh, won't she lecture though!" said Jo, as she sipped with returning spirit. "I shall go to my Kings, though I'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here," said Meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red. "No need of that; Beth and I can keep house perfectly well," put in Amy, with an important air. "Hannah will tell us what to do; and we'll have everything nice when you come home," added Beth, getting out her mop and dish-tub without delay. "I think anxiety is very interesting," observed Amy, eating sugar, pensively. The girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though Meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar-bowl. The sight of the turn-overs made Jo sober again; and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face. It was gone; but Beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosy-faced mandarin. "That's so like my Beth!" said Jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face. "Good-by, Meggy; I hope the Kings won't train to-day. Don't fret about father, dear," she added, as they parted. "And I hope Aunt March won't croak. Your hair _is_ becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice," returned Meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders. "That's my only comfort;" and, touching her hat _à la_ Laurie, away went Jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day. News from their father comforted the girls very much; for, though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good. Mr. Brooke sent a bulletin every day, and, as the head of the family, Meg insisted on reading the despatches, which grew more and more cheering as the week passed. At first, every one was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter-box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their Washington correspondence. As one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them:-- "MY DEAREST MOTHER,-- "It is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it. How very kind Mr. Brooke is, and how fortunate that Mr. Laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and father. The girls are all as good as gold. Jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs. I should be afraid she might overdo, if I didn't know that her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long. Beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her. She grieves about father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano. Amy minds me nicely, and I take great care of her. She does her own hair, and I am teaching her to make button-holes and mend her stockings. She tries very hard, and I know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come. Mr. Laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as Jo says; and Laurie is very kind and neighborly. He and Jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away. Hannah is a perfect saint; she does not scold at all, and always calls me Miss 'Margaret,' which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect. We are all well and busy; but we long, day and night, to have you back. Give my dearest love to father, and believe me, ever your own "MEG." This note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed letters:-- "MY PRECIOUS MARMEE,-- "Three cheers for dear father! Brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was better. I rushed up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank God for being so good to us; but I could only cry, and say, 'I'm glad! I'm glad!' Didn't that do as well as a regular prayer? for I felt a great many in my heart. We have such funny times; and now I can enjoy them, for every one is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtle-doves. You'd laugh to see Meg head the table and try to be motherish. She gets prettier every day, and I'm in love with her sometimes. The children are regular archangels, and I--well, I'm Jo, and never shall be anything else. Oh, I must tell you that I came near having a quarrel with Laurie. I freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended. I was right, but didn't speak as I ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till I begged pardon. I declared I wouldn't, and got mad. It lasted all day; I felt bad, and wanted you very much. Laurie and I are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon; but I thought he'd come to it, for I _was_ in the right. He didn't come; and just at night I remembered what you said when Amy fell into the river. I read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on _my_ anger, and ran over to tell Laurie I was sorry. I met him at the gate, coming for the same thing. We both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again. "I made a 'pome' yesterday, when I was helping Hannah wash; and, as father likes my silly little things, I put it in to amuse him. Give him the lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your "TOPSY-TURVY JO." "A SONG FROM THE SUDS. "Queen of my tub, I merrily sing, While the white foam rises high; And sturdily wash and rinse and wring, And fasten the clothes to dry; Then out in the free fresh air they swing, Under the sunny sky. "I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls The stains of the week away, And let water and air by their magic make Ourselves as pure as they; Then on the earth there would be indeed A glorious washing-day! "Along the path of a useful life, Will heart's-ease ever bloom; The busy mind has no time to think Of sorrow or care or gloom; And anxious thoughts may be swept away, As we bravely wield a broom. "I am glad a task to me is given, To labor at day by day; For it brings me health and strength and hope, And I cheerfully learn to say,-- 'Head, you may think, Heart, you may feel, But, Hand, you shall work alway!'" "DEAR MOTHER,-- "There is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root I have been keeping safe in the house for father to see. I read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with father's tune. I can't sing 'Land of the Leal' now; it makes me cry. Every one is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you. Amy wants the rest of the page, so I must stop. I didn't forget to cover the holders, and I wind the clock and air the rooms every day. "Kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine. Oh, do come soon to your loving "LITTLE BETH." [Illustration: I wind the clock] "MA CHERE MAMMA,-- "We are all well I do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls--Meg says I mean contradick so I put in both words and you can take the properest. Meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me Jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered. Laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now I am almost in my teens, he calls me Chick and hurts my feelings by talking French to me very fast when I say Merci or Bon jour as Hattie King does. The sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and Meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress. I felt bad but did not fret I bear my troubles well but I do wish Hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day. Can't she? Didn't I make that interrigation point nice? Meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and I am mortyfied but dear me I have so many things to do, I can't stop. Adieu, I send heaps of love to Papa. "Your affectionate daughter, "AMY CURTIS MARCH." "DEAR MIS MARCH,-- "I jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate. The girls is clever and fly round right smart. Miss Meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper; she hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick. Jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up. She done out a tub of clothes on Monday, but she starched 'em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till I thought I should a died a laughin. Beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable. She tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years; likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful. We have got on very economical so fur; I don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles. Amy does well about frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff. Mr. Laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent; but he heartens up the girls, and so I let em hev full swing. The old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin. My bread is riz, so no more at this time. I send my duty to Mr. March, and hope he's seen the last of his Pewmonia. "Yours Respectful, "HANNAH MULLET." [Illustration: Yours Respectful, Hannah Mullet] "HEAD NURSE OF WARD NO. 2,-- "All serene on the Rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commissary department well conducted, the Home Guard under Colonel Teddy always on duty, Commander-in-chief General Laurence reviews the army daily, Quartermaster Mullett keeps order in camp, and Major Lion does picket duty at night. A salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from Washington, and a dress parade took place at head-quarters. Commander-in-chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by "COLONEL TEDDY." "DEAR MADAM,-- "The little girls are all well; Beth and my boy report daily; Hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty Meg like a dragon. Glad the fine weather holds; pray make Brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate. Don't let your husband want anything. Thank God he is mending. "Your sincere friend and servant, "JAMES LAURENCE." [Illustration: Tail-piece]

part 1, Chapter 16

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19

Letters The early morning finds the girls diligently reading their guidebooks, seeking comfort in their time of worry. The girls agree to say goodbye to Marmee cheerfully, and not add to her woes. She leaves them in Hannah's care and Mr. Laurence's protection. She encourages them to stay busy with work and not to grieve or fear too heavily, Mr. Brooke takes Mrs. March to the train station in a carriage, and the girls turn to their work. When they see that Marmee had mended their stockings before leaving, they all cry together at her thoughtfulness. Hannah treats them with coffee, and then the girls go off to their days, Meg at the Kings, Jo to Aunt March, and Beth and Amy to help Hannah at home. Mr. Brooke sends a telegraph as soon as they arrive in Washington, reporting that Mr. March is on the mend, and daily reports following. The girls are relieved that Father is mending, and all write of how Meg is acting as head of the house, Jo throwing herself haphazardly into work, Beth helping Hannah most with errands and chores, Amy staying sweet, Mr. Laurence sending over anything he can, and Laurie keeping everyone lively and as merry as possible

In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a "panacea for most afflictions." Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they "can never be fatherless." Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him "Greatheart", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_3_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 17

part 1, chapter 17

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19", "summary": "Little Faithful After a week of their tremendous hard work and virtue, the girls become a little less faithful. Jo catches cold, Amy returns to her art, and Meg spends much time rereading Mr. Brooke's dispatches and writing to her Mother. Beth keeps up with her chores and does many of her sisters' as well. She goes to see the Hummels every day, but when the baby gets sick, she asks Meg or Jo to go instead, to try to help. They all put it off until later, until Beth decides to go herself, despite feeling tired and achy. She returns home that evening, and Jo finds her in the medicine closet, reading about scarlet fever. The Hummel baby had died in her arms while the mother had gone to get the doctor, and when the doctor returned, he sent Beth home to take belladonna to prevent getting sick. Jo feels guilty and responsible for letting Beth go, rather than going herself. She wakes Hannah, who reassures everyone that Beth will be all right. Jo and Meg had scarlet fever when they were babies, but Amy is sent to Aunt March's to prevent getting sick. She refuses to go, until Laurie promises to come visit her every day. Jo becomes Beth's nurse. Hannah says that, as Beth will be all right, they should not tell Mother and Father, who will just be anxious. They were instructed to mind Hannah, so the girls obey, despite disliking lying and being worried about Beth", "analysis": "In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a \"panacea for most afflictions.\" Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they \"can never be fatherless.\" Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him \"Greatheart\", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death."}

XVII. LITTLE FAITHFUL. For a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood. It was really amazing, for every one seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion. Relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into the old ways. They did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier; and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that Endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many. Jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for Aunt March didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads. Jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books. Amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies. Meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the Washington despatches over and over. Beth kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving. All the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting. When her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a certain dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself. Nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but every one felt how sweet and helpful Beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs. All were unconscious that this experience was a test of character; and, when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well, and deserved praise. So they did; but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret. "Meg, I wish you'd go and see the Hummels; you know mother told us not to forget them," said Beth, ten days after Mrs. March's departure. "I'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied Meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed. "Can't you, Jo?" asked Beth. "Too stormy for me with my cold." "I thought it was almost well." "It's well enough for me to go out with Laurie, but not well enough to go to the Hummels'," said Jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency. "Why don't you go yourself?" asked Meg. "I _have_ been every day, but the baby is sick, and I don't know what to do for it. Mrs. Hummel goes away to work, and Lottchen takes care of it; but it gets sicker and sicker, and I think you or Hannah ought to go." Beth spoke earnestly, and Meg promised she would go to-morrow. "Ask Hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, Beth; the air will do you good," said Jo, adding apologetically, "I'd go, but I want to finish my writing." "My head aches and I'm tired, so I thought may be some of you would go," said Beth. "Amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested Meg. "Well, I'll rest a little and wait for her." So Beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the Hummels were forgotten. An hour passed: Amy did not come; Meg went to her room to try on a new dress; Jo was absorbed in her story, and Hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when Beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air, with a heavy head, and a grieved look in her patient eyes. It was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room. Half an hour after Jo went to "mother's closet" for something, and there found Beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes, and a camphor-bottle in her hand. "Christopher Columbus! What's the matter?" cried Jo, as Beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly,-- "You've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?" "Years ago, when Meg did. Why?" "Then I'll tell you. Oh, Jo, the baby's dead!" "What baby?" "Mrs. Hummel's; it died in my lap before she got home," cried Beth, with a sob. "My poor dear, how dreadful for you! I ought to have gone," said Jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big chair, with a remorseful face. "It wasn't dreadful, Jo, only so sad! I saw in a minute that it was sicker, but Lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so I took baby and let Lotty rest. It seemed asleep, but all of a sudden it gave a little cry, and trembled, and then lay very still. I tried to warm its feet, and Lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and I knew it was dead." [Illustration: It didn't stir, and I knew it was dead] "Don't cry, dear! What did you do?" "I just sat and held it softly till Mrs. Hummel came with the doctor. He said it was dead, and looked at Heinrich and Minna, who have got sore throats. 'Scarlet fever, ma'am. Ought to have called me before,' he said crossly. Mrs. Hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others, and trust to charity for his pay. He smiled then, and was kinder; but it was very sad, and I cried with them till he turned round, all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or I'd have the fever." "No, you won't!" cried Jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look. "O Beth, if you should be sick I never could forgive myself! What _shall_ we do?" "Don't be frightened, I guess I shan't have it badly. I looked in mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so I did take some belladonna, and I feel better," said Beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead, and trying to look well. "If mother was only at home!" exclaimed Jo, seizing the book, and feeling that Washington was an immense way off. She read a page, looked at Beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely; "You've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it; so I'm afraid _you_ are going to have it, Beth. I'll call Hannah, she knows all about sickness." "Don't let Amy come; she never had it, and I should hate to give it to her. Can't you and Meg have it over again?" asked Beth, anxiously. "I guess not; don't care if I do; serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!" muttered Jo, as she went to consult Hannah. The good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring Jo that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, and, if rightly treated, nobody died,--all of which Jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call Meg. "Now I'll tell you what we'll do," said Hannah, when she had examined and questioned Beth; "we will have Dr. Bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right; then we'll send Amy off to Aunt March's, for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse Beth for a day or two." "I shall stay, of course; I'm oldest," began Meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful. "_I_ shall, because it's my fault she is sick; I told mother I'd do the errands, and I haven't," said Jo decidedly. "Which will you have, Beth? there ain't no need of but one," said Hannah. "Jo, please;" and Beth leaned her head against her sister, with a contented look, which effectually settled that point. "I'll go and tell Amy," said Meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved, on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and Jo did. Amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to Aunt March. Meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded: all in vain. Amy protested that she would _not_ go; and Meg left her in despair, to ask Hannah what should be done. Before she came back, Laurie walked into the parlor to find Amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa-cushions. She told her story, expecting to be consoled; but Laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought. Presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, "Now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say. No, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan I've got. You go to Aunt March's, and I'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times. Won't that be better than moping here?" [Illustration: He sat down beside her] "I don't wish to be sent off as if I was in the way," began Amy, in an injured voice. "Bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well. You don't want to be sick, do you?" "No, I'm sure I don't; but I dare say I shall be, for I've been with Beth all the time." "That's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it. Change of air and care will keep you well, I dare say; or, if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly. I advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss." "But it's dull at Aunt March's, and she is so cross," said Amy, looking rather frightened. "It won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how Beth is, and take you out gallivanting. The old lady likes me, and I'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do." "Will you take me out in the trotting wagon with Puck?" "On my honor as a gentleman." "And come every single day?" "See if I don't." "And bring me back the minute Beth is well?" "The identical minute." "And go to the theatre, truly?" "A dozen theatres, if we may." "Well--I guess--I will," said Amy slowly. "Good girl! Call Meg, and tell her you'll give in," said Laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed Amy more than the "giving in." Meg and Jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought; and Amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said Beth was going to be ill. "How is the little dear?" asked Laurie; for Beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show. "She is lying down on mother's bed, and feels better. The baby's death troubled her, but I dare say she has only got cold. Hannah _says_ she thinks so; but she _looks_ worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered Meg. "What a trying world it is!" said Jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful sort of way. "No sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another. There doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when mother's gone; so I'm all at sea." "Well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming. Settle your wig, Jo, and tell me if I shall telegraph to your mother, or do anything?" asked Laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his friend's one beauty. "That is what troubles me," said Meg. "I think we ought to tell her if Beth is really ill, but Hannah says we mustn't, for mother can't leave father, and it will only make them anxious. Beth won't be sick long, and Hannah knows just what to do, and mother said we were to mind her, so I suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me." "Hum, well, I can't say; suppose you ask grandfather after the doctor has been." "We will. Jo, go and get Dr. Bangs at once," commanded Meg; "we can't decide anything till he has been." "Stay where you are, Jo; I'm errand-boy to this establishment," said Laurie, taking up his cap. "I'm afraid you are busy," began Meg. "No, I've done my lessons for the day." "Do you study in vacation time?" asked Jo. "I follow the good example my neighbors set me," was Laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of the room. "I have great hopes of my boy," observed Jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving smile. "He does very well--for a boy," was Meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not interest her. Dr. Bangs came, said Beth had symptoms of the fever, but thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the Hummel story. Amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with Jo and Laurie as escort. Aunt March received them with her usual hospitality. "What do you want now?" she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out,-- [Illustration: What do you want now?] "Go away. No boys allowed here." Laurie retired to the window, and Jo told her story. "No more than I expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks. Amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick, which I've no doubt she will be,--looks like it now. Don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff." Amy _was_ on the point of crying, but Laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused Polly to utter an astonished croak, and call out,-- "Bless my boots!" in such a funny way, that she laughed instead. "What do you hear from your mother?" asked the old lady gruffly. "Father is much better," replied Jo, trying to keep sober. "Oh, is he? Well, that won't last long, I fancy; March never had any stamina," was the cheerful reply. "Ha, ha! never say die, take a pinch of snuff, good by, good by!" squalled Polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as Laurie tweaked him in the rear. "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird! and, Jo, you'd better go at once; it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattle-pated boy like--" "Hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!" cried Polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the "rattle-pated" boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech. "I don't think I _can_ bear it, but I'll try," thought Amy, as she was left alone with Aunt March. "Get along, you fright!" screamed Polly; and at that rude speech Amy could not restrain a sniff.

part 1, Chapter 17

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19

Little Faithful After a week of their tremendous hard work and virtue, the girls become a little less faithful. Jo catches cold, Amy returns to her art, and Meg spends much time rereading Mr. Brooke's dispatches and writing to her Mother. Beth keeps up with her chores and does many of her sisters' as well. She goes to see the Hummels every day, but when the baby gets sick, she asks Meg or Jo to go instead, to try to help. They all put it off until later, until Beth decides to go herself, despite feeling tired and achy. She returns home that evening, and Jo finds her in the medicine closet, reading about scarlet fever. The Hummel baby had died in her arms while the mother had gone to get the doctor, and when the doctor returned, he sent Beth home to take belladonna to prevent getting sick. Jo feels guilty and responsible for letting Beth go, rather than going herself. She wakes Hannah, who reassures everyone that Beth will be all right. Jo and Meg had scarlet fever when they were babies, but Amy is sent to Aunt March's to prevent getting sick. She refuses to go, until Laurie promises to come visit her every day. Jo becomes Beth's nurse. Hannah says that, as Beth will be all right, they should not tell Mother and Father, who will just be anxious. They were instructed to mind Hannah, so the girls obey, despite disliking lying and being worried about Beth

In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a "panacea for most afflictions." Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they "can never be fatherless." Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him "Greatheart", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_3_part_4.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 18

part 1, chapter 18

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 18", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19", "summary": "Dark Days In fact, Beth is quite sick, but Hannah tries to maintain a hopeful front. It is during Beth's illness that many come to appreciate the importance of her sweet, selfless role in their lives. Jo, nursing Beth, has her rough was softened by Beth's tenderness and virtue. The girls are surprised by how many friends shy Beth has, when the milkman and grocer ask after her. When Beth grows delirious, the girls beg to write to Mother, and Hannah says she will consider it, but the decision is made harder when a letter comes saying Mr. March has had a relapse and Mother is needed there. On the first day of December, Dr. Bangs decides that it is time to send for Mrs. March. Jo sends the telegram and returns to find Laurie with a letter saying Mr. March is on the mend. She cries to Laurie, who comforts her and brings her a little medicinal wine. He then confesses that he had grown impatient with Hannah and had disobeyed her orders and sent for Mrs. March the day previously, and that she would arrive late that night. Jo, ecstatic, hugs Laurie, who timidly kisses Jo, who quickly remembers herself, blames the wine, and sends him off to rest. The news that Mother is coming sends a wave of fresh air through the house, and even Hannah is relieved. Beth, however, is still in the throng of the fever, unmoving and unwell. At two o'clock in the morning, Beth suddenly looks peaceful and free of pain, and Jo begins to mourn her loss. Hannah, waking, realizes that the fever has finally passed, and Beth is beginning to get well. Dr. Bangs confirms Hannah's belief, and they girls keep a long vigil until their mother arrives a few hours later", "analysis": "In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a \"panacea for most afflictions.\" Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they \"can never be fatherless.\" Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him \"Greatheart\", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death."}

XVIII. DARK DAYS [Illustration: Beth did have the fever] Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than any one but Hannah and the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr. Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything all her own way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of "Mrs. March bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle." Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night; not a hard task, for Beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet, as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left; a time when she did not know the familiar faces round her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she "would think of it, though there was no danger _yet_." A letter from Washington added to their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while. How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home! Then it was that Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy,--in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes, and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition, to live for others, and make home happy by the exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her. Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Every one missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did; poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness, and to get a shroud for Minna; the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little Beth had made. Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn _protégé_. She longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick; and, in her quiet hours, she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write soon; and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day, Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side. The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held the hot hand in both his own a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low tone, to Hannah,-- "If Mrs. March _can_ leave her husband, she'd better be sent for." Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously; Meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words; and Jo, after standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and, throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and, while noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that Laurie asked quickly,-- "What is it? is Beth worse?" "I've sent for mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragical expression. "Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair, and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook. "No, the doctor told us to." "O Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face. "Yes, it is; she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine-leaves on the wall; she doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it; mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find Him." As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie took it in his, whispering, as well as he could, with a lump in his throat,-- "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!" She could not speak, but she did "hold on," and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble. Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done; far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and, in the silence, learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face. [Illustration: Gently stroking her head as her mother used to do] "Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now; I don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes." "Keep hoping for the best; that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be right." "I'm so glad father is better; now she won't feel so bad about leaving him. Oh, me! it does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry. "Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant. "Oh, yes; she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do; and she won't miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I _can't_ give her up. I can't! I can't!" Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried despairingly; for she had kept up bravely till now, and never shed a tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips. It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it. Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she will die; she's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe God will take her away yet." "The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up, in spite of her own doubts and fears. "Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a bit; I'll hearten you up in a jiffy." Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo; and, when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "I drink--Health to my Beth! You are a good doctor, Teddy, and _such_ a comfortable friend; how can I ever pay you?" she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind. "I'll send in my bill, by and by; and to-night I'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something. "What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute, in her wonder. "I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here to-night, and everything will be all right. Aren't you glad I did it?" Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "O Laurie! O mother! I _am_ so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news. Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind; he patted her back soothingly, and, finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to; it was dreadful of me; but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again; it makes me act so." "I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I got fidgety, and so did grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive us if Beth--well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my head off when I proposed a telegram. I never _can_ bear to be 'lorded over;' so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I know, and the late train is in at two, A.M. I shall go for her; and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet, till that blessed lady gets here." "Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?" "Fly at me again; I rather like it," said Laurie, looking mischievous,--a thing he had not done for a fortnight. "No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless you, Teddy, bless you!" Jo had backed into a corner; and, as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser, and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, _so_ happy!" while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made rather a neat thing of it. "That's the interferingest chap I ever see; but I forgive him, and do hope Mrs. March is coming on right away," said Hannah, with an air of relief, when Jo told the good news. Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set the sick-room in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpected." A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change; Beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's bush in the window; the fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness; and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming, dear! mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth; she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It was a piteous sight,--the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, "Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word; all day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in God and mother; and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last; and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return. Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot, and fell fast asleep; Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's anxious countenance as she entered; Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear. The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those. "If God spares Beth I never will complain again," whispered Meg earnestly. "If God spares Beth I'll try to love and serve Him all my life," answered Jo, with equal fervor. "I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause. "If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get through it," added her sister despondently. Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station. Another hour,--still no one came; and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at Washington, haunted the poor girls. It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding-sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and, turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy-chair, with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me." She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose, that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament. Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my Beth; good-by!" As if waked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned; she's sleepin' nat'ral; her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh, my goodness me!" Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled, and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes, my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep the house quiet; let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her--" What they were to give, neither heard; for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep. "If mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to wane. "See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand to-morrow if she--went away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and mother's face." Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely, as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done. "It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight. "Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet. Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah, and then Laurie's voice saying, in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come! she's come!" [Illustration: Amy's Will]

part 1, Chapter 18

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19

Dark Days In fact, Beth is quite sick, but Hannah tries to maintain a hopeful front. It is during Beth's illness that many come to appreciate the importance of her sweet, selfless role in their lives. Jo, nursing Beth, has her rough was softened by Beth's tenderness and virtue. The girls are surprised by how many friends shy Beth has, when the milkman and grocer ask after her. When Beth grows delirious, the girls beg to write to Mother, and Hannah says she will consider it, but the decision is made harder when a letter comes saying Mr. March has had a relapse and Mother is needed there. On the first day of December, Dr. Bangs decides that it is time to send for Mrs. March. Jo sends the telegram and returns to find Laurie with a letter saying Mr. March is on the mend. She cries to Laurie, who comforts her and brings her a little medicinal wine. He then confesses that he had grown impatient with Hannah and had disobeyed her orders and sent for Mrs. March the day previously, and that she would arrive late that night. Jo, ecstatic, hugs Laurie, who timidly kisses Jo, who quickly remembers herself, blames the wine, and sends him off to rest. The news that Mother is coming sends a wave of fresh air through the house, and even Hannah is relieved. Beth, however, is still in the throng of the fever, unmoving and unwell. At two o'clock in the morning, Beth suddenly looks peaceful and free of pain, and Jo begins to mourn her loss. Hannah, waking, realizes that the fever has finally passed, and Beth is beginning to get well. Dr. Bangs confirms Hannah's belief, and they girls keep a long vigil until their mother arrives a few hours later

In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a "panacea for most afflictions." Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they "can never be fatherless." Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him "Greatheart", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_3_part_5.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 19

part 1, chapter 19

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 19", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19", "summary": "Amy's Will While life at home during Beth's illness is trying for the girls, life for Amy with Aunt March is also difficult for her. Aunt March cares for Amy, but tries to raise her on discipline and demands, rather than the loving kindness to which Amy is accustomed. With Aunt March, Amy must do an extraordinary amount of housework, sewing, reading aloud, lessons, and has precious few moments of free time. Laurie keeps his promise to come every day to drive with her. The maid Esther is very kind to her, showing her all of Aunt March's possessions and jewelry boxes. Amy wonders where everything will go when Aunt March dies, and Esther explains that Aunt March's will gives the jewelry to Amy and her sisters. Amy is to receive the turquoise ring, for Aunt March favors her. Learning this, Amy resolves to be good and earn the ring. Esther sets up Amy's dressing room as a space for prayer and meditation, which is a great comfort to Amy. In her quest to be good, Amy decides to write a will, with Esther's help, and asks Laurie to be a witness. Laurie mentions that Beth, feeling ill one day, had promised away her things as well. Amy, inspired by Beth's goodness, asks that all of her curls be cut off and locks distributed to her friends, making a great sacrifice", "analysis": "In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a \"panacea for most afflictions.\" Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they \"can never be fatherless.\" Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him \"Greatheart\", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death."}

XIX. AMY'S WILL. While these things were happening at home, Amy was having hard times at Aunt March's. She felt her exile deeply, and, for the first time in her life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home. Aunt March never petted any one; she did not approve of it; but she meant to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and Aunt March had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children, though she didn't think proper to confess it. She really did her best to make Amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made! Some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way. But Aunt March had not this gift, and she worried Amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks. Finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence. So she took Amy in hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago,--a process which carried dismay to Amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider. [Illustration: Polish up the spoons and the fat silver teapot] She had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses, till they shone. Then she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was! Not a speck escaped Aunt March's eye, and all the furniture had claw legs, and much carving, which was never dusted to suit. Then Polly must be fed, the lap-dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down, to get things, or deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame, and seldom left her big chair. After these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed. Then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it? Laurie came every day, and wheedled Aunt March, till Amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode, and had capital times. After dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page. Then patchwork or towels appeared, and Amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till tea-time. The evenings were the worst of all, for Aunt March fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull that Amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two. If it had not been for Laurie, and old Esther, the maid, she felt that she never could have got through that dreadful time. The parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible. He pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made Mop bark by pecking at him while Madam dozed; called her names before company, and behaved in all respects like a reprehensible old bird. Then she could not endure the dog,--a fat, cross beast, who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back, with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day. The cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman deaf, and Esther the only one who ever took any notice of the young lady. [Illustration: On his back, with all his legs in the air] Esther was a Frenchwoman, who had lived with "Madame," as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without her. Her real name was Estelle, but Aunt March ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never asked to change her religion. She took a fancy to Mademoiselle, and amused her very much, with odd stories of her life in France, when Amy sat with her while she got up Madame's laces. She also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests; for Aunt March hoarded like a magpie. Amy's chief delight was an Indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeon-holes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique. To examine and arrange these things gave Amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel-cases, in which, on velvet cushions, reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty years ago. There was the garnet set which Aunt March wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding-day, her lover's diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends, and weeping willows made of hair inside; the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn; Uncle March's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box, all by itself, lay Aunt March's wedding-ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away, like the most precious jewel of them all. [Illustration: I should choose this] "Which would Mademoiselle choose if she had her will?" asked Esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables. "I like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and I'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming. I should choose this if I might," replied Amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads, from which hung a heavy cross of the same. "I, too, covet that, but not as a necklace; ah, no! to me it is a rosary, and as such I should use it like a good Catholic," said Esther, eying the handsome thing wistfully. "Is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging over your glass?" asked Amy. "Truly, yes, to pray with. It would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou." "You seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, Esther, and always come down looking quiet and satisfied. I wish I could." "If Mademoiselle was a Catholic, she would find true comfort; but, as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day, to meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom I served before Madame. She had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble." "Would it be right for me to do so too?" asked Amy, who, in her loneliness, felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now that Beth was not there to remind her of it. "It would be excellent and charming; and I shall gladly arrange the little dressing-room for you if you like it. Say nothing to Madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and pray the dear God to preserve your sister." Esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice; for she had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety. Amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good. "I wish I knew where all these pretty things would go when Aunt March dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary, and shut the jewel-cases one by one. "To you and your sisters. I know it; Madame confides in me; I witnessed her will, and it is to be so," whispered Esther, smiling. "How nice! but I wish she'd let us have them now. Pro-cras-ti-nation is not agreeable," observed Amy, taking a last look at the diamonds. "It is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things. The first one who is affianced will have the pearls--Madame has said it; and I have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for Madame approves your good behavior and charming manners." "Do you think so? Oh, I'll be a lamb, if I can only have that lovely ring! It's ever so much prettier than Kitty Bryant's. I do like Aunt March, after all;" and Amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face, and a firm resolve to earn it. From that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her training. Esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms. She thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that Madame would never know it, nor care if she did. It was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and Amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the divine mother, while tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart. On the table she laid her little Testament and hymn-book, kept a vase always full of the best flowers Laurie brought her, and came every day to "sit alone, thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear God to preserve her sister." Esther had given her a rosary of black beads, with a silver cross, but Amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for Protestant prayers. The little girl was very sincere in all this, for, being left alone outside the safe home-nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely, that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender Friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children. She missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way, and walk in it confidingly. But Amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy. She tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it. In her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as Aunt March had done; so that if she _did_ fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided. It cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady's jewels. During one of her play-hours she wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from Esther as to certain legal terms, and, when the good-natured Frenchwoman had signed her name, Amy felt relieved, and laid it by to show Laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness. As it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took Polly with her for company. In this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes, with which Esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately courtesies, and sweeping her train about, with a rustle which delighted her ears. So busy was she on this day that she did not hear Laurie's ring, nor see his face peeping in at her, as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat. She was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as Laurie told Jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with Polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, "Ain't we fine? Get along, you fright! Hold your tongue! Kiss me, dear! Ha! ha!" [Illustration: Gravely promenaded to and fro] Having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, Laurie tapped, and was graciously received. "Sit down and rest while I put these things away; then I want to consult you about a very serious matter," said Amy, when she had shown her splendor, and driven Polly into a corner. "That bird is the trial of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while Laurie seated himself astride of a chair. "Yesterday, when aunt was asleep, and I was trying to be as still as a mouse, Polly began to squall and flap about in his cage; so I went to let him out, and found a big spider there. I poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase; Polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, 'Come out and take a walk, my dear.' I _couldn't_ help laughing, which made Poll swear, and aunt woke up and scolded us both." "Did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?" asked Laurie, yawning. "Yes; out it came, and away ran Polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on aunt's chair, calling out, 'Catch her! catch her! catch her!' as I chased the spider. "That's a lie! Oh lor!" cried the parrot, pecking at Laurie's toes. "I'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried Laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side, and gravely croaked, "Allyluyer! bless your buttons, dear!" "Now I'm ready," said Amy, shutting the wardrobe, and taking a paper out of her pocket. "I want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right. I felt that I ought to do it, for life is uncertain and I don't want any ill-feeling over my tomb." [Illustration: Amy's Will] Laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:-- "MY LAST WILL AND TESTIMENT. "I, Amy Curtis March, being in my sane mind, do give and bequeethe all my earthly property--viz. to wit:--namely "To my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames. Also my $100, to do what he likes with. "To my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets,--also my likeness, and my medal, with much love. "To my dear sister Margaret, I give my turkquoise ring (if I get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her 'little girl.' "To Jo I leave my breast-pin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze inkstand--she lost the cover--and my most precious plaster rabbit, because I am sorry I burnt up her story. "To Beth (if she lives after me) I give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin when she gets well. And I herewith also leave her my regret that I ever made fun of old Joanna. "To my friend and neighbor Theodore Laurence I bequeethe my paper marshay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn't any neck. Also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, Noter Dame is the best. "To our venerable benefactor Mr. Laurence I leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, specially Beth. "I wish my favorite playmate Kitty Bryant to have the blue silk apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss. "To Hannah I give the bandbox she wanted and all the patch work I leave hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see.' "And now having disposed of my most valuable property I hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead. I forgive every one, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound. Amen. "To this will and testiment I set my hand and seal on this 20th day of Nov. Anni Domino 1861. "AMY CURTIS MARCH. {ESTELLE VALNOR, "_Witnesses_: { {THEODORE LAURENCE." The last name was written in pencil, and Amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink, and seal it up for her properly. "What put it into your head? Did any one tell you about Beth's giving away her things?" asked Laurie soberly, as Amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing-wax, a taper, and a standish before him. She explained; and then asked anxiously, "What about Beth?" "I'm sorry I spoke; but as I did, I'll tell you. She felt so ill one day that she told Jo she wanted to give her piano to Meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to Jo, who would love it for her sake. She was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to grandpa. _She_ never thought of a will." Laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper. Amy's face was full of trouble; but she only said, "Don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?" "Yes; 'codicils,' they call them." "Put one in mine then--that I wish _all_ my curls cut off, and given round to my friends. I forgot it; but I want it done, though it will spoil my looks." Laurie added it, smiling at Amy's last and greatest sacrifice. Then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials. But when he came to go, Amy held him back to whisper, with trembling lips, "Is there really any danger about Beth?" "I'm afraid there is; but we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear;" and Laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting. When he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and, sitting in the twilight, prayed for Beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side]

part 1, Chapter 19

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-15-through-chapter-19

Amy's Will While life at home during Beth's illness is trying for the girls, life for Amy with Aunt March is also difficult for her. Aunt March cares for Amy, but tries to raise her on discipline and demands, rather than the loving kindness to which Amy is accustomed. With Aunt March, Amy must do an extraordinary amount of housework, sewing, reading aloud, lessons, and has precious few moments of free time. Laurie keeps his promise to come every day to drive with her. The maid Esther is very kind to her, showing her all of Aunt March's possessions and jewelry boxes. Amy wonders where everything will go when Aunt March dies, and Esther explains that Aunt March's will gives the jewelry to Amy and her sisters. Amy is to receive the turquoise ring, for Aunt March favors her. Learning this, Amy resolves to be good and earn the ring. Esther sets up Amy's dressing room as a space for prayer and meditation, which is a great comfort to Amy. In her quest to be good, Amy decides to write a will, with Esther's help, and asks Laurie to be a witness. Laurie mentions that Beth, feeling ill one day, had promised away her things as well. Amy, inspired by Beth's goodness, asks that all of her curls be cut off and locks distributed to her friends, making a great sacrifice

In this darker section of the book, the March family is threatened on several fronts. At first, when Marmee leaves, they turn to work, which Hannah considers Hannah considers a "panacea for most afflictions." Jo writes an ode to work and its ability to sweep out thoughts of sorrow from her mind. Yet after some time they relax. The experiment over vacation foreshadowed the girls' attempts to get on without Marmee; in that instance, Beth's bird was the victim, whereas in this case Beth herself falls ill. Several of the sisters turn to their faith. The morning Marmee departs, all the girls read their guidebooks with greater attention and care. Marmee reminds them that whatever happens, they "can never be fatherless." Amy truly develops her faith in this section, in her chapel in Aunt March's house. Jo, who feels guilty for Beth's illness, questions her faith, feeling that she can't find God, and that the good and dear people die first. Laurie, though, comforts Jo, assuring her that God won't take Beth yet. Laurie's comfort helps bring Jo closer to God. The experience also brings Mr. Brooke closer into the family. By naming him "Greatheart", the sisters include him in their Pilgrim's Progress play, a special cohort. The dramatic irony of the previous section is enhanced here -- now, the readers' knowledge of John's feelings for Meg allows us to understand the significance not only of his actions, but of hers as well. As Meg appreciates Mr. Brooke escorting her mother, rereading his dispatches from Washington, and dreaming of brown eyes, we realize she is falling in love with him before she does. Jo also has a brief experience with romance when she flies at Laurie after he sends for her mother. She blames the wine for making her hysterical, reflecting Alcott's views on alcohol, and rejects Laurie's affections beyond friendship, as she will throughout the book. By including letters, Alcott provides unique insight into their individual voices and styles. This is the longest excerpt of Hannah's dialect that the reader sees. The letters serve to deepen the characterization of the family members by illustrating their distinct cares and modes of expression. The inclusion of Hannah's, Laurie's, and Mr. Laurence's letters demonstrates the expansion of the March family to include dear friends, particularly in this time of crisis. This section emphasizes the nobility of Beth's selflessness, which all learn from. Jo insists that Beth's illness is her fault, and devotes herself to nursing Beth back to health. In this, and in cutting her hair to send money to her Father, Jo appreciates the sweetness of making sacrifices to help the ones she loves. Meg learns to value the blessings of a happy home no money can buy, and Amy explicitly vows to imitate Beth and be less selfish, beginning with her will. The experience of Beth's sickness - particularly when Jo believes she has died, when indeed the fever has passed - foreshadows her eventual death.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_4_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 20

part 1, chapter 20

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 20", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-20-through-chapter-23", "summary": "Confidential Marmee's delayed arrival from the train is received with great tenderness and love. After delivering Mrs. March, Laurie rushes off to tell Amy and Aunt March the news. Amy patiently and selflessly suppresses her desire to see her mother and gains praise from Laurie and Aunt March, who gives Amy the turquoise ring for being so well-behaved. However, Marmee does come to see Amy that afternoon, to her great delight. They sit together in Amy's little chapel and discuss Amy's quest to be good. Marmee is at first concerned by the ring, as she thinks Amy is too young, but Amy explains that she wants to wear the ring to remind herself not to be selfish, so that she will be loved as Beth is. Marmee applauds Amy's intention, and then returns to Beth. That evening, Jo confides in Marmee that Mr. Brooke cares for Meg and has her glove. Marmee says Mr. Brooke grew quite close to her and Father at the hospital, and that John told them honestly about his care for Meg and his plan to earn a comfortable home before asking for her hand. Marmee and Father feel that John is a good man, though poor, but that Meg is too young to be engaged. Marmee asks Jo to keep the secret from Meg until Marmee can discern Meg's feelings for John. Jo believes John will romance Meg, and things will change, and their happy life will be spoilt. When Meg comes in, Marmee speaks of John fondly, and gauging Meg's response, decides that Meg \"does not love John yet, but she will learn to", "analysis": "In this concluding section of Part I, the March sisters are rewarded for their year of self-improvement. The parallels between the beginning of the novel and the end are clear. The Christmas presents the girls receive mirror their wishes in the beginning of the book. Their true reward, though, is the praise and recognition of their Father, and their own happiness at having become better people. At the end, as in the beginning, we find the family enjoying each other, but now the family has grown to include the Laurences and Mr. Brooke. The theme of poverty is discussed in the context of Mr. Brooke's suitability for Meg. Mr. and Mrs. March support the marriage despite John's poverty, as long as he can provide basic comforts. Meg, whose castle in the air included luxurious things and \"heaps of money,\" decides to marry a poor but good man and sacrifice any support from Aunt March to do so. In this sense, Meg rejects the dictates of society and makes, in her mind, the moral choice. Embracing morality does not always require rejecting society, as Jo demonstrates when she refuses to run away with Laurie. Jo accepts that because she is a girl, she is resigned to to \"prunes and prisms\", a colloquial term meaning proper words for ladies to use and a transformation from Jo's typical embrace of slang. Jo simultaneously objects to inequality of men and women while accepting that she is a \"little woman.\" Alcott continues to draw on Pilgrim's Progress to enhance the meaning of the girls' journeys. In the green meadows, Christian and his companion Hopeful enjoy a respite with delight and replenish their weary spirits, but they are not yet \"at their journey's end.\" So too, Alcott turns her readers' attention to the future with Jo and Laurie discussing what might happen in three years. She then premises the disclosure of this knowledge on the readers' reception to the book, engaging them in dialogue with the text."}

XX. CONFIDENTIAL I don't think I have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters; such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so I will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that Meg's tender hope was realized; for when Beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell _were_ the little rose and mother's face. Too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled, and nestled close into the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last. Then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep. Hannah had "dished up" an astonishing breakfast for the traveller, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way; and Meg and Jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of father's state, Mr. Brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort Laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold. What a strange, yet pleasant day that was! so brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow; so quiet and reposeful within, for every one slept, spent with watching, and a Sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding Hannah mounted guard at the door. With a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, Meg and Jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats, safe at anchor in a quiet harbor. Mrs. March would not leave Beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure. Laurie, meanwhile, posted off to comfort Amy, and told his story so well that Aunt March actually "sniffed" herself, and never once said, "I told you so." Amy came out so strong on this occasion that I think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit. She dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in Laurie's opinion, that she behaved "like a capital little woman." Even Polly seemed impressed, for he called her "good girl," blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear," in his most affable tone. She would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather; but, discovering that Laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother. She was a long time about it; and, when she returned, he was stretched out, with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while Aunt March had pulled down the curtains, and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity. After a while, they began to think he was not going to wake till night, and I'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by Amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother. There probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion that Amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses. They were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her. "On the contrary, I like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen. "It is an excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us. There are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right way. I think my little girl is learning this?" "Yes, mother; and when I go home I mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books, and the copy of that picture which I've tried to make. The woman's face is not good,--it's too beautiful for me to draw,--but the baby is done better, and I love it very much. I like to think He was a little child once, for then I don't seem so far away, and that helps me." As Amy pointed to the smiling Christ-child on his mother's knee, Mrs. March saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile. She said nothing, but Amy understood the look, and, after a minute's pause, she added gravely,-- "I wanted to speak to you about this, but I forgot it. Aunt gave me the ring to-day; she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said I was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me always. She gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too big. I'd like to wear them, mother; can I?" "They are very pretty, but I think you're rather too young for such ornaments, Amy," said Mrs. March, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard, formed of two tiny, golden hands clasped together. "I'll try not to be vain," said Amy. "I don't think I like it only because it's so pretty; but I want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something." "Do you mean Aunt March?" asked her mother, laughing. "No, to remind me not to be selfish." Amy looked so earnest and sincere about it, that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan. "I've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties,' and being selfish is the largest one in it; so I'm going to try hard to cure it, if I can. Beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason every one loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her. People wouldn't feel half so bad about me if I was sick, and I don't deserve to have them; but I'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so I'm going to try and be like Beth all I can. I'm apt to forget my resolutions; but if I had something always about me to remind me, I guess I should do better. May I try this way?" "Yes; but I have more faith in the corner of the big closet. Wear your ring, dear, and do your best; I think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle. Now I must go back to Beth. Keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again." That evening, while Meg was writing to her father, to report the traveller's safe arrival, Jo slipped up stairs into Beth's room, and, finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look. "What is it, deary?" asked Mrs. March, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence. "I want to tell you something, mother." "About Meg?" "How quickly you guessed! Yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it fidgets me." "Beth is asleep; speak low, and tell me all about it. That Moffat hasn't been here, I hope?" asked Mrs. March rather sharply. "No, I should have shut the door in his face if he had," said Jo, settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet. "Last summer Meg left a pair of gloves over at the Laurences', and only one was returned. We forgot all about it, till Teddy told me that Mr. Brooke had it. He kept it in his waistcoat pocket, and once it fell out, and Teddy joked him about it, and Mr. Brooke owned that he liked Meg, but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor. Now, isn't it a _dread_ful state of things?" "Do you think Meg cares for him?" asked Mrs. March, with an anxious look. "Mercy me! I don't know anything about love and such nonsense!" cried Jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt. "In novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools. Now Meg does not do anything of the sort: she eats and drinks and sleeps, like a sensible creature: she looks straight in my face when I talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when Teddy jokes about lovers. I forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as he ought." "Then you fancy that Meg is _not_ interested in John?" "Who?" cried Jo, staring. "Mr. Brooke. I call him 'John' now; we fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it." "Oh, dear! I know you'll take his part: he's been good to father, and you won't send him away, but let Meg marry him, if she wants to. Mean thing! to go petting papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him;" and Jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak. "My dear, don't get angry about it, and I will tell you how it happened. John went with me at Mr. Laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor father that we couldn't help getting fond of him. He was perfectly open and honorable about Meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him. He only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could. He is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him; but I will not consent to Meg's engaging herself so young." "Of course not; it would be idiotic! I knew there was mischief brewing; I felt it; and now it's worse than I imagined. I just wish I could marry Meg myself, and keep her safe in the family." This odd arrangement made Mrs. March smile; but she said gravely, "Jo, I confide in you, and don't wish you to say anything to Meg yet. When John comes back, and I see them together, I can judge better of her feelings toward him." "She'll see his in those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her. She's got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if any one looks sentimentally at her. She read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when I spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think John an ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cosy times together. I see it all! they'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge; Meg will be absorbed, and no good to me any more; Brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family; and I shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable. Oh, dear me! why weren't we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother." Jo leaned her chin on her knees, in a disconsolate attitude, and shook her fist at the reprehensible John. Mrs. March sighed, and Jo looked up with an air of relief. "You don't like it, mother? I'm glad of it. Let's send him about his business, and not tell Meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been." "I did wrong to sigh, Jo. It is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own, in time; but I do want to keep my girls as long as I can; and I am sorry that this happened so soon, for Meg is only seventeen, and it will be some years before John can make a home for her. Your father and I have agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty. If she and John love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so. She is conscientious, and I have no fear of her treating him unkindly. My pretty, tender-hearted girl! I hope things will go happily with her." "Hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?" asked Jo, as her mother's voice faltered a little over the last words. "Money is a good and useful thing, Jo; and I hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much. I should like to know that John was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make Meg comfortable. I'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls. If rank and money come with love and virtue, also, I should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune; but I know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures. I am content to see Meg begin humbly, for, if I am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune." "I understand, mother, and quite agree; but I'm disappointed about Meg, for I'd planned to have her marry Teddy by and by, and sit in the lap of luxury all her days. Wouldn't it be nice?" asked Jo, looking up, with a brighter face. "He is younger than she, you know," began Mrs. March; but Jo broke in,-- "Only a little; he's old for his age, and tall; and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes. Then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all; and _I_ say it's a pity my plan is spoilt." "I'm afraid Laurie is hardly grown up enough for Meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock, just now, for any one to depend on. Don't make plans, Jo; but let time and their own hearts mate your friends. We can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic rubbish,' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship." "Well, I won't; but I hate to see things going all criss-cross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out. I wish wearing flat-irons on our heads would keep us from growing up. But buds will be roses, and kittens, cats,--more's the pity!" "What's that about flat-irons and cats?" asked Meg, as she crept into the room, with the finished letter in her hand. "Only one of my stupid speeches. I'm going to bed; come, Peggy," said Jo, unfolding herself, like an animated puzzle. "Quite right, and beautifully written. Please add that I send my love to John," said Mrs. March, as she glanced over the letter, and gave it back. "Do you call him 'John'?" asked Meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother's. "Yes; he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him," replied Mrs. March, returning the look with a keen one. "I'm glad of that, he is so lonely. Good-night, mother, dear. It is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was Meg's quiet answer. The kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one; and, as she went away, Mrs. March said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "She does not love John yet, but will soon learn to." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Letters]

part 1, Chapter 20

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-20-through-chapter-23

Confidential Marmee's delayed arrival from the train is received with great tenderness and love. After delivering Mrs. March, Laurie rushes off to tell Amy and Aunt March the news. Amy patiently and selflessly suppresses her desire to see her mother and gains praise from Laurie and Aunt March, who gives Amy the turquoise ring for being so well-behaved. However, Marmee does come to see Amy that afternoon, to her great delight. They sit together in Amy's little chapel and discuss Amy's quest to be good. Marmee is at first concerned by the ring, as she thinks Amy is too young, but Amy explains that she wants to wear the ring to remind herself not to be selfish, so that she will be loved as Beth is. Marmee applauds Amy's intention, and then returns to Beth. That evening, Jo confides in Marmee that Mr. Brooke cares for Meg and has her glove. Marmee says Mr. Brooke grew quite close to her and Father at the hospital, and that John told them honestly about his care for Meg and his plan to earn a comfortable home before asking for her hand. Marmee and Father feel that John is a good man, though poor, but that Meg is too young to be engaged. Marmee asks Jo to keep the secret from Meg until Marmee can discern Meg's feelings for John. Jo believes John will romance Meg, and things will change, and their happy life will be spoilt. When Meg comes in, Marmee speaks of John fondly, and gauging Meg's response, decides that Meg "does not love John yet, but she will learn to

In this concluding section of Part I, the March sisters are rewarded for their year of self-improvement. The parallels between the beginning of the novel and the end are clear. The Christmas presents the girls receive mirror their wishes in the beginning of the book. Their true reward, though, is the praise and recognition of their Father, and their own happiness at having become better people. At the end, as in the beginning, we find the family enjoying each other, but now the family has grown to include the Laurences and Mr. Brooke. The theme of poverty is discussed in the context of Mr. Brooke's suitability for Meg. Mr. and Mrs. March support the marriage despite John's poverty, as long as he can provide basic comforts. Meg, whose castle in the air included luxurious things and "heaps of money," decides to marry a poor but good man and sacrifice any support from Aunt March to do so. In this sense, Meg rejects the dictates of society and makes, in her mind, the moral choice. Embracing morality does not always require rejecting society, as Jo demonstrates when she refuses to run away with Laurie. Jo accepts that because she is a girl, she is resigned to to "prunes and prisms", a colloquial term meaning proper words for ladies to use and a transformation from Jo's typical embrace of slang. Jo simultaneously objects to inequality of men and women while accepting that she is a "little woman." Alcott continues to draw on Pilgrim's Progress to enhance the meaning of the girls' journeys. In the green meadows, Christian and his companion Hopeful enjoy a respite with delight and replenish their weary spirits, but they are not yet "at their journey's end." So too, Alcott turns her readers' attention to the future with Jo and Laurie discussing what might happen in three years. She then premises the disclosure of this knowledge on the readers' reception to the book, engaging them in dialogue with the text.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_4_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 21

part 1, chapter 21

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 21", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-20-through-chapter-23", "summary": "Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace Jo tries dearly to keep her Mother's secret, to the frustration of Meg and Laurie. Laurie, devising that the secret concerns Meg and John Brooke, plots to find out what it is. Meg receives a letter she thinks is from John, professing his love for her. Meg secretly responds that she is too young, and he must speak to her parents. John's response is surprise at Meg, disclaiming any knowledge of the first letter professing his love, and accusing Jo of playing tricks on Meg. Jo clears her name and realizes that Laurie wrote both of the notes and signed John's name. Jo runs to get Laurie, while Mrs. March tells Meg how Mr. Brooke truly feels. Meg is disenchanted with lovers at the moment, and wants only to be friends. Mrs. March and Laurie have a private conversation, after which he apologizes sincerely to Meg and promises never to tell Mr. Brooke of the matter. Laurie looks so penitent that Jo forgives him, but does not show it, and later goes over to his house to make amends. She finds that Mr. Laurence and Laurie have fought, for Laurie refused to divulge his conversation with Mrs. March, so Mr. Laurence shook him. This infuriated Laurie, who felt that his grandfather should trust his word and not shake him like a child. Laurie refuses to go down to dinner until his grandfather apologizes, and speaks of running away with Jo to Washington to make him sorry. Jo is tempted, but realizes she has duties at home, and as a girl does not have the freedoms that Laurie does. Jo goes to find Mr. Laurence convinces him to apologize to Laurie. She mentions that if Mr. Laurence is not careful, Laurie might impulsively run away. Jo regrets this comment immediately, seeing Mr. Laurence look at a picture of Laurie's father, who did run away. She then makes a joke of it, and makes peace again. Nevertheless, Meg now knows of John's feelings, thus mischief was made", "analysis": "In this concluding section of Part I, the March sisters are rewarded for their year of self-improvement. The parallels between the beginning of the novel and the end are clear. The Christmas presents the girls receive mirror their wishes in the beginning of the book. Their true reward, though, is the praise and recognition of their Father, and their own happiness at having become better people. At the end, as in the beginning, we find the family enjoying each other, but now the family has grown to include the Laurences and Mr. Brooke. The theme of poverty is discussed in the context of Mr. Brooke's suitability for Meg. Mr. and Mrs. March support the marriage despite John's poverty, as long as he can provide basic comforts. Meg, whose castle in the air included luxurious things and \"heaps of money,\" decides to marry a poor but good man and sacrifice any support from Aunt March to do so. In this sense, Meg rejects the dictates of society and makes, in her mind, the moral choice. Embracing morality does not always require rejecting society, as Jo demonstrates when she refuses to run away with Laurie. Jo accepts that because she is a girl, she is resigned to to \"prunes and prisms\", a colloquial term meaning proper words for ladies to use and a transformation from Jo's typical embrace of slang. Jo simultaneously objects to inequality of men and women while accepting that she is a \"little woman.\" Alcott continues to draw on Pilgrim's Progress to enhance the meaning of the girls' journeys. In the green meadows, Christian and his companion Hopeful enjoy a respite with delight and replenish their weary spirits, but they are not yet \"at their journey's end.\" So too, Alcott turns her readers' attention to the future with Jo and Laurie discussing what might happen in three years. She then premises the disclosure of this knowledge on the readers' reception to the book, engaging them in dialogue with the text."}

XXI. LAURIE MAKES MISCHIEF, AND JO MAKES PEACE. Jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important. Meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage Jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask. She was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and Jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated Meg, who in her turn assumed an air of dignified reserve, and devoted herself to her mother. This left Jo to her own devices; for Mrs. March had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement. Amy being gone, Laurie was her only refuge; and, much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax her secret from her. She was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led Jo a trying life of it. He wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn't care; and, at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned Meg and Mr. Brooke. Feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight. Meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter, and was absorbed in preparations for her father's return; but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself. She started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face. To her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and Jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone. "She feels it in the air--love, I mean--and she's going very fast. She's got most of the symptoms,--is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners. I caught her singing that song he gave her, and once she said 'John,' as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy. Whatever shall we do?" said Jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent. "Nothing but wait. Let her alone, be kind and patient, and father's coming will settle everything," replied her mother. "Here's a note to you, Meg, all sealed up. How odd! Teddy never seals mine," said Jo, next day, as she distributed the contents of the little post-office. Mrs. March and Jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from Meg made them look up to see her staring at her note, with a frightened face. "My child, what is it?" cried her mother, running to her, while Jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief. "It's all a mistake--he didn't send it. O Jo, how could you do it?" and Meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart was quite broken. "Me! I've done nothing! What's she talking about?" cried Jo, bewildered. Meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket, and threw it at Jo, saying reproachfully,-- "You wrote it, and that bad boy helped you. How could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?" Jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand. [Illustration: Jo and her mother were reading the note] "MY DEAREST MARGARET,-- "I can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before I return. I dare not tell your parents yet, but I think they would consent if they knew that we adored one another. Mr. Laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy. I implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of hope through Laurie to "Your devoted JOHN." "Oh, the little villain! that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to mother. I'll give him a hearty scolding, and bring him over to beg pardon," cried Jo, burning to execute immediate justice. But her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore,-- "Stop, Jo, you must clear yourself first. You have played so many pranks, that I am afraid you have had a hand in this." "On my word, mother, I haven't! I never saw that note before, and don't know anything about it, as true as I live!" said Jo, so earnestly that they believed her. "If I _had_ taken a part in it I'd have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note. I should think you'd have known Mr. Brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added, scornfully tossing down the paper. "It's like his writing," faltered Meg, comparing it with the note in her hand. "O Meg, you didn't answer it?" cried Mrs. March quickly. "Yes, I did!" and Meg hid her face again, overcome with shame. "Here's a scrape! _Do_ let me bring that wicked boy over to explain, and be lectured. I can't rest till I get hold of him;" and Jo made for the door again. "Hush! let me manage this, for it is worse than I thought. Margaret, tell me the whole story," commanded Mrs. March, sitting down by Meg, yet keeping hold of Jo, lest she should fly off. "I received the first letter from Laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about it," began Meg, without looking up. "I was worried at first, and meant to tell you; then I remembered how you liked Mr. Brooke, so I thought you wouldn't mind if I kept my little secret for a few days. I'm so silly that I liked to think no one knew; and, while I was deciding what to say, I felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do. Forgive me, mother, I'm paid for my silliness now; I never can look him in the face again." "What did you say to him?" asked Mrs. March. "I only said I was too young to do anything about it yet; that I didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father. I was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while." Mrs. March smiled, as if well pleased, and Jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh,-- "You are almost equal to Caroline Percy, who was a pattern of prudence! Tell on, Meg. What did he say to that?" "He writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love-letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, Jo, should take such liberties with our names. It's very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!" Meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and Jo tramped about the room, calling Laurie names. All of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and, after looking at them closely, said decidedly, "I don't believe Brooke ever saw either of these letters. Teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with, because I wouldn't tell him my secret." "Don't have any secrets, Jo; tell it to mother, and keep out of trouble, as I should have done," said Meg warningly. "Bless you, child! Mother told me." "That will do, Jo. I'll comfort Meg while you go and get Laurie. I shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once." Away ran Jo, and Mrs. March gently told Meg Mr. Brooke's real feelings. "Now, dear, what are your own? Do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?" "I've been so scared and worried, I don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while,--perhaps never," answered Meg petulantly. "If John _doesn't_ know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and make Jo and Laurie hold their tongues. I won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of,--it's a shame!" Seeing that Meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, Mrs. March soothed her by promises of entire silence, and great discretion for the future. The instant Laurie's step was heard in the hall, Meg fled into the study, and Mrs. March received the culprit alone. Jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't come; but he knew the minute he saw Mrs. March's face, and stood twirling his hat, with a guilty air which convicted him at once. Jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt. The sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour; but what happened during that interview the girls never knew. When they were called in, Laurie was standing by their mother, with such a penitent face that Jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact. Meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that Brooke knew nothing of the joke. "I'll never tell him to my dying day,--wild horses sha'n't drag it out of me; so you'll forgive me, Meg, and I'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry I am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself. "I'll try; but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do. I didn't think you could be so sly and malicious, Laurie," replied Meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air. "It was altogether abominable, and I don't deserve to be spoken to for a month; but you will, though, won't you?" and Laurie folded his hands together with such an imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him, in spite of his scandalous behavior. Meg pardoned him, and Mrs. March's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel. Jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation. Laurie looked at her once or twice, but, as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow, and walked off without a word. As soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving; and when Meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely, and longed for Teddy. After resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and, armed with a book to return, went over to the big house. "Is Mr. Laurence in?" asked Jo, of a housemaid, who was coming down stairs. "Yes, miss; but I don't believe he's seeable just yet." "Why not? is he ill?" "La, no, miss, but he's had a scene with Mr. Laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so I dursn't go nigh him." "Where is Laurie?" "Shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though I've been a-tapping. I don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it." "I'll go and see what the matter is. I'm not afraid of either of them." Up went Jo, and knocked smartly on the door of Laurie's little study. "Stop that, or I'll open the door and make you!" called out the young gentleman, in a threatening tone. Jo immediately knocked again; the door flew open, and in she bounced, before Laurie could recover from his surprise. Seeing that he really _was_ out of temper, Jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, "Please forgive me for being so cross. I came to make it up, and can't go away till I have." "It's all right. Get up, and don't be a goose, Jo," was the cavalier reply to her petition. [Illustration: Get up and don't be a goose] "Thank you; I will. Could I ask what's the matter? You don't look exactly easy in your mind." "I've been shaken, and I won't bear it!" growled Laurie indignantly. "Who did it?" demanded Jo. "Grandfather; if it had been any one else I'd have--" and the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm. "That's nothing; I often shake you, and you don't mind," said Jo soothingly. "Pooh! you're a girl, and it's fun; but I'll allow no man to shake _me_." "I don't think any one would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thunder-cloud as you do now. Why were you treated so?" "Just because I wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for. I'd promised not to tell, and of course I wasn't going to break my word." "Couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?" "No; he _would_ have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I'd have told my part of the scrape, if I could without bringing Meg in. As I couldn't, I held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me. Then I got angry, and bolted, for fear I should forget myself." "It wasn't nice, but he's sorry, I know; so go down and make up. I'll help you." "Hanged if I do! I'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by every one, just for a bit of a frolic. I _was_ sorry about Meg, and begged pardon like a man; but I won't do it again, when I wasn't in the wrong." "He didn't know that." "He ought to trust me, and not act as if I was a baby. It's no use, Jo; he's got to learn that I'm able to take care of myself, and don't need any one's apron-string to hold on by." "What pepper-pots you are!" sighed Jo. "How do you mean to settle this affair?" "Well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when I say I can't tell him what the fuss's about." "Bless you! he won't do that." "I won't go down till he does." "Now, Teddy, be sensible; let it pass, and I'll explain what I can. You can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?" "I don't intend to stay here long, any way. I'll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough." "I dare say; but you ought not to go and worry him." "Don't preach. I'll go to Washington and see Brooke; it's gay there, and I'll enjoy myself after the troubles." "What fun you'd have! I wish I could run off too," said Jo, forgetting her part of Mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital. "Come on, then! Why not? You go and surprise your father, and I'll stir up old Brooke. It would be a glorious joke; let's do it, Jo. We'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once. I've got money enough; it will do you good, and be no harm, as you go to your father." For a moment Jo looked as if she would agree; for, wild as the plan was, it just suited her. She was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun. Her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision. "If I was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time; but as I'm a miserable girl, I must be proper, and stop at home. Don't tempt me, Teddy, it's a crazy plan." "That's the fun of it," began Laurie, who had got a wilful fit on him, and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way. "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears. "'Prunes and prisms' are my doom, and I may as well make up my mind to it. I came here to moralize, not to hear about things that make me skip to think of." [Illustration: "Hold your tongue!" cried Jo, covering her ears] "I know Meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but I thought you had more spirit," began Laurie insinuatingly. "Bad boy, be quiet! Sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making me add to mine. If I get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?" asked Jo seriously. "Yes, but you won't do it," answered Laurie, who wished "to make up," but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first. "If I can manage the young one I can the old one," muttered Jo, as she walked away, leaving Laurie bent over a railroad map, with his head propped up on both hands. "Come in!" and Mr. Laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as Jo tapped at his door. "It's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she entered. "Want any more?" asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it. "Yes, please. I like old Sam so well, I think I'll try the second volume," returned Jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of Boswell's "Johnson," as he had recommended that lively work. The shaggy eyebrows unbent a little, as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where the Johnsonian literature was placed. Jo skipped up, and, sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her visit. Mr. Laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind; for, after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that "Rasselas" tumbled face downward on the floor. "What has that boy been about? Don't try to shield him. I know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home. I can't get a word from him; and when I threatened to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs, and locked himself into his room." "He did do wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to any one," began Jo reluctantly. "That won't do; he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you soft-hearted girls. If he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished. Out with it, Jo, I won't be kept in the dark." Mr. Laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that Jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out. [Illustration: He stood at the foot, like a lion in the path] "Indeed, sir, I cannot tell; mother forbade it. Laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough. We don't keep silence to shield him, but some one else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere. Please don't; it was partly my fault, but it's all right now; so let's forget it, and talk about the 'Rambler,' or something pleasant." "Hang the 'Rambler!' come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent. If he has, after all your kindness to him, I'll thrash him with my own hands." The threat sounded awful, but did not alarm Jo, for she knew the irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary. She obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without betraying Meg or forgetting the truth. "Hum--ha--well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, I'll forgive him. He's a stubborn fellow, and hard to manage," said Mr. Laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief. "So am I; but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't," said Jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another. "You think I'm not kind to him, hey?" was the sharp answer. "Oh, dear, no, sir; you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience. Don't you think you are?" Jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech. To her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles on to the table with a rattle, and exclaimed frankly,-- "You're right, girl, I am! I love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and I don't know how it will end, if we go on so." "I'll tell you, he'll run away." Jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made; she meant to warn him that Laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forbearing with the lad. Mr. Laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table. It was Laurie's father, who _had_ run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man's will. Jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue. "He won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying. I often think I should like to, especially since my hair was cut; so, if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys, and look among the ships bound for India." She laughed as she spoke, and Mr. Laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke. "You hussy, how dare you talk in that way? Where's your respect for me, and your proper bringing up? Bless the boys and girls! What torments they are; yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly. "Go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather. I won't bear it." "He won't come, sir; he feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he couldn't tell. I think the shaking hurt his feelings very much." Jo tried to look pathetic, but must have failed, for Mr. Laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won. "I'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking _me_, I suppose. What the dickens does the fellow expect?" and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness. "If I were you, I'd write him an apology, sir. He says he won't come down till he has one, and talks about Washington, and goes on in an absurd way. A formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable. Try it; he likes fun, and this way is better than talking. I'll carry it up, and teach him his duty." Mr. Laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly, "You're a sly puss, but I don't mind being managed by you and Beth. Here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense." The note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult. Jo dropped a kiss on the top of Mr. Laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under Laurie's door, advising him, through the key-hole, to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities. Finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance, "What a good fellow you are, Jo! Did you get blown up?" he added, laughing. "No; he was pretty mild, on the whole." "Ah! I got it all round; even you cast me off over there, and I felt just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically. "Don't talk in that way; turn over a new leaf and begin again, Teddy, my son." "I keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as I used to spoil my copy-books; and I make so many beginnings there never will be an end," he said dolefully. "Go and eat your dinner; you'll feel better after it. Men always croak when they are hungry," and Jo whisked out at the front door after that. "That's a 'label' on my 'sect,'" answered Laurie, quoting Amy, as he went to partake of humble-pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the rest of the day. Every one thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over; but the mischief was done, for, though others forgot it, Meg remembered. She never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever; and once Jo, rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, "Mrs. John Brooke;" whereat she groaned tragically, and cast it into the fire, feeling that Laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her. [Illustration: Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day]

part 1, Chapter 21

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-20-through-chapter-23

Laurie Makes Mischief, and Jo Makes Peace Jo tries dearly to keep her Mother's secret, to the frustration of Meg and Laurie. Laurie, devising that the secret concerns Meg and John Brooke, plots to find out what it is. Meg receives a letter she thinks is from John, professing his love for her. Meg secretly responds that she is too young, and he must speak to her parents. John's response is surprise at Meg, disclaiming any knowledge of the first letter professing his love, and accusing Jo of playing tricks on Meg. Jo clears her name and realizes that Laurie wrote both of the notes and signed John's name. Jo runs to get Laurie, while Mrs. March tells Meg how Mr. Brooke truly feels. Meg is disenchanted with lovers at the moment, and wants only to be friends. Mrs. March and Laurie have a private conversation, after which he apologizes sincerely to Meg and promises never to tell Mr. Brooke of the matter. Laurie looks so penitent that Jo forgives him, but does not show it, and later goes over to his house to make amends. She finds that Mr. Laurence and Laurie have fought, for Laurie refused to divulge his conversation with Mrs. March, so Mr. Laurence shook him. This infuriated Laurie, who felt that his grandfather should trust his word and not shake him like a child. Laurie refuses to go down to dinner until his grandfather apologizes, and speaks of running away with Jo to Washington to make him sorry. Jo is tempted, but realizes she has duties at home, and as a girl does not have the freedoms that Laurie does. Jo goes to find Mr. Laurence convinces him to apologize to Laurie. She mentions that if Mr. Laurence is not careful, Laurie might impulsively run away. Jo regrets this comment immediately, seeing Mr. Laurence look at a picture of Laurie's father, who did run away. She then makes a joke of it, and makes peace again. Nevertheless, Meg now knows of John's feelings, thus mischief was made

In this concluding section of Part I, the March sisters are rewarded for their year of self-improvement. The parallels between the beginning of the novel and the end are clear. The Christmas presents the girls receive mirror their wishes in the beginning of the book. Their true reward, though, is the praise and recognition of their Father, and their own happiness at having become better people. At the end, as in the beginning, we find the family enjoying each other, but now the family has grown to include the Laurences and Mr. Brooke. The theme of poverty is discussed in the context of Mr. Brooke's suitability for Meg. Mr. and Mrs. March support the marriage despite John's poverty, as long as he can provide basic comforts. Meg, whose castle in the air included luxurious things and "heaps of money," decides to marry a poor but good man and sacrifice any support from Aunt March to do so. In this sense, Meg rejects the dictates of society and makes, in her mind, the moral choice. Embracing morality does not always require rejecting society, as Jo demonstrates when she refuses to run away with Laurie. Jo accepts that because she is a girl, she is resigned to to "prunes and prisms", a colloquial term meaning proper words for ladies to use and a transformation from Jo's typical embrace of slang. Jo simultaneously objects to inequality of men and women while accepting that she is a "little woman." Alcott continues to draw on Pilgrim's Progress to enhance the meaning of the girls' journeys. In the green meadows, Christian and his companion Hopeful enjoy a respite with delight and replenish their weary spirits, but they are not yet "at their journey's end." So too, Alcott turns her readers' attention to the future with Jo and Laurie discussing what might happen in three years. She then premises the disclosure of this knowledge on the readers' reception to the book, engaging them in dialogue with the text.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_4_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 1.chapter 22

part 1, chapter 22

{"name": "part 1, Chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-20-through-chapter-23", "summary": "Pleasant Meadows As Christmas approaches, both Beth and Mr. March are recovering nicely, and Mr. March talks of coming home soon. All of the girls have been influenced for the better by Beth's illness, with Meg working cheerfully, Amy giving away her possessions, and Jo tenderly caring for her sister. On Christmas morning, Beth declares that she is so happy and that her life is complete except for Father's absence. The other sisters are also happy with their Christmas presents - Undine and Sintram for Jo; a copy of Madonna and Child for Amy; and a silk dress from Mr. Laurence for Meg. Just at that moment, Laurie announces another Christmas present for the March family, and in walks Father. Even Beth finds the strength to run to Father and embrace him, her Christmas wish fulfilled. In the excitement, Mr. Brooke kisses Meg by mistake, and Mr. March mentions later how kind and supportive Mr. Brooke has been, to Jo's great annoyance. After dinner with the Laurences and Mr. Brooke, the March family, reunited, rests and celebrates together. They reflect on the year, a pleasant but difficult one, and Father remarks that the Pilgrims have come a long way, and their bundles will soon tumble off. Father observes that Meg's hands, once pretty and smooth, are now burned and hardened but beautifully so, for Meg has replaced vanity with dedication to loving and industrious housekeeping. Jo has indeed become a little woman, still strong-willed, but not wild, and caring for Beth with maternal tenderness. Beth has overcome much of her bashfulness, and all are grateful to have her safe. Amy is patient, less vain, and as dedicated to shaping her character as her clay figurines. The evening ends with Beth recalling part of Pilgrim's Progress where everyone comes to a beautiful meadow to rest. She sings an excerpt from the book, giving thanks for contentment and bliss", "analysis": "In this concluding section of Part I, the March sisters are rewarded for their year of self-improvement. The parallels between the beginning of the novel and the end are clear. The Christmas presents the girls receive mirror their wishes in the beginning of the book. Their true reward, though, is the praise and recognition of their Father, and their own happiness at having become better people. At the end, as in the beginning, we find the family enjoying each other, but now the family has grown to include the Laurences and Mr. Brooke. The theme of poverty is discussed in the context of Mr. Brooke's suitability for Meg. Mr. and Mrs. March support the marriage despite John's poverty, as long as he can provide basic comforts. Meg, whose castle in the air included luxurious things and \"heaps of money,\" decides to marry a poor but good man and sacrifice any support from Aunt March to do so. In this sense, Meg rejects the dictates of society and makes, in her mind, the moral choice. Embracing morality does not always require rejecting society, as Jo demonstrates when she refuses to run away with Laurie. Jo accepts that because she is a girl, she is resigned to to \"prunes and prisms\", a colloquial term meaning proper words for ladies to use and a transformation from Jo's typical embrace of slang. Jo simultaneously objects to inequality of men and women while accepting that she is a \"little woman.\" Alcott continues to draw on Pilgrim's Progress to enhance the meaning of the girls' journeys. In the green meadows, Christian and his companion Hopeful enjoy a respite with delight and replenish their weary spirits, but they are not yet \"at their journey's end.\" So too, Alcott turns her readers' attention to the future with Jo and Laurie discussing what might happen in three years. She then premises the disclosure of this knowledge on the readers' reception to the book, engaging them in dialogue with the text."}

XXII. PLEASANT MEADOWS. Like sunshine after storm were the peaceful weeks which followed. The invalids improved rapidly, and Mr. March began to talk of returning early in the new year. Beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats, at first, and, in time, with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behindhand. Her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that Jo took her a daily airing about the house in her strong arms. Meg cheerfully blackened and burnt her white hands cooking delicate messes for "the dear;" while Amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept. As Christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and Jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry Christmas. Laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had bonfires, sky-rockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way. After many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched, and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together. Several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid Christmas Day. Hannah "felt in her bones" that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success. To begin with, Mr. March wrote that he should soon be with them; then Beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's gift,--a soft crimson merino wrapper,--was borne in triumph to the window to behold the offering of Jo and Laurie. The Unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for, like elves, they had worked by night, and conjured up a comical surprise. Out in the garden stood a stately snow-maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of new music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an Afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips, on a pink paper streamer:-- "THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH. "God bless you, dear Queen Bess! May nothing you dismay, But health and peace and happiness Be yours, this Christmas Day. "Here's fruit to feed our busy bee, And flowers for her nose; Here's music for her pianee, An Afghan for her toes. "A portrait of Joanna, see, By Raphael No. 2, Who labored with great industry To make it fair and true. "Accept a ribbon red, I beg, For Madam Purrer's tail; And ice-cream made by lovely Peg,-- A Mont Blanc in a pail. "Their dearest love my makers laid Within my breast of snow: Accept it, and the Alpine maid, From Laurie and from Jo." [Illustration: The Jungfrau] How Beth laughed when she saw it, how Laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches Jo made as she presented them! "I'm so full of happiness, that, if father was only here, I couldn't hold one drop more," said Beth, quite sighing with contentment as Jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the "Jungfrau" had sent her. "So am I," added Jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired Undine and Sintram. "I'm sure I am," echoed Amy, poring over the engraved copy of the Madonna and Child, which her mother had given her, in a pretty frame. "Of course I am!" cried Meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress; for Mr. Laurence had insisted on giving it. "How can _I_ be otherwise?" said Mrs. March gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband's letter to Beth's smiling face, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast. Now and then, in this work-a-day world, things do happen in the delightful story-book fashion, and what a comfort that is. Half an hour after every one had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came. Laurie opened the parlor door, and popped his head in very quietly. He might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an Indian war-whoop; for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful, that every one jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "Here's another Christmas present for the March family." Before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn't. Of course there was a general stampede; and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word. Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms; Jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by Laurie in the china-closet; Mr. Brooke kissed Meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained; and Amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and, never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most touching manner. Mrs. March was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "Hush! remember Beth!" But it was too late; the study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold,--joy put strength into the feeble limbs,--and Beth ran straight into her father's arms. Never mind what happened just after that; for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past, and leaving only the sweetness of the present. It was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for Hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen. As the laugh subsided, Mrs. March began to thank Mr. Brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which Mr. Brooke suddenly remembered that Mr. March needed rest, and, seizing Laurie, he precipitately retired. Then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair, and talking hard. Mr. March told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it; how devoted Brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man. Why Mr. March paused a minute just there, and, after a glance at Meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, I leave you to imagine; also why Mrs. March gently nodded her head, and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't have something to eat. Jo saw and understood the look; and she stalked grimly away to get wine and beef-tea, muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, "I hate estimable young men with brown eyes!" There never _was_ such a Christmas dinner as they had that day. The fat turkey was a sight to behold, when Hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated; so was the plum-pudding, which quite melted in one's mouth; likewise the jellies, in which Amy revelled like a fly in a honey-pot. Everything turned out well, which was a mercy, Hannah said, "For my mind was that flustered, mum, that it's a merrycle I didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin' of it in a cloth." Mr. Laurence and his grandson dined with them, also Mr. Brooke,--at whom Jo glowered darkly, to Laurie's infinite amusement. Two easy-chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat Beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit. They drank healths, told stories, sung songs, "reminisced," as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time. A sleigh-ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father; so the guests departed early, and, as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire. "Just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal Christmas we expected to have. Do you remember?" asked Jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things. "Rather a pleasant year on the whole!" said Meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated Mr. Brooke with dignity. "I think it's been a pretty hard one," observed Amy, watching the light shine on her ring, with thoughtful eyes. "I'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered Beth, who sat on her father's knee. "Rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it. But you have got on bravely; and I think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said Mr. March, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him. "How do you know? Did mother tell you?" asked Jo. "Not much; straws show which way the wind blows, and I've made several discoveries to-day." "Oh, tell us what they are!" cried Meg, who sat beside him. "Here is one;" and taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm. "I remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so. It was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now,--for in these seeming blemishes I read a little history. A burnt-offering has been made of vanity; this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters; and I'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good-will went into the stitches. Meg, my dear, I value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments. I'm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope I shall not soon be asked to give it away." If Meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he gave her. "What about Jo? Please say something nice; for she has tried so hard, and been so very, very good to me," said Beth, in her father's ear. He laughed, and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her brown face. "In spite of the curly crop, I don't see the 'son Jo' whom I left a year ago," said Mr. March. "I see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do. Her face is rather thin and pale, just now, with watching and anxiety; but I like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower; she doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me. I rather miss my wild girl; but if I get a strong, helpful, tender-hearted woman in her place, I shall feel quite satisfied. I don't know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but I do know that in all Washington I couldn't find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars which my good girl sent me." Jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight, as she received her father's praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it. "Now Beth," said Amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait. "There's so little of her, I'm afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be," began their father cheerfully; but recollecting how nearly he _had_ lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, "I've got you safe, my Beth, and I'll keep you so, please God." After a minute's silence, he looked down at Amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair,-- "I observed that Amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave Meg her place to-night, and has waited on every one with patience and good-humor. I also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears; so I conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mould her character as carefully as she moulds her little clay figures. I am glad of this; for though I should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, I shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter, with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others." "What are you thinking of, Beth?" asked Jo, when Amy had thanked her father and told about her ring. "I read in 'Pilgrim's Progress' to-day, how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow, where lilies bloomed all the year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey's end," answered Beth; adding, as she slipped out of her father's arms, and went slowly to the instrument, "It's singing time now, and I want to be in my old place. I'll try to sing the song of the shepherd-boy which the Pilgrims heard. I made the music for father, because he likes the verses." So, sitting at the dear little piano, Beth softly touched the keys, and, in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sung to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her:-- "He that is down need fear no fall, He that is low no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide. "I am content with what I have, Little be it or much; And, Lord! contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such. "Fulness to them a burden is, That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age!"

part 1, Chapter 22

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-20-through-chapter-23

Pleasant Meadows As Christmas approaches, both Beth and Mr. March are recovering nicely, and Mr. March talks of coming home soon. All of the girls have been influenced for the better by Beth's illness, with Meg working cheerfully, Amy giving away her possessions, and Jo tenderly caring for her sister. On Christmas morning, Beth declares that she is so happy and that her life is complete except for Father's absence. The other sisters are also happy with their Christmas presents - Undine and Sintram for Jo; a copy of Madonna and Child for Amy; and a silk dress from Mr. Laurence for Meg. Just at that moment, Laurie announces another Christmas present for the March family, and in walks Father. Even Beth finds the strength to run to Father and embrace him, her Christmas wish fulfilled. In the excitement, Mr. Brooke kisses Meg by mistake, and Mr. March mentions later how kind and supportive Mr. Brooke has been, to Jo's great annoyance. After dinner with the Laurences and Mr. Brooke, the March family, reunited, rests and celebrates together. They reflect on the year, a pleasant but difficult one, and Father remarks that the Pilgrims have come a long way, and their bundles will soon tumble off. Father observes that Meg's hands, once pretty and smooth, are now burned and hardened but beautifully so, for Meg has replaced vanity with dedication to loving and industrious housekeeping. Jo has indeed become a little woman, still strong-willed, but not wild, and caring for Beth with maternal tenderness. Beth has overcome much of her bashfulness, and all are grateful to have her safe. Amy is patient, less vain, and as dedicated to shaping her character as her clay figurines. The evening ends with Beth recalling part of Pilgrim's Progress where everyone comes to a beautiful meadow to rest. She sings an excerpt from the book, giving thanks for contentment and bliss

In this concluding section of Part I, the March sisters are rewarded for their year of self-improvement. The parallels between the beginning of the novel and the end are clear. The Christmas presents the girls receive mirror their wishes in the beginning of the book. Their true reward, though, is the praise and recognition of their Father, and their own happiness at having become better people. At the end, as in the beginning, we find the family enjoying each other, but now the family has grown to include the Laurences and Mr. Brooke. The theme of poverty is discussed in the context of Mr. Brooke's suitability for Meg. Mr. and Mrs. March support the marriage despite John's poverty, as long as he can provide basic comforts. Meg, whose castle in the air included luxurious things and "heaps of money," decides to marry a poor but good man and sacrifice any support from Aunt March to do so. In this sense, Meg rejects the dictates of society and makes, in her mind, the moral choice. Embracing morality does not always require rejecting society, as Jo demonstrates when she refuses to run away with Laurie. Jo accepts that because she is a girl, she is resigned to to "prunes and prisms", a colloquial term meaning proper words for ladies to use and a transformation from Jo's typical embrace of slang. Jo simultaneously objects to inequality of men and women while accepting that she is a "little woman." Alcott continues to draw on Pilgrim's Progress to enhance the meaning of the girls' journeys. In the green meadows, Christian and his companion Hopeful enjoy a respite with delight and replenish their weary spirits, but they are not yet "at their journey's end." So too, Alcott turns her readers' attention to the future with Jo and Laurie discussing what might happen in three years. She then premises the disclosure of this knowledge on the readers' reception to the book, engaging them in dialogue with the text.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/24.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_5_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 24

part 2, chapter 24

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30", "summary": "Gossip The narrator begins Part II with some \"gossip\" about the March family. Three years later, the war has ended, and Mr. March is a minister and still quietly heads the household as its conscience and guide. John Brooke served in the army, was wounded and discharged, and is working as a bookkeeper to earn a home for Meg. Meg is preparing for married life, learning housekeeping, and she is greatly in love, although occasionally envious of the grand wedding and life had by her newlywed friends Sallie and Ned Moffat. Dovecote, Meg's new home, is modest but fitted out with great care and love from family and friends. Even Aunt March, who swore not to give a penny, found a way to give a full set of linens through another relative. Jo has devoted herself to writing and Beth, who was weakened permanently by the scarlet fever, and is forever struggling to get well. Amy works as a companion for Aunt March, who tempted Amy with drawing lessons. Laurie, at college to please his grandfather, spends a good deal of time frolicking and enjoying and helping friends, with the love of his grandfather and the Marches his best talisman against idle indulgence. Laurie often brings his college friends home, who enjoy Jo's boyish camaraderie and Amy's pretty and charming companionship. Laurie occasionally implies that he has feelings for Jo, but she spurns his overtures", "analysis": "Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the \"lovering\" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to \"Vanity Fair.\" At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to \"Jupiter Ammon,\" signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864."}

XXIV. GOSSIP. In order that we may start afresh, and go to Meg's wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the Marches. And here let me premise, that if any of the elders think there is too much "lovering" in the story, as I fear they may (I'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection), I can only say with Mrs. March, "What _can_ you expect when I have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?" The three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the quiet family. The war is over, and Mr. March safely at home, busy with his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature as by grace,--a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind "brother," the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely. These attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard experience had distilled no bitter drop. Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts and sorrows to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel; sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man, and were both rebuked and saved; gifted men found a companion in him; ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own; and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although "they wouldn't pay." To outsiders, the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so they did in many things; but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter; for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father. The girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's; and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth, and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and outlives death. Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in Meg's affairs that the hospitals and homes, still full of wounded "boys" and soldiers' widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits. John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars, but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had; and life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom. Perfectly resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused Mr. Laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of book-keeper feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly-earned salary, than by running any risks with borrowed money. Meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever; for love is a great beautifier. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin. Ned Moffat had just married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit, with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same. But somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor John had put into the little home awaiting her; and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot Sallie's splendor, and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in Christendom. Jo never went back to Aunt March, for the old lady took such a fancy to Amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going; and for the sake of this advantage, Amy would have served a far harder mistress. So she gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely. Jo, meantime, devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past. Not an invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been; yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, busy with the quiet duties she loved, every one's friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to know it. As long as "The Spread Eagle" paid her a dollar a column for her "rubbish," as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun her little romances diligently. But great plans fermented in her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place the name of March upon the roll of fame. Laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please himself. A universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoilt, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts. Being only "a glorious human boy," of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained; hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion. But as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection. In fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies. The "men of my class" were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of "our fellows," and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when Laurie brought them home with him. Amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among them; for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of fascination with which she was endowed. Meg was too much absorbed in her private and particular John to care for any other lords of creation, and Beth too shy to do more than peep at them, and wonder how Amy dared to order them about so; but Jo felt quite in her element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies. They all liked Jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at Amy's shrine. And speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the "Dove-cote." That was the name of the little brown house which Mr. Brooke had prepared for Meg's first home. Laurie had christened it, saying it was highly appropriate to the gentle lovers, who "went on together like a pair of turtle-doves, with first a bill and then a coo." It was a tiny house, with a little garden behind, and a lawn about as big as a pocket-handkerchief in front. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers; though just at present, the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a dilapidated slop-bowl; the shrubbery consisted of several young larches, undecided whether to live or die; and the profusion of flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks, to show where seeds were planted. But inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar. To be sure, the hall was so narrow, it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whole; the dining-room was so small that six people were a tight fit; and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coal-bin. But once get used to these slight blemishes, and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory. There were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay-window, and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly hands, and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought. I don't think the Parian Psyche Laurie gave lost any of its beauty because John put up the bracket it stood upon; that any upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than Amy's artistic hand; or that any store-room was ever better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes, than that in which Jo and her mother put away Meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles; and I am morally certain that the spandy-new kitchen never _could_ have looked so cosey and neat if Hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting, the minute "Mis. Brooke came home." I also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece-bags; for Beth made enough to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china. People who hire all these things done for them never know what they lose; for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and Meg found so many proofs of this, that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought. What happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping excursions; what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter arose over Laurie's ridiculous bargains. In his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was as much of a boy as ever. His last whim had been to bring with him, on his weekly visits, some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper. Now a bag of remarkable clothes-pins; next, a wonderful nutmeg-grater, which fell to pieces at the first trial; a knife-cleaner that spoilt all the knives; or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet, and left the dirt; labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands; infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer; and every kind of tin-ware, from a toy savings-bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam, with every prospect of exploding in the process. In vain Meg begged him to stop. John laughed at him, and Jo called him "Mr. Toodles." He was possessed with a mania for patronizing Yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth. So each week beheld some fresh absurdity. Everything was done at last, even to Amy's arranging different colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and Beth's setting the table for the first meal. "Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here?" asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went through the new kingdom, arm-in-arm; for just then they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever. "Yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and _so_ happy that I can't talk about it," answered Meg, with a look that was better than words. "If she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said Amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether the bronze Mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantle-piece. "Mother and I have talked that over, and I have made up my mind to try her way first. There will be so little to do, that, with Lotty to run my errands and help me here and there, I shall only have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered Meg tranquilly. "Sallie Moffat has four," began Amy. "If Meg had four the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis would have to camp in the garden," broke in Jo, who, enveloped in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door-handles. "Sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment. Meg and John begin humbly, but I have a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big one. It's a great mistake for young girls like Meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip. When I was first married, I used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so that I might have the pleasure of mending them; for I got heartily sick of doing fancy work and tending my pocket handkerchief." "Why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as Sallie says she does, to amuse herself, though they never turn out well, and the servants laugh at her," said Meg. "I did, after a while; not to 'mess,' but to learn of Hannah how things should be done, that my servants need _not_ laugh at me. It was play then; but there came a time when I was truly grateful that I not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little girls, and help myself when I could no longer afford to hire help. You begin at the other end, Meg, dear; but the lessons you learn now will be of use to you by and by, when John is a richer man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served." "Yes, mother, I'm sure of that," said Meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture; for the best of women will hold forth upon the all-absorbing subject of housekeeping. "Do you know I like this room most of all in my baby-house," added Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs, and she looked into her well-stored linen-closet. Beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves, and exulting over the goodly array. All three laughed as Meg spoke; for that linen-closet was a joke. You see, having said that if Meg married "that Brooke" she shouldn't have a cent of her money, Aunt March was rather in a quandary, when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow. She never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself. Mrs. Carrol, Florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked, a generous supply of house and table linen, and send it as _her_ present, all of which was faithfully done; but the secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family; for Aunt March tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls, long promised to the first bride. "That's a housewifely taste which I am glad to see. I had a young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for company, and that satisfied her," said Mrs. March, patting the damask table-cloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness. "I haven't a single finger-bowl, but this is a 'set out' that will last me all my days, Hannah says;" and Meg looked quite contented, as well she might. "Toodles is coming," cried Jo from below; and they all went down to meet Laurie, whose weekly visit was an important event in their quiet lives. A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt-basin of a hat, and a fly-away coat, came tramping down the road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate, straight up to Mrs. March, with both hands out, and a hearty-- "Here I am, mother! Yes, it's all right." The last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him; a kindly questioning look, which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss. "For Mrs. John Brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a refreshing spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady." As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth's hair-ribbon, stared at Jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of mock rapture before Amy, then shook hands all round, and every one began to talk. "Where is John?" asked Meg anxiously. "Stopped to get the license for to-morrow, ma'am." "Which side won the last match, Teddy?" inquired Jo, who persisted in feeling an interest in manly sports, despite her nineteen years. "Ours, of course. Wish you'd been there to see." "How is the lovely Miss Randal?" asked Amy, with a significant smile. "More cruel than ever; don't you see how I'm pining away?" and Laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh. "What's the last joke? Undo the bundle and see, Meg," said Beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity. "It's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves," observed Laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of the girls. [Illustration: A small watchman's rattle] "Any time when John is away, and you get frightened, Mrs. Meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood in a jiffy. Nice thing, isn't it?" and Laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears. "There's gratitude for you! and speaking of gratitude reminds me to mention that you may thank Hannah for saving your wedding-cake from destruction. I saw it going into your house as I came by, and if she hadn't defended it manfully I'd have had a pick at it, for it looked like a remarkably plummy one." "I wonder if you will ever grow up, Laurie," said Meg, in a matronly tone. "I'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, I'm afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier. "I suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick and span new bower, so, as I'm tremendously hungry, I propose an adjournment," he added presently. "Mother and I are going to wait for John. There are some last things to settle," said Meg, bustling away. "Beth and I are going over to Kitty Bryant's to get more flowers for to-morrow," added Amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody. "Come, Jo, don't desert a fellow. I'm in such a state of exhaustion I can't get home without help. Don't take off your apron, whatever you do; it's peculiarly becoming," said Laurie, as Jo bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket, and offered him her arm to support his feeble steps. "Now, Teddy, I want to talk seriously to you about to-morrow," began Jo, as they strolled away together. "You _must_ promise to behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans." "Not a prank." "And don't say funny things when we ought to be sober." "I never do; you are the one for that." "And I implore you not to look at me during the ceremony; I shall certainly laugh if you do." "You won't see me; you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect." "I never cry unless for some great affliction." "Such as fellows going to college, hey?" cut in Laurie, with a suggestive laugh. "Don't be a peacock. I only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company." "Exactly. I say, Jo, how is grandpa this week; pretty amiable?" "Very; why, have you got into a scrape, and want to know how he'll take it?" asked Jo rather sharply. "Now, Jo, do you think I'd look your mother in the face, and say 'All right,' if it wasn't?" and Laurie stopped short, with an injured air. "No, I don't." "Then don't go and be suspicious; I only want some money," said Laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone. "You spend a great deal, Teddy." "Bless you, _I_ don't spend it; it spends itself, somehow, and is gone before I know it." "You are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and can't say 'No' to any one. We heard about Henshaw, and all you did for him. If you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you," said Jo warmly. "Oh, he made a mountain out of a mole-hill. You wouldn't have me let that fine fellow work himself to death, just for the want of a little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?" "Of course not; but I don't see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home. I thought you'd got over the dandy period; but every now and then it breaks out in a new spot. Just now it's the fashion to be hideous,--to make your head look like a scrubbing-brush, wear a strait-jacket, orange gloves, and clumping, square-toed boots. If it was cheap ugliness, I'd say nothing; but it costs as much as the other, and I don't get any satisfaction out of it." Laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that the felt-basin fell off, and Jo walked on it, which insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket. "Don't lecture any more, there's a good soul! I have enough all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when I come home. I'll get myself up regardless of expense, to-morrow, and be a satisfaction to my friends." "I'll leave you in peace if you'll _only_ let your hair grow. I'm not aristocratic, but I do object to being seen with a person who looks like a young prize-fighter," observed Jo severely. "This unassuming style promotes study; that's why we adopt it," returned Laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-of-an-inch-long stubble. "By the way, Jo, I think that little Parker is really getting desperate about Amy. He talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in a most suspicious manner. He'd better nip his little passion in the bud, hadn't he?" added Laurie, in a confidential, elder-brotherly tone, after a minute's silence. "Of course he had; we don't want any more marrying in this family for years to come. Mercy on us, what _are_ the children thinking of?" and Jo looked as much scandalized as if Amy and little Parker were not yet in their teens. "It's a fast age, and I don't know what we are coming to, ma'am. You are a mere infant, but you'll go next, Jo, and we'll be left lamenting," said Laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times. "Don't be alarmed; I'm not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a family." "You won't give any one a chance," said Laurie, with a sidelong glance, and a little more color than before in his sunburnt face. "You won't show the soft side of your character; and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident, and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as Mrs. Gummidge did her sweetheart,--throw cold water over him,--and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you." "I don't like that sort of thing; I'm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think it's dreadful to break up families so. Now don't say any more about it; Meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don't wish to get cross, so let's change the subject;" and Jo looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation. Whatever his feelings might have been, Laurie found a vent for them in a long low whistle, and the fearful prediction, as they parted at the gate, "Mark my words, Jo, you'll go next." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: The First Wedding]

part 2, Chapter 24

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30

Gossip The narrator begins Part II with some "gossip" about the March family. Three years later, the war has ended, and Mr. March is a minister and still quietly heads the household as its conscience and guide. John Brooke served in the army, was wounded and discharged, and is working as a bookkeeper to earn a home for Meg. Meg is preparing for married life, learning housekeeping, and she is greatly in love, although occasionally envious of the grand wedding and life had by her newlywed friends Sallie and Ned Moffat. Dovecote, Meg's new home, is modest but fitted out with great care and love from family and friends. Even Aunt March, who swore not to give a penny, found a way to give a full set of linens through another relative. Jo has devoted herself to writing and Beth, who was weakened permanently by the scarlet fever, and is forever struggling to get well. Amy works as a companion for Aunt March, who tempted Amy with drawing lessons. Laurie, at college to please his grandfather, spends a good deal of time frolicking and enjoying and helping friends, with the love of his grandfather and the Marches his best talisman against idle indulgence. Laurie often brings his college friends home, who enjoy Jo's boyish camaraderie and Amy's pretty and charming companionship. Laurie occasionally implies that he has feelings for Jo, but she spurns his overtures

Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the "lovering" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to "Vanity Fair." At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to "Jupiter Ammon," signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/25.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_5_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 25

part 2, chapter 25

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30", "summary": "The First Wedding Meg's wedding is simple, as she wants everything plain, honest, and surrounded with love. She made her own wedding dress, with only flowers for accessories. Aunt March is scandalized when she arrives and is welcomed by the bride herself. During the ceremony, the vows are said with great earnestness and love, Meg gives the first kiss for Marmee and her sisters. In the three years passed, Jo's face and tongue have softened and her hair has grown long. Beth is pale and thin, still weak, but cheerful. Amy has truly blossomed, now sixteen, and full of poise. The luncheon is simple, with the wine sent by Mr. Laurence and Aunt March nowhere to be found, of which Mr. and Mrs. March disapprove. Meg tells Laurie this, and upon learning that he occasionally drinks, she uses the occasion to ask Laurie to avoid drinking in the future by making a temperance pledge, which he does. After the wedding, all exclaim what a beauty it was, despite the simplicity. Mr. Laurence tells Laurie that if he ever wants to marry, he hopes Laurie will choose a March girl, and Laurie says he will do his best. Meg's married life begins", "analysis": "Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the \"lovering\" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to \"Vanity Fair.\" At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to \"Jupiter Ammon,\" signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864."}

XXV. THE FIRST WEDDING. The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little neighbors, as they were. Quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen; for some peeped in at the dining-room windows, where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby-bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so long. Meg looked very like a rose herself; for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. Neither silk, lace, nor orange-flowers would she have. "I don't want to look strange or fixed up to-day," she said. "I don't want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom I love, and to them I wish to look and be my familiar self." So she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which "her John" liked best of all the flowers that grew. "You _do_ look just like our own dear Meg, only so very sweet and lovely that I should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried Amy, surveying her with delight, when all was done. "Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, every one, and don't mind my dress; I want a great many crumples of this sort put into it to-day;" and Meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with April faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old. "Now I'm going to tie John's cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with father quietly in the study;" and Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious that, in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest. As the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which three years have wrought in their appearance; for all are looking their best just now. Jo's angles are much softened; she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace. The curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure. There is a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue to-day. Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever; the beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself. It is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience; but Beth seldom complains, and always speaks hopefully of "being better soon." Amy is with truth considered "the flower of the family;" for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman--not beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace. One saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair,--unconscious, yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself. Amy's nose still afflicted her, for it never _would_ grow Grecian; so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin. These offending features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls, more golden and abundant than ever. All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush-roses in hair and bosom; and all three looked just what they were,--fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood. There were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible; so when Aunt March arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance, and a wine-bottle under each arm. "Upon my word, here's a state of things!" cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender _moire_ with a great rustle. "You oughtn't to be seen till the last minute, child." "I'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticise my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I'm too happy to care what any one says or thinks, and I'm going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here's your hammer;" and away went Meg to help "that man" in his highly improper employment. Mr. Brooke didn't even say "Thank you," but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding-door, with a look that made Aunt March whisk out her pocket-handkerchief, with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes. A crash, a cry, and a laugh from Laurie, accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, "Jupiter Ammon! Jo's upset the cake again!" caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived, and "the party came in," as Beth used to say when a child. "Don't let that young giant come near me; he worries me worse than mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to Amy, as the rooms filled, and Laurie's black head towered above the rest. "He has promised to be very good to-day, and he _can_ be perfectly elegant if he likes," returned Amy, gliding away to warn Hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her. There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young pair took their places under the green arch. Mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give Meg up; the fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn; the bridegroom's hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies; but Meg looked straight up in her husband's eyes, and said, "I will!" with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced, and Aunt March sniffed audibly. Jo did _not_ cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder, but Amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair. It wasn't at all the thing, I'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, Meg cried, "The first kiss for Marmee!" and, turning, gave it with her heart on her lips. During the next fifteen minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for every one availed themselves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from Mr. Laurence to old Hannah, who, adorned with a head-dress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying, with a sob and a chuckle, "Bless you, deary, a hundred times! The cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely." Everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light. There was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers. Mr. Laurence and Aunt March shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be the only sorts of nectar which the three Hebes carried round. No one said anything, however, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face. "Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?" he whispered, "or am I merely laboring under a delusion that I saw some lying about loose this morning?" "No; your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and Aunt March actually sent some, but father put away a little for Beth, and despatched the rest to the Soldiers' Home. You know he thinks that wine should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof." Meg spoke seriously, and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh; but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous way, "I like that! for I've seen enough harm done to wish other women would think as you do." "You are not made wise by experience, I hope?" and there was an anxious accent in Meg's voice. "No; I give you my word for it. Don't think too well of me, either; this is not one of my temptations. Being brought up where wine is as common as water, and almost as harmless, I don't care for it; but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see." "But you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own. Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of my life." A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial. Meg knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs; and, feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good. She did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, "No one can refuse me anything to-day." Laurie certainly could not; and, with an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "I promise, Mrs. Brooke!" "I thank you, very, very much." "And I drink 'long life to your resolution,' Teddy," cried Jo, baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass, and beamed approvingly upon him. So the toast was drunk, the pledge made, and loyally kept, in spite of many temptations; for, with instinctive wisdom, the girls had seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life. After lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within. Meg and John happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass-plot, when Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding. "All the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife, as the Germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in couples outside!" cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that every one else followed their example without a murmur. Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol, began it; others rapidly joined in; even Sallie Moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm, and whisked Ned into the ring. But the crowning joke was Mr. Laurence and Aunt March; for when the stately old gentleman _chasséed_ solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest, and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden, like butterflies on a midsummer day. Want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to go. "I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well; but I think you'll be sorry for it," said Aunt March to Meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, "You've got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it." "That is the prettiest wedding I've been to for an age, Ned, and I don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed Mrs. Moffat to her husband, as they drove away. "Laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and I shall be perfectly satisfied," said Mr. Laurence, settling himself in his easy-chair to rest, after the excitement of the morning. "I'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was Laurie's unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy Jo had put in his button-hole. The little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey Meg had was the quiet walk with John, from the old home to the new. When she came down, looking like a pretty Quakeress in her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say "good-by," as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour. "Don't feel that I am separated from you, Marmee dear, or that I love you any the less for loving John so much," she said, clinging to her mother, with full eyes, for a moment. "I shall come every day, father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though I _am_ married. Beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles. Thank you all for my happy wedding-day. Good-by, good-by!" They stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride, as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands full of flowers, and the June sunshine brightening her happy face,--and so Meg's married life began. [Illustration: Artistic Attempts]

part 2, Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30

The First Wedding Meg's wedding is simple, as she wants everything plain, honest, and surrounded with love. She made her own wedding dress, with only flowers for accessories. Aunt March is scandalized when she arrives and is welcomed by the bride herself. During the ceremony, the vows are said with great earnestness and love, Meg gives the first kiss for Marmee and her sisters. In the three years passed, Jo's face and tongue have softened and her hair has grown long. Beth is pale and thin, still weak, but cheerful. Amy has truly blossomed, now sixteen, and full of poise. The luncheon is simple, with the wine sent by Mr. Laurence and Aunt March nowhere to be found, of which Mr. and Mrs. March disapprove. Meg tells Laurie this, and upon learning that he occasionally drinks, she uses the occasion to ask Laurie to avoid drinking in the future by making a temperance pledge, which he does. After the wedding, all exclaim what a beauty it was, despite the simplicity. Mr. Laurence tells Laurie that if he ever wants to marry, he hopes Laurie will choose a March girl, and Laurie says he will do his best. Meg's married life begins

Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the "lovering" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to "Vanity Fair." At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to "Jupiter Ammon," signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_5_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 26

part 2, chapter 26

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30", "summary": "Artistic Attempts Pursuing her ambition to become a great artist, Amy has tried various forms of art to the entertainment of her family, from poker sketching to painting to charcoal to sculpting, which ends in when an attempt to make a plaster mold of her foot goes awry. Meanwhile, she also strives to be an accomplished lady, which is easier for her, being naturally tactful and pleasing. In an effort to be aristocratic, Amy plans a small party for her classmates in drawing school and insists on offering the comforts to which her rich friends are accustomed, including an expensive lunch. Marmee tries to advise her to stay in keeping with their circumstances, but Amy refuses, saying she will pay for it herself, and Marmee allows experience to be the teacher. Unfortunately, the party does not go as planned. The first attempt is postponed to the next day due to rain after all the preparations have been made. The following Amy has to go buy a lobster, and is embarrassed when she runs into one of Laurie's college friends. After preparing for the party, she is dismayed when only one girl comes. Amy is an excellent host, and the girl is very kind, but after she leaves the family has a good laugh about Amy's misadventure", "analysis": "Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the \"lovering\" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to \"Vanity Fair.\" At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to \"Jupiter Ammon,\" signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864."}

XXVI. ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS. It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity. For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie" business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration; for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours; smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner-bell at her door, in case of fire. Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the under side of the moulding-board, and Bacchus on the head of a beer-barrel; a chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar-bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindlings for some time. From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced sea-sickness in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio, suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropsical infants, Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy, a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased. Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. Softened into crayon sketches, they did better; for the likenesses were good, and Amy's hair, Jo's nose, Meg's mouth, and Laurie's eyes were pronounced "wonderfully fine." A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet-shelves on to people's heads. Children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast in a pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity. With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt, at least. [Illustration: Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster] After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of clouds," that looked like a choice display of feather-beds when done. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun, to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose, trying after "points of sight," or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called. If "genius is eternal patience," as Michael Angelo affirms, Amy certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called "high art." She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star. Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do." One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society," without being quite sure what the _best_ really was. Money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her. "My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks. "I want to ask a favor of you, mamma," Amy said, coming in, with an important air, one day. "Well, little girl, what is it?" replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained "the baby." "Our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways, and I am grateful, for they are all rich, and know I am poor, yet they never made any difference." "Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls called her "Maria Theresa air." "You know as well as I that it _does_ make a difference with nearly every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know;" and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit. Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,-- "Well, my swan, what is your plan?" "I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic _fête_ for them." "That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?" "Oh dear, no! we must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice-cream, besides. The girls are used to such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though I _do_ work for my living." "How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look sober. "Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come." "Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about." "Why, mother, how _can_ you think of such a thing? Not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow Mr. Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of _char-à-banc_.) "All this will be expensive, Amy." "Not very; I've calculated the cost, and I'll pay for it myself." "Don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?" "If I can't have it as I like, I don't care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a little; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it," said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy. Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and senna. "Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, I'll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I'll do my best to help you." "Thanks, mother; you are always _so_ kind;" and away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters. Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best salt-spoons. But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have nothing to do with it at first. "Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a _coupé_," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises. "I _don't_ truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!" returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don't care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes. _You_ can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it independence, if you like. That's not my way." When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as "a nonsensical business." The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well anywheres." This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil desperandum," and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles. To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well: the chicken was tough, the tongue too salt, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly. Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying. "If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as Amy declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best joke of the season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else. If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on Tuesday,--an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby; but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skilfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures framed in ivy, and filling up empty corners with home-made statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about. The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again. The carriages were promised, Meg and mother were all ready to do the honors, Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes, Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, an aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights; for the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge were her strong points. Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost. "No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting a little stale. "I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad to-day," said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair. "Use the chicken, then; the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised his wife. "Hannah left it on the kitchen-table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I'm very sorry, Amy," added Beth, who was still a patroness of cats. "Then I _must_ have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said Amy decidedly. "Shall I rush into town and demand one?" asked Jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr. "You'd come bringing it home under your arm, without any paper, just to try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail. Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit, and fit her for the labors of the day. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing, to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought. As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a new-comer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, "Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and, congratulating herself that she had on her new travelling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit. They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and--oh, horror!--the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a Tudor. "By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady. "Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish. [Illustration: Please don't, it's mine] "Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding. Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing,-- "Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?" Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young ladies" diverted his mind from the comical mishap. "I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I sha'n't see them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed. She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before; and at twelve o'clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success to-day; so she ordered the "cherry-bounce," and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet. "There's the rumble, they're coming! I'll go into the porch to meet them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for, looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady. "Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table; it will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl," cried Jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh. In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely control the merriment which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being gayly partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce!) and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when "the party went out." As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate _fête_ had disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth. "You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come. "Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth. "Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg soberly. "Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this. "It's a pity Laurie isn't here to help us," began Jo, as they sat down to ice-cream and salad for the second time in two days. A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed, "Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn"--here a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history of sallets," to the great surprise of the learned gentleman. "Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason you should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping her eyes. "I thought I _should_ have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell, and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite spent with laughter. "I'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you," said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret. "I _am_ satisfied; I've done what I undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed; I comfort myself with that," said Amy, with a little quiver in her voice. "I thank you all very much for helping me, and I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least." No one did for several months; but the word "_fête_" always produced a general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Literary Lessons]

part 2, Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30

Artistic Attempts Pursuing her ambition to become a great artist, Amy has tried various forms of art to the entertainment of her family, from poker sketching to painting to charcoal to sculpting, which ends in when an attempt to make a plaster mold of her foot goes awry. Meanwhile, she also strives to be an accomplished lady, which is easier for her, being naturally tactful and pleasing. In an effort to be aristocratic, Amy plans a small party for her classmates in drawing school and insists on offering the comforts to which her rich friends are accustomed, including an expensive lunch. Marmee tries to advise her to stay in keeping with their circumstances, but Amy refuses, saying she will pay for it herself, and Marmee allows experience to be the teacher. Unfortunately, the party does not go as planned. The first attempt is postponed to the next day due to rain after all the preparations have been made. The following Amy has to go buy a lobster, and is embarrassed when she runs into one of Laurie's college friends. After preparing for the party, she is dismayed when only one girl comes. Amy is an excellent host, and the girl is very kind, but after she leaves the family has a good laugh about Amy's misadventure

Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the "lovering" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to "Vanity Fair." At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to "Jupiter Ammon," signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_5_part_4.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 27

part 2, chapter 27

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30", "summary": "Literary Lessons Jo, wishing to be a writer, spends great time in the garret when she feels inspired, often foregoing meals and sleep to translate her imagination into stories. One day, while accompanying Miss Crocker to a lecture, she learns that sensational stories like those by Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury have quite an audience, and a newspaper is having a competition for such stories with a prize of $100. Jo secretly writes a story about an earthquake in Lisbon and submits it to the competition. Six long weeks later, Jo receives a note of encouragement and the grand prize, for $100. Her family celebrates, though her unworldly Father says that she can do better, and should aim higher, disregarding the money. Jo, however, continues to write, and takes great pride in assisting with the family's bills. Her $100 sends Beth and Marmee to the shore for relaxation and recovery, and several more stories pay for the butcher bill, groceries, and new carpet. Jo cherishes her independence and ability to help her family. Encouraged by her success, Jo writes her first novel. After much effort, she finds a publisher, but he insists that she remove 1/3 of the story. In her redrafting, she tries to please everyone, and thus pleases no one, least of all herself. It is published, and she receives $300 and heaps of criticism and praise, furthering her confusion, but she is glad for the trial", "analysis": "Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the \"lovering\" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to \"Vanity Fair.\" At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to \"Jupiter Ammon,\" signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864."}

XXVII. 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 than 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 woollen 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, merely 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 gayly erect upon the gifted brow, did any one 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 enjoy 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 wondered 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 Woman's Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a sombre 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 unfortuitous 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 dishevelled 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 bluntly, "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 personæ_, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall. "Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, 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 this 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 Prof. Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly 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 upon 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 looked 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 theatrical 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 earthquake, as a striking and appropriate _dénouement_. The manuscript was privately despatched, 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 took 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_ pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story. [Illustration: A check for one hundred dollars] 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 every one read and praised it; though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and 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. "Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish," cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath, as if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and motioned away the check which her sister waved before her. "Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I tried for, and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone, so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, Marmee needs the change, and she won't leave you, so you _must_ go. Won't it be fun to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always cures her patients!" To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth didn't come home as plump and 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 "Curse 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 that 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 into my tin-kitchen to mould, 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 practised as 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 making 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 little 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 out a word 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 Amy, 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 foreboding 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 every one, she took every one'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 into 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 nearly all 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 sprightly scenes which relieved the sombre character of the story. Then, to complete the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent 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 commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dire 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 characters 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 over-praise, 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 it whole or not at all, for I do hate 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 received. "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." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Domestic Experiences]

part 2, Chapter 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30

Literary Lessons Jo, wishing to be a writer, spends great time in the garret when she feels inspired, often foregoing meals and sleep to translate her imagination into stories. One day, while accompanying Miss Crocker to a lecture, she learns that sensational stories like those by Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury have quite an audience, and a newspaper is having a competition for such stories with a prize of $100. Jo secretly writes a story about an earthquake in Lisbon and submits it to the competition. Six long weeks later, Jo receives a note of encouragement and the grand prize, for $100. Her family celebrates, though her unworldly Father says that she can do better, and should aim higher, disregarding the money. Jo, however, continues to write, and takes great pride in assisting with the family's bills. Her $100 sends Beth and Marmee to the shore for relaxation and recovery, and several more stories pay for the butcher bill, groceries, and new carpet. Jo cherishes her independence and ability to help her family. Encouraged by her success, Jo writes her first novel. After much effort, she finds a publisher, but he insists that she remove 1/3 of the story. In her redrafting, she tries to please everyone, and thus pleases no one, least of all herself. It is published, and she receives $300 and heaps of criticism and praise, furthering her confusion, but she is glad for the trial

Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the "lovering" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to "Vanity Fair." At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to "Jupiter Ammon," signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/28.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_5_part_5.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 28

part 2, chapter 28

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30", "summary": "Domestic Experiences Meg and John have a wonderful but trying time adjusting to married life. Their first big fight comes about after Meg tries to make currant jelly. After a day of boiling, sugaring, and straining their entire crop of currants, Meg is unable to make the jelly, and ends the day crying with exhaustion. Unfortunately, on this day John brought home a colleague for dinner, as Meg had often encouraged him to do. Finding the house in disarray, dinner uncooked, and Meg tired and cranky, John has to play host with an impromptu dinner. Both Meg and John feel betrayed and hurt, and neither wants to apologize first, until Meg gives in. John also apologizes and their first real disagreement is smoothed over. Meg also struggles with envying the luxurious items Sallie Moffat has. On her shopping ships with Sallie, she begins to buy a trifle here, and a trifle there, and then spends fifty dollars on silk for a new dress. Meg feels deeply guilty, even more so tells John. He is angry, and Meg tries to justify herself, saying she is tired of being poor. Meg immediately regrets her comment, and though John quickly forgives her, she feels awful. John works later hours and cancels an order of a coat for himself to cover his expenses. Meg and John have a long, open conversation about their poverty and the strength of character it gives them. The next day Meg swallows her pride and asks Sallie to buy the silk from her, then uses the money to buy John's coat, and never again wastes his money. Several months later, Meg gives birth to twins, Daisy and Demi, which are nicknames for Margaret and John", "analysis": "Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the \"lovering\" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to \"Vanity Fair.\" At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to \"Jupiter Ammon,\" signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864."}

XXVIII. DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES. Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married 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 tired, 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 then see if _his_ work would stand impatient tugs 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 she 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 home 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 despatched 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 long without,--a family jar. Fired with a housewifely wish to see her store-room stocked with home-made 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 in 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 the 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 had 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 a hand, but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy any one 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-turvy 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 Dove-cote. 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 sanguinary-looking boy asleep under the currant-bushes. "I'm afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke," said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude. Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burnt 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 burning gayly 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. "O John, I _am_ so tired and hot and cross and worried! I've been at it till I'm all worn 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 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 clasped 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 even turtle-doves 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 acknowledge; 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 knock us up something to eat. We're both as hungry as hunters, so we sha'n't mind what it is. Give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese; we won't ask for jelly." He meant it for 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 yourself out of the scrape as you can; I'm too used up to 'exert' myself for any one. 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 in one breath, Meg cast away her pinafore, and precipitately left the field 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 clearing 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, though he did not show it; he felt that Meg had got him into a scrape, and then 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 hard 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 resolved 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 himself 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 her slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke; both looked quite "calm and firm," and both felt desperately uncomfortable. [Illustration: 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 oppose 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, very careful, not to wake this anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect. Watch yourself, 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 glanced 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 her 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 happy 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 and 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 infinitely 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 necessaries; 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 had 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; 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 what 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 loan 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. [Illustration: A bargain, I assure you, ma'am] 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 pocket-book which they called the "bank," when Meg, knowing that 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 five or six dollars. That night he looked 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 pretence 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'd done it, for I knew you'd think it wrong in me." John laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying good-humoredly, "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 had 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 answer 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," sighed 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, "O 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 for 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 great-coat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He had simply 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 great-coat, 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 the 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 great-coat, 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 state of things ensued. John came home early, Meg gadded no more; and that great-coat 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 Dove-cote, 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 sober, 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 sha'n'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, Laurie 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. [Illustration: Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms] 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." John rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of baby-tending, 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 you told, 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 remarkable 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 call her Daisy, 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.

part 2, Chapter 28

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30

Domestic Experiences Meg and John have a wonderful but trying time adjusting to married life. Their first big fight comes about after Meg tries to make currant jelly. After a day of boiling, sugaring, and straining their entire crop of currants, Meg is unable to make the jelly, and ends the day crying with exhaustion. Unfortunately, on this day John brought home a colleague for dinner, as Meg had often encouraged him to do. Finding the house in disarray, dinner uncooked, and Meg tired and cranky, John has to play host with an impromptu dinner. Both Meg and John feel betrayed and hurt, and neither wants to apologize first, until Meg gives in. John also apologizes and their first real disagreement is smoothed over. Meg also struggles with envying the luxurious items Sallie Moffat has. On her shopping ships with Sallie, she begins to buy a trifle here, and a trifle there, and then spends fifty dollars on silk for a new dress. Meg feels deeply guilty, even more so tells John. He is angry, and Meg tries to justify herself, saying she is tired of being poor. Meg immediately regrets her comment, and though John quickly forgives her, she feels awful. John works later hours and cancels an order of a coat for himself to cover his expenses. Meg and John have a long, open conversation about their poverty and the strength of character it gives them. The next day Meg swallows her pride and asks Sallie to buy the silk from her, then uses the money to buy John's coat, and never again wastes his money. Several months later, Meg gives birth to twins, Daisy and Demi, which are nicknames for Margaret and John

Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the "lovering" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to "Vanity Fair." At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to "Jupiter Ammon," signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_5_part_6.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 29

part 2, chapter 29

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30", "summary": "Calls Amy and Jo prepare to make formal calls to families around town, to Jo's great consternation. Amy dresses Jo and instructs her in how to carry herself and behave at each house so she will be liked, but Jo, annoyed by the exercise of trying to win others' approval, acts inappropriately at every home. Jo imitates one of Amy's friends May Chester, and then she is rude to a titled gentleman. At their final call on Aunt March, they also find her engrossed in conversation with Aunt Carrol. They discuss a fair that the Chesters are having to support the freedmen, at which Amy has been offered a chance to volunteer, and of which Jo disapproves. Aunt Carrol and Aunt March appreciate Amy's gratitude toward the Chesters, and Jo pronounces that she does not like favors. Aunt March and Aunt Carrol look at each other knowingly then ask the girls if they speak French. Amy does, a little, but Jo refuses to learn. Jo proposes they leave promptly, and the two Aunts seem quite decided about something", "analysis": "Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the \"lovering\" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to \"Vanity Fair.\" At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to \"Jupiter Ammon,\" signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864."}

XXIX. CALLS. [Illustration: Calls] "Come, Jo, it's time." "For what?" "You don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me to-day?" "I've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don't think I ever was mad enough to say I'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week." "Yes, you did; it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our neighbors' visits." "If it was fair--that was in the bond; and I stand to the letter of my bond, Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east; it's _not_ fair, and I don't go." "Now, that's shirking. It's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises; so be honorable; come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months." At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking; for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array, on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the present instance, there was no escape; and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelt thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told Amy the victim was ready. "Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don't intend to make calls in that state, I hope," cried Amy, surveying her with amazement. "Why not? I'm neat and cool and comfortable; quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for me, I don't wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please: it pays for you to be fine; it doesn't for me, and furbelows only worry me." "Oh dear!" sighed Amy; "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before I can get her properly ready. I'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go to-day, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me. I'll do anything for you, Jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that I'm proud of you. I'm afraid to go alone; do come and take care of me." "You're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone! I don't know which is the most absurd. Well, I'll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition, and I'll obey blindly; will that satisfy you?" said Jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamb-like submission. "You're a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression. I want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet; it's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We'll stop at Meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one." While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them; not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings; and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly,-- "I'm perfectly miserable; but if you consider me presentable, I die happy." "You are highly satisfactory; turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view." Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "Yes, you'll do; your head is all I could ask, for that white bonnet _with_ the rose is quite ravishing. Hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch. There's one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl--I can't; but it's very nice to see you, and I'm so glad Aunt March gave you that lovely one; it's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet _are_ pretty, though my nose isn't." "You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said Jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the gold hair. "Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?" "Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house; the sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven't half buttoned one cuff; do it at once. You'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole." Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff; but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as "pretty as picters," Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them. "Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I want you to put on your best deportment. Don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet,--that's safe and ladylike; and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes," said Amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm. "Let me see. 'Calm, cool, and quiet,'--yes, I think I can promise that. I've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I'll try it off. My powers are great, as you shall see; so be easy in your mind, my child." Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word; for, during the first call, she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snow-bank, and as silent as a sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her "charming novel," and the Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions; each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure "Yes" or "No," with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word "Talk," tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud's face, "icily regular, splendidly null." "What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!" was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon Jo. "How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone. Try to be sociable at the Lambs', gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything." "I'll be agreeable; I'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I'll imitate what is called 'a charming girl;' I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and I'll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don't say, 'What a lively, nice creature that Jo March is!'" Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop. Amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing-room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of Lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her. So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the old lady. A knot of heads gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on; for broken sentences filled her with alarm, round eyes and uplifted hands tormented her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation:-- "She rides splendidly,--who taught her?" "No one; she used to practise mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stable-man lets her have horses cheap, because she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often tell her if everything else fails she can be a horse-breaker, and get her living so." At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion. But what could she do? for the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done Jo was off again, making more droll revelations, and committing still more fearful blunders. "Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?" "Which did she choose?" asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject. "None of them; she heard of a young horse at the farmhouse over the river, and, though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic; there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!" [Illustration: She took the saddle to the horse] "Did she ride the horse?" "Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party." "Well, I call that plucky!" and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable. She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic; and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer, with unnecessary frankness, "Oh, Amy painted it; you can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like. It's a great comfort to have an artistic sister." "Isn't that an original idea?" cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun. "That's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There's nothing the child can't do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky-blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin," added Jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her card-case at her. "We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much," observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed. Any mention of her "works" always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a _brusque_ remark, as now. "Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New York this winter?" As Miss Lamb had "enjoyed" the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake; but, fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths. "Amy, we _must_ go. _Good_-by, dear; _do_ come and see us; we are _pining_ for a visit. I don't dare to ask _you_, Mr. Lamb; but if you _should_ come, I don't think I shall have the heart to send you away." Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester's gushing style that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time. "Didn't I do that well?" asked Jo, with a satisfied air, as they walked away. "Nothing could have been worse," was Amy's crushing reply. "What possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?" "Why, it's funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do." "You needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven't a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said Amy despairingly. Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors. "How shall I behave here?" she asked, as they approached the third mansion. "Just as you please; I wash my hands of you," was Amy's short answer. "Then I'll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failures to suit. An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings; and, leaving Amy to entertain the hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted herself to the young folks, and found the change refreshing. She listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "Tom Brown was a brick," regardless of the improper form of praise; and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle-tank, she went with an alacrity which caused mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bear-like but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless _coiffure_ from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman. Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content. Mr. Tudor's uncle had married an English lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great respect; for, in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us,--that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in a ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time; and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of March. [Illustration: It might have been worse] It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad; for Jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of Laurie's pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking turtles with Amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over Jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves. But all were enjoying themselves; and when Jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, "it was such fun to hear about Laurie's larks." "Capital boys, aren't they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that," said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol. "Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?" asked Amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon Jo's dilapidated appearance. "Don't like him; he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and _I_ don't consider him a desirable acquaintance; so I let him alone." "You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod; and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said Amy reprovingly. "No, it wouldn't," returned perverse Jo; "I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece _was_ third cousin to a lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever; I think well of him, and like to show that I do, for he _is_ a gentleman in spite of the brown-paper parcels." "It's no use trying to argue with you," began Amy. "Not the least, my dear," interrupted Jo; "so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I'm deeply grateful." The family card-case having done its duty, the girls walked on, and Jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged. "Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March to-day. We can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross." "Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call; it's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them. Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet." "What a good girl you are, Amy!" said Jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still. "I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them; so I wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip; but they tell best in the end, I fancy." Amy smiled, and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,-- "Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones; for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you'd remember that, and practise it, you'd be better liked than I am, because there is more of you." "I'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I'm willing to own that you are right; only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when I don't feel like it. It's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?" "It's a greater not to be able to hide them. I don't mind saying that I don't approve of Tudor any more than you do; but I'm not called upon to tell him so; neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is." "But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men; and how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any good, as I know to my sorrow, since I've had Teddy to manage; but there are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say we _ought_ to do it to others if we can." "Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys," said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the "remarkable boy," if he had heard it. "If we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps; but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical." "So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That's a nice sort of morality." "I can't argue about it, I only know that it's the way of the world; and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I don't like reformers, and I hope you will never try to be one." "I do like them, and I shall be one if I can; for in spite of the laughing, the world would never get on without them. We can't agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new: you will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it. I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, I think." "Well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new ideas." "I'll try not to, but I'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her; it's my doom, and I can't help it." They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject; but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned; but Amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper, and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both the aunts "my deared" her affectionately, looking what they afterwards said emphatically,--"That child improves every day." "Are you going to help about the fair, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the young. "Yes, aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a table, as I have nothing but my time to give." "I'm not," put in Jo decidedly. "I hate to be patronized, and the Chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I wonder you consented, Amy: they only want you to work." "I am willing to work: it's for the freedmen as well as the Chesters, and I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun. Patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant." "Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear; it's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts: some do not, and that is trying," observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression. [Illustration: The call at Aunt March's] If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dovelike in a minute; but, unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends; better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue. "I don't like favors; they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent." "Ahem!" coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March. "I told you so," said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol. Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting. "Do you speak French, dear?" asked Mrs. Carrol, laying her hand on Amy's. "Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as I like," replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably. "How are you about languages?" asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo. "Don't know a word; I'm very stupid about studying anything; can't bear French, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the _brusque_ reply. Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy, "You are quite strong and well, now, dear, I believe? Eyes don't trouble you any more, do they?" "Not at all, thank you, ma'am. I'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time arrives." "Good girl! You deserve to go, and I'm sure you will some day," said Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball for her. "Cross-patch, draw the latch, Sit by the fire and spin," squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into Jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing. "Most observing bird," said the old lady. "Come and take a walk, my dear?" cried Polly, hopping toward the china-closet, with a look suggestive of lump-sugar. "Thank you, I will. Come, Amy;" and Jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine; which impression caused Aunt March to say, as they vanished,-- "You'd better do it, Mary; I'll supply the money," and Aunt Carrol to reply decidedly, "I certainly will, if her father and mother consent." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: You shall have another table]

part 2, Chapter 29

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-24-through-chapter-30

Calls Amy and Jo prepare to make formal calls to families around town, to Jo's great consternation. Amy dresses Jo and instructs her in how to carry herself and behave at each house so she will be liked, but Jo, annoyed by the exercise of trying to win others' approval, acts inappropriately at every home. Jo imitates one of Amy's friends May Chester, and then she is rude to a titled gentleman. At their final call on Aunt March, they also find her engrossed in conversation with Aunt Carrol. They discuss a fair that the Chesters are having to support the freedmen, at which Amy has been offered a chance to volunteer, and of which Jo disapproves. Aunt Carrol and Aunt March appreciate Amy's gratitude toward the Chesters, and Jo pronounces that she does not like favors. Aunt March and Aunt Carrol look at each other knowingly then ask the girls if they speak French. Amy does, a little, but Jo refuses to learn. Jo proposes they leave promptly, and the two Aunts seem quite decided about something

Alcott begins Part II by addressing her readers, continuing her ongoing conversation with them. She knows her young readers will not object to the "lovering" for she has received countless letters from them demanding exactly that. She is also clear in foreshadowing the events to come, giving the readers' greater insight than her characters have, particularly when Jo and Amy are calling on Aunt March and Aunt Carrol. The interactions between Laurie and Jo also hint at developments to come. Flowers, particularly roses, are a recurrent motif in Part II of Little Women. At Meg's wedding, Alcott personifies the roses. Meg's choice of wearing John's favorite roses rather than fashionable orange flowers symbolizes her wish for a genuine and simple marriage. This shows Meg's growth since she went to "Vanity Fair." At the Chesters' fair, Amy is relegated to the flower table, but through the help of her friends and family, she beautifies it nicely. Family is still the primary concern for the characters in the book, although their attentions begin to turn outward. Meg's concern is also familial, although she is focused on making a happy family of her own, and she and John work through their concerns independently, utilizing the advice but not interference of the Marches. This outward shift in focus is reflected in the difference in the allusions Alcott makes, compared to Part I. Alcott abandons the Pilgrim's Progress allegory, which her characters have outgrown. Laurie alludes to "Jupiter Ammon," signifying his advanced education, Amy is compared to foreign artists, and Marmee to Maria Theresa, a Roman-German empress. Jo often alludes to Shakespeare as well as Keats and Tennyson, noting her more literary focus. The characters are still concerned with morality, though not necessarily in the views of society. Laurie feels the conflict between what is socially easy and what is moral when Meg asks him to take the temperance pledge. His choice falls within the March's moral code and within Alcott's, as she advocated temperance. Jo devises her own moral guide to her calls with Amy, wishing to be polite to those she likes and rude to those she does not, regardless of what is proper. Amy's attempted dinner party is also an example of the failure of her efforts to please society. When Jo agrees to help, Alcott alludes to Mrs. Grundy, a character in a Thomas Morton play who represents propriety and society's good opinion. Despite Marmee's advice, Amy tries to meet society's expectations, rather than those suited to her poverty, with laughable results. When Amy is being pleasing to society by being kind and gracious, however, she is highly rewarded. Her polite calls and generous behavior at the Chesters' fair are rewarded with a trip abroad. Jo's discovery of the audience for sensation stories written by Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury is a parody of the writer Mrs. E.D.E.N. Southworth, who published stories in the mid-nineteenth century. By drawing on her own experiences and alluding to contemporary authors, Alcott continues to make her story realistic and timely. Jo's first try at a sensation story does not contradict her moral code, as the earthquake in Lisbon in 1755 was considered punishment for the sinners of that city. In trying to please society with her book, however, Jo gets the worst of it. Alcott alludes to Aesop's fable of the donkey and the old man, where the old man, trying to please everyone, ends up drowning the donkey. This experience was based directly on Alcott's experience -- not with Part I, which was largely published as written, but rather with Moods, published in 1864.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/31.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_6_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 31

part 2, chapter 31

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36", "summary": "Our Foreign Correspondent We learn of Amy's travels through her letters home. She describes the ship to Ireland and the train to London in picturesque detail, her artistic eye soaking up the colors and scenery. She enjoys traveling very much, including the attentions of several gentlemen along the way. London is rainy, but Amy enjoys shopping with her aunt. She is surprised to find Fred and Frank Vaughn come calling at tea, and enjoys laughing about Camp Laurence and going to the theater with them. The Vaughns are great hosts in London, taking Amy and her cousin Florence to museums and picnics. They are sad to part ways when the Carrols and Amy go to France, but they hope to meet in Rome. Amy particularly enjoys Fred, who then surprises them by turning up in Paris. They are thankful to have him along for company and translation. Amy is delighted by the Louvre, and is enjoying Fred's company more and more. Next, they sail up the Rhine, and Fred befriends some students who help him serenade Amy and Flo by moonlight. In Germany, Amy wishes she had read more, particularly Goethe. Fred gambles some money, and Amy says she thinks he needs someone to marry and look after him. Amy realizes that Fred has affections for her, and in her eminently practical way, decides that she will accept him if he asks. Fred is very rich, relatively enjoyable, and she thinks they could learn to be fond of each other. Amy wishes more to live in comfort than to be in love. Fred learns that Frank is ill and rushes away, but asks Amy not to forget him, and they plan to meet in Rome", "analysis": "The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a \"wise man,\" Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal."}

XXXI. OUR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT. "LONDON. "DEAREST PEOPLE,-- "Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else; however, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter. Oh, I can't begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I'll only give you bits out of my note-book, for I've done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started. "I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don't laugh, Jo; gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I'm afraid. [Illustration: "Every one was very kind, especially the officers."--Page 378.] "Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking-trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture. "It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's country-seats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore _so_ picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I never shall forget it. "At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us,--Mr. Lennox,--and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed and sung, with a look at me,-- 'Oh, have you e'er heard of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney; From the glance of her eye, Shun danger and fly, For fatal's the glance of Kate Kearney.' Wasn't that nonsensical? "We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It's a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dog-skin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved _à la_ mutton-chop, the first thing. Then he flattered himself that he looked like a true Briton; but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an American stood in them, and said, with a grin, 'There yer har, sir. I've give 'em the latest Yankee shine.' It amused uncle immensely. Oh, I _must_ tell you what that absurd Lennox did! He got his friend Ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing I saw in my room was a lovely one, with 'Robert Lennox's compliments,' on the card. Wasn't that fun, girls? I like travelling. "I never _shall_ get to London if I don't hurry. The trip was like riding through a long picture-gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight; with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous, like Yankee biddies. Such perfect color I never saw,--the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark,--I was in a rapture all the way. So was Flo; and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour. Aunt was tired and went to sleep, but uncle read his guide-book, and wouldn't be astonished at anything. This is the way we went on: Amy, flying up,--'Oh, that must be Kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!' Flo, darting to my window,--'How sweet! We must go there some time, won't we, papa?' Uncle, calmly admiring his boots,--'No, my dear, not unless you want beer; that's a brewery.' "A pause,--then Flo cried out, 'Bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up.' 'Where, where?' shrieks Amy, staring out at two tall posts with a cross-beam and some dangling chains. 'A colliery,' remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye. 'Here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down,' says Amy. 'See, papa, aren't they pretty!' added Flo sentimentally. 'Geese, young ladies,' returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till Flo settles down to enjoy 'The Flirtations of Capt. Cavendish,' and I have the scenery all to myself. "Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things, for I came off in such a hurry I wasn't half ready. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid; things seem so cheap--nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich? "Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! for when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he was up outside behind somewhere, and I couldn't get at him. He didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a break-neck pace. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,-- "'Now then, mum?' "I gave my order as soberly as I could, and slamming down the door, with an 'Aye, aye, mum,' the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again, and said, 'A little faster;' then off he went, helter-skelter, as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate. "To-day was fair and we went to Hyde Park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. I often see his footmen lounging at the back gate; and the Duke of Wellington's house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! It was as good as Punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous Jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw; handsome girls, looking half asleep; dandies, in queer English hats and lavender kids, lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny I longed to sketch them. "Rotten Row means '_Route de Roi_,' or the king's way; but now it's more like a riding-school than anything else. The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well; but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules. I longed to show them a tearing American gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy Noah's Ark. Every one rides,--old men, stout ladies, little children,--and the young folks do a deal of flirting here; I saw a pair exchange rosebuds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and I thought it rather a nice little idea. "In the P.M. to Westminster Abbey; but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible--so I'll only say it was sublime! This evening we are going to see Fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life. "MIDNIGHT. "It's very late, but I can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie's English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was _so_ surprised, for I shouldn't have known them but for the cards. Both are tall fellows, with whiskers; Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They had heard from Laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house; but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can. They went to the theatre with us, and we did have _such_ a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat.' Neither of them had forgotten Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there. What ages ago it seems, doesn't it? "Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I _must_ stop. I really feel like a dissipated London fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theatres, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say 'Ah!' and twirl their blond mustaches with the true English lordliness. I long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving AMY." "DEAR GIRLS,-- "PARIS. "In my last I told you about our London visit,--how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else,--for at Hampton I saw Raphael's cartoons, and, at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great creatures. The day in Richmond Park was charming, for we had a regular English picnic, and I had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than I could copy; also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up. We 'did' London to our hearts' content, thanks to Fred and Frank, and were sorry to go away; for, though English people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, _I_ think. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter, and I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows,--especially Fred. "Well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word; and now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks French like a native, and I don't know what we should do without him. Uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud, as if that would make people understand him. Aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and Flo and I, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have Fred do the '_parley vooing_,' as uncle calls it. "Such delightful times as we are having! sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay _cafés_, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre, revelling in pictures. Jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art; but _I_ have, and I'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as I can. She would like the relics of great people better, for I've seen her Napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush; also Marie Antoinette's little shoe, the ring of Saint Denis, Charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things. I'll talk for hours about them when I come, but haven't time to write. "The Palais Royale is a heavenly place,--so full of _bijouterie_ and lovely things that I'm nearly distracted because I can't buy them. Fred wanted to get me some, but of course I didn't allow it. Then the Bois and the Champs Elysées are _très magnifique_. I've seen the imperial family several times,--the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, _I_ thought,--purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves. Little Nap. is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets, and a mounted guard before and behind. [Illustration: I've seen the imperial family several times] "We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Père la Chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and, looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy. "Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli, and, sitting in the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there, when too tired with our day's work to go out. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew,--except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don't fancy light men; however, the Vaughns are very rich, and come of an excellent family, so I won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower. "Next week we are off to Germany and Switzerland; and, as we shall travel fast, I shall only be able to give you hasty letters. I keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire,' as father advised. It is good practice for me, and, with my sketch-book, will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles. "Adieu; I embrace you tenderly. VOTRE AMIE." "MY DEAR MAMMA,-- "HEIDELBERG. "Having a quiet hour before we leave for Berne, I'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see. "The sail up the Rhine was perfect, and I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. Get father's old guide-books, and read about it; I haven't words beautiful enough to describe it. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night, and, about one o'clock, Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We flew up, and hid behind the curtains; but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw,--the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone. "When they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away,--to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest-pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn't throw it, but Flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again. I'm afraid I'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it. "The baths at Nassau were very gay, so was Baden-Baden, where Fred lost some money, and I scolded him. He needs some one to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it would be well for him. Frankfort was delightful; I saw Goethe's house, Schiller's statue, and Dannecker's famous 'Ariadne.' It was very lovely, but I should have enjoyed it more if I had known the story better. I didn't like to ask, as every one knew it, or pretended they did. I wish Jo would tell me all about it; I ought to have read more, for I find I don't know anything, and it mortifies me. "Now comes the serious part,--for it happened here, and Fred is just gone. He has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him; I never thought of anything but a travelling friendship, till the serenade night. Since then I've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun. I haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best. I can't help it if people like me; I don't try to make them, and it worries me if I don't care for them, though Jo says I haven't got any heart. Now I know mother will shake her head, and the girls say, 'Oh, the mercenary little wretch!' but I've made up my mind, and, if Fred asks me, I shall accept him, though I'm not madly in love. I like him, and we get on comfortably together. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich,--ever so much richer than the Laurences. I don't think his family would object, and I should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one as it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable, and full of solid luxury, such as English people believe in. I like it, for it's genuine. I've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. Oh, it would be all I should ask! and I'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than I can help. One of us _must_ marry well; Meg didn't, Jo won't, Beth can't yet, so I shall, and make everything cosey all round. I wouldn't marry a man I hated or despised. You may be sure of that; and, though Fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and, in time, I should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as I liked. So I've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that Fred liked me. He said nothing, but little things showed it; he never goes with Flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at any one else who ventures to speak to me. Yesterday, at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us, and then said something to his friend,--a rakish-looking baron,--about '_ein wonderschönes Blöndchen_,' Fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely, it nearly flew off his plate. He isn't one of the cool, stiff Englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has Scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes. "Well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset,--at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there, after going to the Post Restante for letters. We had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector, long ago, for his English wife. I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine; so, while the rest went to see the rooms inside, I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it. I felt as if I'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the Neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the Austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a real story-book girl. I had a feeling that something was going to happen, and I was ready for it. I didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool, and only a little excited. [Illustration: Trying to sketch the gray-stone lion's head on the wall] "By and by I heard Fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill; so he was going at once, in the night train, and only had time to say good-by. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute, because he said, as he shook hands,--and said it in a way that I could not mistake,--'I shall soon come back; you won't forget me, Amy?' "I didn't promise, but I looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much. I know he wanted to speak, but I think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet awhile, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law. We shall soon meet in Rome; and then, if I don't change my mind, I'll say 'Yes, thank you,' when he says 'Will you, please?' "Of course this is all _very private_, but I wished you to know what was going on. Don't be anxious about me; remember I am your 'prudent Amy,' and be sure I will do nothing rashly. Send me as much advice as you like; I'll use it if I can. I wish I could see you for a good talk, Marmee. Love and trust me. "Ever your AMY."

part 2, Chapter 31

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36

Our Foreign Correspondent We learn of Amy's travels through her letters home. She describes the ship to Ireland and the train to London in picturesque detail, her artistic eye soaking up the colors and scenery. She enjoys traveling very much, including the attentions of several gentlemen along the way. London is rainy, but Amy enjoys shopping with her aunt. She is surprised to find Fred and Frank Vaughn come calling at tea, and enjoys laughing about Camp Laurence and going to the theater with them. The Vaughns are great hosts in London, taking Amy and her cousin Florence to museums and picnics. They are sad to part ways when the Carrols and Amy go to France, but they hope to meet in Rome. Amy particularly enjoys Fred, who then surprises them by turning up in Paris. They are thankful to have him along for company and translation. Amy is delighted by the Louvre, and is enjoying Fred's company more and more. Next, they sail up the Rhine, and Fred befriends some students who help him serenade Amy and Flo by moonlight. In Germany, Amy wishes she had read more, particularly Goethe. Fred gambles some money, and Amy says she thinks he needs someone to marry and look after him. Amy realizes that Fred has affections for her, and in her eminently practical way, decides that she will accept him if he asks. Fred is very rich, relatively enjoyable, and she thinks they could learn to be fond of each other. Amy wishes more to live in comfort than to be in love. Fred learns that Frank is ill and rushes away, but asks Amy not to forget him, and they plan to meet in Rome

The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a "wise man," Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_6_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 32

part 2, chapter 32

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36", "summary": "Tender Troubles Marmee notices that something is troubling Beth, for she has been quite sad, and asks Jo to find out Beth's secret. After observing her, Jo decides that Beth is in love with Laurie. Jo insists to herself that she will make Laurie love Beth back. In fact, Laurie has been trying to express his affections toward Jo, but she ignores or denies him. Jo hopes Laurie might learn to love Beth, particularly if Jo went away. While pondering what to do, Jo finds herself in a conversation with Laurie about flirting, which he does quite a bit, but does not admire in excess in others, and at which Jo is hopeless. Jo advises Laurie to devote himself to a modest girl - meaning Beth - once he is through with college and deserving of her. Laurie, thinking Jo means herself, is encouraged and humbled. He starts behaving more seriously and speaking of \"turning a new leaf. That evening, Jo finds Beth crying herself to sleep over a new pain. She will not tell Jo what it is, for Jo can do nothing to help, but promises to tell her in time. Jo, believing Beth's heart is aching over Laurie, comforts her. The next day, Jo decides to spend the winter working as a teacher in a boardinghouse in New York for the daughters of Mrs. Kirke, one of Marmee's friends. Jo tells Marmee that she feels Laurie is getting too fond of her, and she does not return the feelings. Marmee is thankful for Jo's feelings, as she feels the two would be too strong-willed a match. Jo divulges that she thinks Beth might like Laurie, which Marmee does not believe, but still feels Jo should go away for Laurie's sake. Jo asks Beth to look after Laurie for her. Laurie simply tells Jo that going away will not do any good", "analysis": "The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a \"wise man,\" Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal."}

XXXII. TENDER TROUBLES. "Jo, I'm anxious about Beth." "Why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came." "It's not her health that troubles me now; it's her spirits. I'm sure there is something on her mind, and I want you to discover what it is." "What makes you think so, mother?" "She sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used. I found her crying over the babies the other day. When she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then I see a look in her face that I don't understand. This isn't like Beth, and it worries me." "Have you asked her about it?" "I have tried once or twice; but she either evaded my questions, or looked so distressed that I stopped. I never force my children's confidence, and I seldom have to wait for it long." Mrs. March glanced at Jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but Beth's; and, after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, Jo said,-- "I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why, or being able to explain them. Why, mother, Beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman." "So she is. Dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother, with a sigh and a smile. "Can't be helped, Marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one. I promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you." "It is a great comfort, Jo; I always feel strong when you are at home, now Meg is gone. Beth is too feeble and Amy too young to depend upon; but when the tug comes, you are always ready." "Why, you know I don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family. Amy is splendid in fine works, and I'm not; but I feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once. Amy is distinguishing herself abroad; but if anything is amiss at home, I'm your man." "I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to any one else. Be very kind, and don't let her think any one watches or talks about her. If she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, I shouldn't have a wish in the world." "Happy woman! I've got heaps." "My dear, what are they?" "I'll settle Bethy's troubles, and then I'll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they'll keep;" and Jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her, for the present at least. While apparently absorbed in her own affairs, Jo watched Beth; and, after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her. A slight incident gave Jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest. She was affecting to write busily one Saturday afternoon, when she and Beth were alone together; yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet. Sitting at the window, Beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape. Suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out,-- [Illustration: She leaned her head upon her hands] "All serene! Coming in to-night." Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly, as if to herself,-- "How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks." "Hum!" said Jo, still intent upon her sister's face; for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window-ledge. Beth whisked it off, and glanced apprehensively at Jo; but she was scratching away at a tremendous rate, apparently engrossed in "Olympia's Oath." The instant Beth turned, Jo began her watch again, saw Beth's hand go quietly to her eyes more than once, and, in her half-averted face, read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill. Fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper. "Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!" she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made. "I never dreamt of such a thing. What _will_ mother say? I wonder if he--" there Jo stopped, and turned scarlet with a sudden thought. "If he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be. He must; I'll make him!" and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall. "Oh dear, we _are_ growing up with a vengeance. Here's Meg married and a mamma, Amy flourishing away at Paris, and Beth in love. I'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief." Jo thought intently for a minute, with her eyes fixed on the picture; then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead, and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "No, thank you, sir; you're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock; so you needn't write touching notes, and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and I won't have it." Then she sighed, and fell into a reverie, from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion. Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's; therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others. Indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family, of late, that "our boy" was getting fonder than ever of Jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject, and scolded violently if any one dared to suggest it. If they had known the various tender passages of the past year, or rather attempts at tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "I told you so." But Jo hated "philandering," and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger. When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month; but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused Jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly conferences. But there came a time when Laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in Byronic fits of gloom. Then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to Jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to "dig," intending to graduate in a blaze of glory. This suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye; for with Jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because, when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin-kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable. Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and Jo watched Laurie that night as she had never done before. If she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that Beth was very quiet, and Laurie very kind to her. But having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace; and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue. As usual, Beth lay on the sofa, and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip; for she depended on her weekly "spin," and he never disappointed her. But that evening, Jo fancied that Beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket-match, though the phrases, "caught off a tice," "stumped off his ground," and "the leg hit for three," were as intelligible to her as Sanscrit. She also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in Laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over Beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender. "Who knows? stranger things have happened," thought Jo, as she fussed about the room. "She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don't see how he can help it; and I do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way." As every one _was_ out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed. But where should she go? and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point. Now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa,--long, broad, well-cushioned, and low; a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women. They all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been Jo's favorite lounging-place. Among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end; this repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defence, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber. Laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummelled with it in former days, when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from taking the seat he most coveted, next to Jo in the sofa corner. If "the sausage" as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose; but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to the man, woman, or child who dared disturb it! That evening Jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and, with both arms spread over the sofa-back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction,-- "Now, _this_ is filling at the price." [Illustration: Now, this is filling at the price] "No slang," snapped Jo, slamming down the pillow. But it was too late, there was no room for it; and, coasting on to the floor, it disappeared in a most mysterious manner. "Come, Jo, don't be thorny. After studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting, and ought to get it." "Beth will pet you; I'm busy." "No, she's not to be bothered with me; but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it. Have you? Do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?" Anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but Jo quenched "her boy" by turning on him with the stern query,-- "How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?" "Not one, upon my word. She's engaged. Now then." "I'm glad of it; that's one of your foolish extravagances,--sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins," continued Jo reprovingly. "Sensible girls, for whom I do care whole papers of pins, won't let me send them 'flowers and things,' so what can I do? My feelings must have a _went_." "Mother doesn't approve of flirting, even in fun; and you do flirt desperately, Teddy." "I'd give anything if I could answer, 'So do you.' As I can't, I'll merely say that I don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it's only play." "Well, it does look pleasant, but I can't learn how it's done. I've tried, because one feels awkward in company, not to do as everybody else is doing; but I don't seem to get on," said Jo, forgetting to play Mentor. "Take lessons of Amy; she has a regular talent for it." "Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far. I suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place." "I'm glad you can't flirt; it's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I'm ashamed of them. They don't mean any harm, I'm sure; but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, I fancy." "They do the same; and, as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would; but, knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them." "Much you know about it, ma'am," said Laurie, in a superior tone. "We don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes. The pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentlemen. Bless your innocent soul! If you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle. Upon my word, when I see one of those harum-scarum girls, I always want to say with our friend Cock Robin,-- "'Out upon you, fie upon you, Bold-faced jig!'" It was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between Laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples. Jo knew that "young Laurence" was regarded as a most eligible _parti_ by worldly mammas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him; so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoilt, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls. Returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "If you _must_ have a 'went,' Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones." "You really advise it?" and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face. "Yes, I do; but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime. You're not half good enough for--well, whoever the modest girl maybe," and Jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her. "That I'm not!" acquiesced Laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes, and absently wound Jo's apron-tassel round his finger. "Mercy on us, this will never do," thought Jo; adding aloud, "Go and sing to me. I'm dying for some music, and always like yours." "I'd rather stay here, thank you." "Well, you can't; there isn't room. Go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental. I thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron-string?" retorted Jo, quoting certain rebellious words of his own. "Ah, that depends on who wears the apron!" and Laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel. "Are you going?" demanded Jo, diving for the pillow. He fled at once, and the minute it was well "Up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee," she slipped away, to return no more till the young gentleman had departed in high dudgeon. [Illustration: Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee] Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "What is it, dear?" "I thought you were asleep," sobbed Beth. "Is it the old pain, my precious?" "No; it's a new one; but I can bear it," and Beth tried to check her tears. "Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other." "You can't; there is no cure." There Beth's voice gave way, and, clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened. "Where is it? Shall I call mother?" Beth did not answer the first question; but in the dark one hand went involuntarily to her heart, as if the pain were there; with the other she held Jo fast, whispering eagerly, "No, no, don't call her, don't tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here and 'poor' my head. I'll be quiet, and go to sleep; indeed I will." Jo obeyed; but as her hand went softly to and fro across Beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full, and she longed to speak. But young as she was, Jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally; so, though she believed she knew the cause of Beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "Does anything trouble you, deary?" "Yes, Jo," after a long pause. "Wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?" "Not now, not yet." "Then I won't ask; but remember, Bethy, that mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can." "I know it. I'll tell you by and by." "Is the pain better now?" "Oh, yes, much better; you are so comfortable, Jo!" "Go to sleep, dear; I'll stay with you." So cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow Beth seemed quite herself again; for at eighteen, neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills. But Jo had made up her mind, and, after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother. "You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I'll tell you one of them, Marmee," she began, as they sat alone together. "I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change." "Why, Jo?" and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning. With her eyes on her work, Jo answered soberly, "I want something new; I feel restless, and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am. I brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so, as I can be spared this winter, I'd like to hop a little way, and try my wings." "Where will you hop?" "To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It's rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I should suit if I tried." "My dear, go out to service in that great boarding-house!" and Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased. "It's not exactly going out to service; for Mrs. Kirke is your friend,--the kindest soul that ever lived,--and would make things pleasant for me, I know. Her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there. Don't care if they do; it's honest work, and I'm not ashamed of it." "Nor I; but your writing?" "All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and, even if I haven't much time there, I shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish." "I have no doubt of it; but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?" "No, mother." "May I know the others?" Jo looked up and Jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks, "It may be vain and wrong to say it, but--I'm afraid--Laurie is getting too fond of me." "Then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?" and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question. "Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him; but as for anything more, it's out of the question." "I'm glad of that, Jo." "Why, please?" "Because, dear, I don't think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over; but I fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love." "That's just the feeling I had, though I couldn't express it. I'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy; for I couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could I?" "You are sure of his feeling for you?" The color deepened in Jo's cheeks, as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers,-- "I'm afraid it is so, mother; he hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I had better go away before it comes to anything." "I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go." Jo looked relieved, and, after a pause, said, smiling, "How Mrs. Moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew; and how she will rejoice that Annie still may hope." "Ah, Jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all,--the desire to see their children happy. Meg is so, and I am content with her success. You I leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it; for only then will you find that there is something sweeter. Amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her. For Beth, I indulge no hopes except that she may be well. By the way, she seems brighter this last day or two. Have you spoken to her?" "Yes; she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by and by. I said no more, for I think I know it;" and Jo told her little story. Mrs. March shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that, for Laurie's sake, Jo should go away for a time. "Let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled; then I'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragical. Beth must think I'm going to please myself, as I am, for I can't talk about Laurie to her; but she can pet and comfort him after I'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion. He's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his love-lornity." Jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this "little trial" would be harder than the others, and that Laurie would not get over his "love-lornity" as easily as heretofore. The plan was talked over in a family council, and agreed upon; for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. The teaching would render her independent; and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable. Jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home-nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit. When all was settled, with fear and trembling she told Laurie; but to her surprise he took it very quietly. He had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant; and, when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "So I am; and I mean this one shall stay turned." Jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart,--for Beth seemed more cheerful,--and hoped she was doing the best for all. "One thing I leave to your especial care," she said, the night before she left. "You mean your papers?" asked Beth. "No, my boy. Be very good to him, won't you?" "Of course I will; but I can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly." "It won't hurt him; so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order." "I'll do my best, for your sake," promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly. When Laurie said "Good-by," he whispered significantly, "It won't do a bit of good, Jo. My eye is on you; so mind what you do, or I'll come and bring you home." [Illustration: I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat]

part 2, Chapter 32

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36

Tender Troubles Marmee notices that something is troubling Beth, for she has been quite sad, and asks Jo to find out Beth's secret. After observing her, Jo decides that Beth is in love with Laurie. Jo insists to herself that she will make Laurie love Beth back. In fact, Laurie has been trying to express his affections toward Jo, but she ignores or denies him. Jo hopes Laurie might learn to love Beth, particularly if Jo went away. While pondering what to do, Jo finds herself in a conversation with Laurie about flirting, which he does quite a bit, but does not admire in excess in others, and at which Jo is hopeless. Jo advises Laurie to devote himself to a modest girl - meaning Beth - once he is through with college and deserving of her. Laurie, thinking Jo means herself, is encouraged and humbled. He starts behaving more seriously and speaking of "turning a new leaf. That evening, Jo finds Beth crying herself to sleep over a new pain. She will not tell Jo what it is, for Jo can do nothing to help, but promises to tell her in time. Jo, believing Beth's heart is aching over Laurie, comforts her. The next day, Jo decides to spend the winter working as a teacher in a boardinghouse in New York for the daughters of Mrs. Kirke, one of Marmee's friends. Jo tells Marmee that she feels Laurie is getting too fond of her, and she does not return the feelings. Marmee is thankful for Jo's feelings, as she feels the two would be too strong-willed a match. Jo divulges that she thinks Beth might like Laurie, which Marmee does not believe, but still feels Jo should go away for Laurie's sake. Jo asks Beth to look after Laurie for her. Laurie simply tells Jo that going away will not do any good

The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a "wise man," Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_6_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 33

part 2, chapter 33

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 33", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36", "summary": "Jo's Journal Jo's letters describe her new home, a funny room in the boardinghouse, and her two pupils. Mrs. Kirke is quite kind, but busy, and Jo finds herself bashful in the big house. Jo observes Professor Bhaer, an older, poor German who tutors to support his nephews. As her pupils' nursery is next to Mr. Bhaer's study, she often listens to him humming Goethe or observes him teaching and playing with the children, doing kind things for the servants, and discussing philosophy with the young men. Jo also befriends Miss Norton, a rich gentlewoman at the house. Jo and the Professor become good friends, since they both have lively spirits and enjoy children and literature. Out of thanks for his kindness, Jo asks Mrs. Kirke if she might help with mending Mr. Bhaer's clothes, which he does himself, and in return, Mr. Bhaer gives her German lessons. At New Year's they exchange gifts, and their friendship flourishes beautifully. Jo is grateful for her friend, as she does not enjoy the \"whippersnappers\" in the house. At a masquerade ball, she goes down and is quite sociable and theatrical, and all are surprised at the unmasking that it was Jo all along", "analysis": "The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a \"wise man,\" Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal."}

XXXIII. JO'S JOURNAL. "NEW YORK, November. "DEAR MARMEE AND BETH,-- "I'm going to write you a regular volume, for I've got heaps to tell, though I'm not a fine young lady travelling on the continent. When I lost sight of father's dear old face, I felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an Irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind; for I amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar. "Soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, I cleared up likewise, and enjoyed my journey with all my heart. "Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little sky-parlor--all she had; but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so I can sit here and write whenever I like. A fine view and a church-tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and I took a fancy to my den on the spot. The nursery, where I am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next Mrs. Kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children,--rather spoilt, I fancy, but they took to me after telling them 'The Seven Bad Pigs;' and I've no doubt I shall make a model governess. "I am to have my meals with the children, if I prefer it to the great table, and for the present I do, for I _am_ bashful, though no one will believe it. "'Now, my dear, make yourself at home,' said Mrs. K. in her motherly way; 'I'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family; but a great anxiety will be off my mind if I know the children are safe with you. My rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as I can make it. There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can. There's the tea-bell; I must run and change my cap;' and off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest. "As I went downstairs, soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights are very long in this tall house, and as I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent,-- "'It goes better so. The little back is too young to haf such heaviness.' "Wasn't it good of him? I like such things, for, as father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said,-- "'That must have been Professor Bhaer; he's always doing things of that sort.' "Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin; very learned and good, but poor as a church-mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. Not a very romantic story, but it interested me; and I was glad to hear that Mrs. K. lends him her parlor for some of his scholars. There is a glass door between it and the nursery, and I mean to peep at him, and then I'll tell you how he looks. He's almost forty, so it's no harm, Marmee. "After tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, I attacked the big work-basket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend. I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week; so good-night, and more to-morrow." "_Tuesday Eve._ "Had a lively time in my seminary, this morning, for the children acted like Sancho; and at one time I really thought I should shake them all round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needle-work, like little Mabel, 'with a willing mind.' I was thanking my stars that I'd learned to make nice button-holes, when the parlor-door opened and shut, and some one began to hum,-- 'Kennst du das land,' like a big bumble-bee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn't resist the temptation; and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in. Professor Bhaer was there; and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German,--rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth; yet I liked him, for he had a fine head; his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat, and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled; and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone,-- "'Herein!' "I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped to see what was going on. "'Me wants my Bhaer,' said the mite, slamming down her book, and running to meet him. "'Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer; come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my Tina,' said the Professor, catching her up, with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him. [Illustration: Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer] "'Now me mus tuddy my lessin,' went on the funny little thing; so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair, with a fatherly look, that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French than German. "Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying 'Now Professor,' in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober. "Both seemed to try his patience sorely; for more than once I heard him say emphatically, 'No, no, it is _not_ so; you haf not attend to what I say;' and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, 'Prut! it all goes bad this day.' "Poor man, I pitied him; and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep, to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and, taking little Tina, who had fallen asleep on the sofa, in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a hard life of it. "Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner; and, feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I made myself respectable, and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke; but as she is short, and I'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I plucked up courage, and looked about me. The long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner,--the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they _bolted_ in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves; young couples absorbed in each other; married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics. I don't think I shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweet-faced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her. "Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever, because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shovelled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship.' I didn't mind, for I like 'to see folks eat with a relish,' as Hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day. "As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall-mirror, and I heard one say low to the other, 'Who's the new party?' "'Governess, or something of that sort.' "'What the deuce is she at our table for?' "'Friend of the old lady's.' "'Handsome head, but no style.' "'Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.' "I felt angry at first, and then I didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and I've got sense, if I haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!" "_Thursday._ "Yesterday was a quiet day, spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cosey, with a light and fire. I picked up a few bits of news, and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore.' Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells. The young men quiz him, it seems, call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. K. says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him, in spite of his foreign ways. "The maiden lady is a Miss Norton,--rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke to me at dinner to-day (for I went to table again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly; so I shall make myself agreeable, for I _do_ want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that Amy likes. "I was in our parlor last evening, when Mr. Bhaer came in with some newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn't there, but Minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily: 'This is mamma's friend, Miss March.' "'Yes; and she's jolly and we like her lots,' added Kitty, who is an _enfant terrible_. "We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast. "'Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so again, call at me and I come,' he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little wretches. "I promised I would, and he departed; but it seems as if I was doomed to see a good deal of him, for to-day, as I passed his door on my way out, by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand, and a darning-needle in the other; he didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way,-- [Illustration: He waved his hand, sock and all] "'You haf a fine day to make your walk. _Bon voyage, mademoiselle._' "I laughed all the way downstairs; but it was a little pathetic, also, to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German gentlemen embroider, I know; but darning hose is another thing, and not so pretty." "_Saturday._ "Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who has a room full of lovely things, and who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort,--if I enjoyed them. She put it as a favor, but I'm sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me. I'm as proud as Lucifer, but such favors from such people don't burden me, and I accepted gratefully. "When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that I looked in; and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees, with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump-rope, and Minnie feeding two small boys with seed-cakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs. "'We are playing _nargerie_,' explained Kitty. "'Dis is mine effalunt!' added Tina, holding on by the Professor's hair. [Illustration: Dis is mine effalunt] "'Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when Franz and Emil come, doesn't she, Mr. Bhaer?' said Minnie. "The 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me,-- "'I gif you my wort it is so. If we make too large a noise you shall say "Hush!" to us, and we go more softly.' "I promised to do so, but left the door open, and enjoyed the fun as much as they did,--for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played tag and soldiers, danced and sung, and when it began to grow dark they all piled on to the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney-tops, and the little 'kobolds,' who ride the snow-flakes as they fall. I wish Americans were as simple and natural as Germans, don't you? "I'm so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though I've used thin paper and written fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray forward Amy's as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends? Take good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to every one. "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 Herculaneum 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, and an old flute over the mantel-piece 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 burnt 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 rough-shod. 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 Märchen 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 gute! 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,' 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 you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps! [Illustration: I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate] "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 Shakespeare. 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, 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.' 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 mantel-piece as an article of _vertu_; 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 laundry-woman 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 whipper-snappers) 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 theatres. Meg will relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania,--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." [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: In the presence of three gentlemen]

part 2, Chapter 33

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36

Jo's Journal Jo's letters describe her new home, a funny room in the boardinghouse, and her two pupils. Mrs. Kirke is quite kind, but busy, and Jo finds herself bashful in the big house. Jo observes Professor Bhaer, an older, poor German who tutors to support his nephews. As her pupils' nursery is next to Mr. Bhaer's study, she often listens to him humming Goethe or observes him teaching and playing with the children, doing kind things for the servants, and discussing philosophy with the young men. Jo also befriends Miss Norton, a rich gentlewoman at the house. Jo and the Professor become good friends, since they both have lively spirits and enjoy children and literature. Out of thanks for his kindness, Jo asks Mrs. Kirke if she might help with mending Mr. Bhaer's clothes, which he does himself, and in return, Mr. Bhaer gives her German lessons. At New Year's they exchange gifts, and their friendship flourishes beautifully. Jo is grateful for her friend, as she does not enjoy the "whippersnappers" in the house. At a masquerade ball, she goes down and is quite sociable and theatrical, and all are surprised at the unmasking that it was Jo all along

The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a "wise man," Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_6_part_5.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 35

part 2, chapter 35

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36", "summary": "Heartache Laurie, who worked ardently while Jo was away, grew his hair as she likes, and gave up billiards, graduates from college with honors and makes everyone proud. The day he returns from college, Jo meets him, fearing he may propose. Jo is right, as Laurie admits that he has loved her since the moment he met her, and tells how hard he has worked to earn her favor. Jo apologizes, saying she has tried to love him but does not, and cannot lie. Laurie accuses her of loving Mr. Bhaer, which almost makes Jo laugh, since it is so far from her mind. She tries to reason with him, but Laurie is deeply hurt, and tries to convince Jo that everyone expects it, and that they should not disappoint. However, Jo agrees with Marmee that they are too quick-tempered and strong-willed, and cannot marry. Jo says he should marry someone more fashionable and accomplished, and angry Laurie storms off saying he is going \"to the devil. This alarms Jo, who goes straight to Mr. Laurence and tells him what happened. Mr. Laurence, disappointed but kind, shares Jo's fears about Laurie's impetuousness and devises a plan for him to travel with Laurie abroad. Mr. Laurence will take care of business in London and visit friends in Paris, while Laurie can travel as he likes. When introducing the plan to Laurie that evening, Mr. Laurence artfully mentions music and adventures, and Laurie agrees to go. In but a few weeks they are gone. Jo feels that she has stabbed her best friend in the heart, and her boy Laurie will return a changed man", "analysis": "The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a \"wise man,\" Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal."}

XXXV. HEARTACHE. Whatever his motive might have been, Laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin oration with the grace of a Phillips and the eloquence of a Demosthenes, so his friends said. They were all there, his grandfather,--oh, so proud!--Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs. "I've got to stay for this confounded supper, but I shall be home early to-morrow; you'll come and meet me as usual, girls?" Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said "girls," but he meant Jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom; she had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly,-- "I'll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing '_Hail the conquering hero comes_,' on a jews-harp." Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think, in a sudden panic, "Oh, deary me! I know he'll say something, and then what shall I do?" Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor little feelings. A call at Meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the _tête-à-tête_, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away. "Where's the jews-harp, Jo?" cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance. "I forgot it;" and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like. She always used to take his arm on these occasions; now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of far-away subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and, now and then, a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily,-- "Now you must have a good long holiday!" "I intend to." Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring,-- "No, Teddy, please don't!" "I will, and you _must_ hear me. It's no use, Jo; we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once. "Say what you like, then; I'll listen," said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience. Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to "have it out," if he died in the attempt; so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuosity, saying in a voice that _would_ get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady,-- "I've loved you ever since I've known you, Jo; couldn't help it, you've been so good to me. I've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me; now I'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I _can't_ go on so any longer." "I wanted to save you this; I thought you'd understand--" began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected. "I know you did; but girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say No when they mean Yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact. "_I_ don't. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could." "I thought so; it was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you'd love me, though I'm not half good enough--" here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his "confounded throat." "Yes, you are; you're a great deal too good for me, and I'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don't see why I can't love you as you want me to. I've tried, but I can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don't." "Really, truly, Jo?" He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget. "Really, truly, dear." They were in the grove now, close by the stile; and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo's lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too much for him; so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened. [Illustration: He laid his head down on the mossy post] "O Teddy, I'm so sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn't take it so hard. I can't help it; you know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago. "They do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post. "I don't believe it's the right sort of love, and I'd rather not try it," was the decided answer. There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile,-- "Laurie, I want to tell you something." He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out, in a fierce tone-- "_Don't_ tell me that, Jo; I can't bear it now!" "Tell what?" she asked, wondering at his violence. "That you love that old man." "What old man?" demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather. "That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him, I know I shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands, with a wrathful spark in his eyes. Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself, and said warmly, for she, too, was getting excited with all this,-- "Don't swear, Teddy! He isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I've got, next to you. Pray, don't fly into a passion; I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else." "But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?" "You'll love some one else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble." "I _can't_ love any one else; and I'll never forget you, Jo, never! never!" with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words. "What _shall_ I do with him?" sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanageable than she expected. "You haven't heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen; for indeed I want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love. Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo's part; for how _could_ she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake,--how touching that was, to be sure!-- "I agree with mother that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to--" Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression,-- "Marry,--no, we shouldn't! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like." "No, I can't. I've tried it and failed, and I won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don't agree and we never shall; so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash." "Yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered Laurie rebelliously. "Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored Jo, almost at her wit's end. "I won't be reasonable; I don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view;' it won't help me, and it only makes you harder. I don't believe you've got any heart." "I wish I hadn't!" There was a little quiver in Jo's voice, and, thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before,-- "Don't disappoint us, dear! Every one expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can't get on without you. Say you will, and let's be happy. Do, do!" Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel. "I can't say 'Yes' truly, so I won't say it at all. You'll see that I'm right, by and by, and thank me for it"--she began solemnly. "I'll be hanged if I do!" and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the bare idea. "Yes, you will!" persisted Jo; "you'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely, accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house. I shouldn't. I'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel,--we can't help it even now, you see,--and I shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and I couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!" "Anything more?" asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst. "Nothing more, except that I don't believe I shall ever marry. I'm happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in any hurry to give it up for any mortal man." "I know better!" broke in Laurie. "You think so now; but there'll come a time when you _will_ care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him. I know you will, it's your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it;" and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragical. "Yes, I _will_ live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!" cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy. "I've done my best, but you _won't_ be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can't give. I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I'll never marry you; and the sooner you believe it, the better for both of us,--so now!" That speech was like fire to gunpowder. Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying, in a desperate sort of tone,-- "You'll be sorry some day, Jo." "Oh, where are you going?" she cried, for his face frightened her. "To the devil!" was the consoling answer. For a minute Jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank, toward the river; but it takes much folly, sin, or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and Laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure. He had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in many a race. Jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart. "That will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that I sha'n't dare to see him," she said; adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves,-- "Now I must go and prepare Mr. Laurence to be very kind to my poor boy. I wish he'd love Beth; perhaps he may, in time, but I begin to think I was mistaken about her. Oh dear! how can girls like to have lovers and refuse them. I think it's dreadful." Being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to Mr. Laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach. He found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving Laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than Jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly, and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way; for Young Impetuosity's parting words to Jo disturbed him more than he would confess. When Laurie came home, dead tired, but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two. But when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed love's labor lost. He bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano, and began to play. The windows were open; and Jo, walking in the garden with Beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the "Sonata Pathétique," and played it as he never did before. "That's very fine, I dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry; give us something gayer, lad," said Mr. Laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show, but knew not how. Laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if, in a momentary lull, Mrs. March's voice had not been heard calling,-- "Jo, dear, come in; I want you." Just what Laurie longed to say, with a different meaning! As he listened, he lost his place; the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark. "I can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman. Up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman,-- "I know, my boy, I know." No answer for an instant; then Laurie asked sharply,-- "Who told you?" "Jo herself." "Then there's an end of it!" and he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion; for, though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity. "Not quite; I want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned Mr. Laurence, with unusual mildness. "You won't care to stay at home just now, perhaps?" "I don't intend to run away from a girl. Jo can't prevent my seeing her, and I shall stay and do it as long as I like," interrupted Laurie, in a defiant tone. "Not if you are the gentleman I think you. I'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it; and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time. Where will you go?" "Anywhere. I don't care what becomes of me;" and Laurie got up, with a reckless laugh, that grated on his grandfather's ear. "Take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for God's sake. Why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?" "I can't." "But you've been wild to go, and I promised you should when you got through college." "Ah, but I didn't mean to go alone!" and Laurie walked fast through the room, with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see. "I don't ask you to go alone; there's some one ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world." "Who, sir?" stopping to listen. "Myself." Laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily,-- "I'm a selfish brute; but--you know--grandfather--" "Lord help me, yes, I do know, for I've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father. Now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down, and hear my plan. It's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said Mr. Laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away, as his father had done before him. "Well, sir, what is it?" and Laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice. "There is business in London that needs looking after; I meant you should attend to it; but I can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with Brooke to manage them. My partners do almost everything; I'm merely holding on till you take my place, and can be off at any time." "But you hate travelling, sir; I can't ask it of you at your age," began Laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all. The old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent it; for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices. So, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly,-- "Bless your soul, I'm not superannuated yet. I quite enjoy the idea; it will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for travelling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair." A restless movement from Laurie suggested that _his_ chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily,-- "I don't mean to be a marplot or a burden; I go because I think you'd feel happier than if I was left behind. I don't intend to gad about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while I amuse myself in my own way. I've friends in London and Paris, and should like to visit them; meantime you can go to Italy, Germany, Switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content." Now, Laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken, and the world a howling wilderness; but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness. He sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone,-- "Just as you like, sir; it doesn't matter where I go or what I do." "It does to me, remember that, my lad; I give you entire liberty, but I trust you to make an honest use of it. Promise me that, Laurie." "Anything you like, sir." "Good," thought the old gentleman. "You don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or I'm much mistaken." Being an energetic individual, Mr. Laurence struck while the iron was hot; and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off. During the time necessary for preparation, Laurie bore himself as young gentlemen usually do in such cases. He was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns; lost his appetite, neglected his dress, and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano; avoided Jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragical face that haunted her dreams by night, and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day. Unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even Mrs. March, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy. On some accounts, this was a relief to his friends; but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and every one rejoiced that the "poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy." Of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by, with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity, like his love, was unalterable. When the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves. This gayety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did, for his sake, and he got on very well till Mrs. March kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude; then, feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted Hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life. Jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round. He did look round, came back, put his arms about her, as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal both eloquent and pathetic. "O Jo, can't you?" [Illustration: O Jo, can't you?] "Teddy, dear, I wish I could!" That was all, except a little pause; then Laurie straightened himself up, said "It's all right, never mind," and went away without another word. Ah, but it wasn't all right, and Jo _did_ mind; for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend; and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy Laurie never would come again. [Illustration: Tail-piece]

part 2, Chapter 35

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Heartache Laurie, who worked ardently while Jo was away, grew his hair as she likes, and gave up billiards, graduates from college with honors and makes everyone proud. The day he returns from college, Jo meets him, fearing he may propose. Jo is right, as Laurie admits that he has loved her since the moment he met her, and tells how hard he has worked to earn her favor. Jo apologizes, saying she has tried to love him but does not, and cannot lie. Laurie accuses her of loving Mr. Bhaer, which almost makes Jo laugh, since it is so far from her mind. She tries to reason with him, but Laurie is deeply hurt, and tries to convince Jo that everyone expects it, and that they should not disappoint. However, Jo agrees with Marmee that they are too quick-tempered and strong-willed, and cannot marry. Jo says he should marry someone more fashionable and accomplished, and angry Laurie storms off saying he is going "to the devil. This alarms Jo, who goes straight to Mr. Laurence and tells him what happened. Mr. Laurence, disappointed but kind, shares Jo's fears about Laurie's impetuousness and devises a plan for him to travel with Laurie abroad. Mr. Laurence will take care of business in London and visit friends in Paris, while Laurie can travel as he likes. When introducing the plan to Laurie that evening, Mr. Laurence artfully mentions music and adventures, and Laurie agrees to go. In but a few weeks they are gone. Jo feels that she has stabbed her best friend in the heart, and her boy Laurie will return a changed man

The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a "wise man," Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/36.txt

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Little Women.part 2.chapter 36

part 2, chapter 36

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-31-through-chapter-36", "summary": "Beth's Secret When Jo returns from New York, she notices a change in Beth, as if the mortal is fading away and the immortal is starting to shine through. She proposes a trip to the mountains with her newspaper earnings, but Beth begs to stay closer to home, so she and Jo go to the seashore for a few weeks. It is here that Jo realizes that Beth's secret all along was not that she loves Laurie, but that Beth is dying. Beth says she does hope Laurie will be her brother someday, and Jo says Amy has left for him. Beth explains that she was sad in the fall because she had given up hope on living. She did not want to speak of it, not being sure, but she has since made her peace with it, and bravely, and piously now simply waits and tries to be willing. Jo still hopes something might change, but Beth says she has faith, and a feeling that she was not intended to live long, not having made the great plans and ambitions the others had. She does not share Jo's hope of getting well, but wishes to enjoy peacefully their remaining time together, and asks Jo to help Mother and Father bear it. Jo agrees, and dedicates herself heart and soul to her sister. When they return, Mother and Father see the change in Beth, and understand the truth without words", "analysis": "The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a \"wise man,\" Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal."}

XXXVI. BETH'S SECRET. When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily; but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain; and a heavy weight fell on Jo's heart as she saw her sister's face. It was no paler and but little thinner than in the autumn; yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power; for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she was better; and, presently, in other cares, Jo for a time forgot her fear. But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her sins and been forgiven; but when she showed her savings and proposed the mountain trip, Beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and, as grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, Jo took Beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea-breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks. It was not a fashionable place, but, even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too wrapped up in her to care for any one else; so they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away. They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it; for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and Beth's; but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw; and, during the quiet weeks, when the shadow grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks, with her head in Jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her, and the sea made music at her feet. [Illustration: With her head in Jo's lap, while the wind blew healthfully over her] One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still; and, putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on Beth's cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been gathering. It came to her then more bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and, when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say,-- "Jo, dear, I'm glad you know it. I've tried to tell you, but I couldn't." There was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears; for when most deeply moved, Jo did not cry. She was the weaker, then, and Beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her, and the soothing words she whispered in her ear. "I've known it for a good while, dear, and, now I'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so, and don't be troubled about me, because it's best; indeed it is." "Is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, Beth? You did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?" asked Jo, refusing to see or say that it _was_ best, but glad to know that Laurie had no part in Beth's trouble. "Yes, I gave up hoping then, but I didn't like to own it. I tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble any one. But when I saw you all so well and strong, and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that I could never be like you, and then I was miserable, Jo." "O Beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you! How could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?" Jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say good-by to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully. "Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn't sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie,--at least, I thought so then." "And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn't," cried Jo, glad to say all the truth. Beth looked so amazed at the idea that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly,-- "Then you didn't, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of love-lornity all that while." "Why, Jo, how could I, when he was so fond of you?" asked Beth, as innocently as a child. "I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, sometime." "Not through me," said Jo decidedly. "Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently; but I have no heart for such things, now. I don't care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You _must_ get well." "I want to, oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It's like the tide, Jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped." "It _shall_ be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young. Beth, I can't let you go. I'll work and pray and fight against it. I'll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways, it can't be too late. God won't be so cruel as to take you from me," cried poor Jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth's. Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, "I'm glad to go," for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, "I try to be willing," while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together. By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,-- "You'll tell them this when we go home?" "I think they will see it without words," sighed Jo; for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day. "Perhaps not; I've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don't see it, you will tell them for me. I don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and mother, won't you, Jo?" "If I can; but, Beth, I don't give up yet; I'm going to believe that it _is_ a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true," said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully. Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,-- "I don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try, to any one but you, because I can't speak out, except to my Jo. I only mean to say that I have a feeling that it never was intended I should live long. I'm not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about what I'd do when I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I'm not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven." Jo could not speak; and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast; Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand-bird came tripping over the beach, "peeping" softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea; it came quite close to Beth, looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled, and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship, and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed. "Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls: they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them my birds, last summer; and mother said they reminded her of me,--busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! she's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender; and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems _so_ far away." "She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I'm going to have you well and rosy by that time," began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth. "Jo, dear, don't hope any more; it won't do any good, I'm sure of that. We won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We'll have happy times, for I don't suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me." Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth. She was right: there was no need of any words when they got home, for father and mother saw plainly, now, what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be at home; and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth's secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantel-piece, and did not turn as she came in; but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: He hurried forward to meet her]

part 2, Chapter 36

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Beth's Secret When Jo returns from New York, she notices a change in Beth, as if the mortal is fading away and the immortal is starting to shine through. She proposes a trip to the mountains with her newspaper earnings, but Beth begs to stay closer to home, so she and Jo go to the seashore for a few weeks. It is here that Jo realizes that Beth's secret all along was not that she loves Laurie, but that Beth is dying. Beth says she does hope Laurie will be her brother someday, and Jo says Amy has left for him. Beth explains that she was sad in the fall because she had given up hope on living. She did not want to speak of it, not being sure, but she has since made her peace with it, and bravely, and piously now simply waits and tries to be willing. Jo still hopes something might change, but Beth says she has faith, and a feeling that she was not intended to live long, not having made the great plans and ambitions the others had. She does not share Jo's hope of getting well, but wishes to enjoy peacefully their remaining time together, and asks Jo to help Mother and Father bear it. Jo agrees, and dedicates herself heart and soul to her sister. When they return, Mother and Father see the change in Beth, and understand the truth without words

The letters from both Jo and Amy encourage us to compare and contrast their experiences, as Jo points out often. Alcott encourages this comparison by having the girls refer to one another and make similar allusions, such as to Goethe. Both girls, away from home, are compromising their morality for money. Both are befriending potential suitors, though the suitors themselves are quite different. Fred is not honorable, but he is rich, while Professor Bhaer is the opposite. The comparison allows the reader to understand the similar challenges a young woman at this time faces while allowing for different contexts and decisions by the women. Jo's struggle with morality is largely contained in her writing. Jo is driven to compromise her morals for money, much as Amy is. At the literary symposium, Jo is struck by the human fallibility of many revered authors. Her allusions are largely to eighteenth and nineteenth century authors, in part implicating them and their works. Alcott had attended many such symposia, and it is likely that Jo's disillusionment is drawn from Alcott's own experiences. In praising Mr. Bhaer by using the words of a "wise man," Alcott quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Alcott befriended Emerson as well as several other New England thinkers and author through her father's philosophical circle. The Speculative Philosophers reference thinkers admired by the Transcendentalist philosophers like Alcott's father, but it is clear that Jo prefers Mr. Bhaer's philosophy. Alcott conveys Mr. Bhaer's broken English dialect much as she does Hannah's. Jo and Mr. Bhaer's sharing German recalls John translating and reading German with Meg. The song Jo first hears Mr. Bhaer humming is the same song she will ask him to sing much later, when he visits her house, and looks at her plaintively, imbuing the song with new meaning. When Jo returns from New York, her focus is on Beth. Jo is the first to foreshadow Laurie marrying Amy, which helps convince the reader that it is the right choice, a difficult argument for Alcott. Unfortunately, Jo mistakenly gives Laurie hope, encouraging him to work hard and earn the affections of a modest girl - meaning Beth, though Jo thinks she means herself. This case of dramatic irony brings the reader in on Alcott's secret and helps prepare them. Jo and Marmee's conversation about Laurie also gives the reader insight into why Jo should not marry Laurie, and foreshadows Jo's response to Laurie's proposal.

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all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/37.txt

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Little Women.part 2.chapter 37

part 2, chapter 37

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41", "summary": "New Impressions At Christmas, Laurie comes to Nice to see Amy. They are delighted to have reminders of home. Amy feels often that she ought to go home to see Beth, but her family says stay. Laurie and Amy gather new impressions of each other after a year apart. Both feel the other have grown from children into young adults. Amy, who does not know about Laurie's proposal and Jo's rejection, finds Laurie a bit indifferent and almost blase. Laurie finds Amy an elegant and graceful young woman, but maintaining her native spirit. Amy invites Laurie to a Christmas ball that evening, and arranges herself quite nicely to make a good impression on the gentleman. Laurie does admire and compliment her, but she encourages him to be blunt and natural, like they were at home. Laurie's casual attitude toward her frustrates Amy, who is in high demand by other gentlemen. Watching her dance, lively and properly, Laurie grows in admiration, and is much more attentive when she returns. He is impressed that she has made so much of her opportunity to live and travel overseas. He signs up for all of the remaining dances, and the two enjoy a lovely evening together", "analysis": "The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering \"poverty with flowers.\" At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away."}

XXXVII. NEW IMPRESSIONS. At three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais,--a charming place; for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange-orchards and the hills. Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn; and, on a sunny day, the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians, meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticising the latest celebrity who has arrived,--Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emmanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands. The equipages are as varied as the company, and attract as much attention, especially the low basket-barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind. Along this walk, on Christmas Day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American,--a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange-flowers in their button-holes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance, now and then, at some blonde girl, or lady in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade, and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill. The quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her. "O Laurie, is it really you? I thought you'd never come!" cried Amy, dropping the reins, and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these "mad English." "I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am." "How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?" "Very well--last night--at the Chauvain. I called at your hotel, but you were all out." "I have so much to say, I don't know where to begin! Get in, and we can talk at our ease; I was going for a drive, and longing for company. Flo's saving up for to-night." "What happens then, a ball?" "A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You'll go with us, of course? Aunt will be charmed." "Thank you. Where now?" asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive; for her parasol-whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs, afforded her infinite satisfaction. "I'm going to the banker's first, for letters, and then to Castle Hill; the view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there?" "Often, years ago; but I don't mind having a look at it." "Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin." "Yes, I spent a month there, and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there, and finds plenty to amuse him; so I go and come, and we get on capitally." "That's a sociable arrangement," said Amy, missing something in Laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what. "Why, you see he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still; so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that some one is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn't it?" he added, with a look of disgust, as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon, in the old city. "The dirt is picturesque, so I don't mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross-streets are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass; it's going to the Church of St. John." While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue, chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her; for he was changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever, and greatly improved, she thought; but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless,--not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn't understand it, and did not venture to ask questions; so she shook her head, and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge, and vanished in the church. "_Que pensez vous_?" she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad. "That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied Laurie, bowing, with his hand on his heart, and an admiring look. She blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was "altogether jolly," with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn't like the new tone; for, though not _blasé_, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look. "If that's the way he's going to grow up, I wish he'd stay a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay. At Avigdor's she found the precious home-letters, and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea-roses bloomed as freshly as in June. "Beth is very poorly, mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say 'stay;' so I do, for I shall never have another chance like this," said Amy, looking sober over one page. "I think you are right, there; you could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear." He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self, as he said that; and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly "my dear," seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed, and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling-suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, "Genius burns!" Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest-pocket, "to keep it from blowing away," and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him. "This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve; for, overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain _aplomb_ in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was; but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish. Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene. As they came up on to the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there,-- "Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert's Tower, just below, and, best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?" "I remember; it's not much changed," he answered, without enthusiasm. "What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!" said Amy, feeling in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also. "Yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight. "Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk. But she did not get it; for, though he joined her, and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the continent and been to Greece. So, after idling away an hour, they drove home again; and, having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening. It must be recorded of Amy that she deliberately "prinked" that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people; she had seen her old friend in a new light, not as "our boy," but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them, with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman. Tarlatan and tulle were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and, following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique _coiffures_, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities. "I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home," said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo's old white silk ball-dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot at the back of her head. "It's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and I can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded. Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and _chasséed_ down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself. "My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on aunt's _mouchoir_ gives an air to my whole dress. If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy," she said, surveying herself with a critical eye, and a candle in each hand. In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away; she seldom ran,--it did not suit her style, she thought, for, being tall, the stately and Junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair; then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him; and, as she stood at the distant window, with her head half turned, and one hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue. "Good evening, Diana!" said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her. "Good evening, Apollo!" she answered, smiling back at him, for he, too, looked unusually _debonnaire_, and the thought of entering the ball-room on the arm of such a personable man caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart. "Here are your flowers; I arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what Hannah calls a 'sot-bookay,'" said Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia's window. [Illustration: Here are your flowers] "How kind you are!" she exclaimed gratefully. "If I'd known you were coming I'd have had something ready for you to-day, though not as pretty as this, I'm afraid." "Thank you; it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Please don't." "I thought you liked that sort of thing?" "Not from you; it doesn't sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better." "I'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief; then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together, at home. The company assembled in the long _salle à manger_, that evening, was such as one sees nowhere but on the Continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and, having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add lustre to their Christmas ball. A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour, and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet's mother, in black velvet, with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him "a fascinating dear," and a German Serene Something, having come for the supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed Jew, in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo; a stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless-looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles; likewise the usual set of travelling young gentlemen, who disported themselves gayly, while mammas of all nations lined the walls, and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters. Any young girl can imagine Amy's state of mind when she "took the stage" that night, leaning on Laurie's arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ball-room, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed; which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently; for she danced well, and wanted Laurie to know it: therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said, in a perfectly tranquil tone,-- "Do you care to dance?" "One usually does at a ball." Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible. "I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?" "I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely; but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with. "Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support "'A daughter of the gods, Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,'" was all the satisfaction she got, however. The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillon, feeling all the while as if she could dance the Tarantula with a relish. Laurie resigned her to the "nice little boy," and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs of penitence. She showed him her ball-book with demure satisfaction when he strolled, instead of rushing, up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka-redowa; but his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she gallopaded away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief. That was unpardonable; and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then, when she came to her chaperon, between the dances, for a necessary pin or a moment's rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view; and, before the evening was half over, had decided that "little Amy was going to make a very charming woman." It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of every one, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it; everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises, and many Joneses gambolled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor, with a dashing Frenchwoman, who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The Serene Teuton found the supper-table, and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the _garçons_ by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold; for, though he "carried weight," he danced like an india-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced; his face glowed, his bald head shone; his coat-tails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow-men like a French Pickwick without glasses. Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm, but more graceful agility; and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was "desolated to leave so early," she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment. It had been successful; for, at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat; and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile,-- "Ah, I thought that would do him good!" "You look like Balzac's 'Femme peinte par elle-même,'" he said, as he fanned her with one hand, and held her coffee-cup in the other. "My rouge won't come off;" and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright. "What do you call this stuff?" he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee. "Illusion." "Good name for it; it's very pretty--new thing, isn't it?" "It's as old as the hills; you have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now--_stupide_!" "I never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see." "None of that, it is forbidden; I'd rather take coffee than compliments just now. No, don't lounge, it makes me nervous." Laurie sat bolt upright, and meekly took her empty plate, feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having "little Amy" order him about; for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irresistible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection. "Where did you learn all this sort of thing?" he asked, with a quizzical look. "As 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?" returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable. "Well--the general air, the style, the self-possession, the--the--illusion--you know," laughed Laurie, breaking down, and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word. Amy was gratified, but, of course, didn't show it, and demurely answered, "Foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self; I study as well as play; and as for this"--with a little gesture toward her dress--"why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things." Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste; but Laurie liked her the better for it, and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening, in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving. [Illustration: Demi and Daisy]

part 2, Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41

New Impressions At Christmas, Laurie comes to Nice to see Amy. They are delighted to have reminders of home. Amy feels often that she ought to go home to see Beth, but her family says stay. Laurie and Amy gather new impressions of each other after a year apart. Both feel the other have grown from children into young adults. Amy, who does not know about Laurie's proposal and Jo's rejection, finds Laurie a bit indifferent and almost blase. Laurie finds Amy an elegant and graceful young woman, but maintaining her native spirit. Amy invites Laurie to a Christmas ball that evening, and arranges herself quite nicely to make a good impression on the gentleman. Laurie does admire and compliment her, but she encourages him to be blunt and natural, like they were at home. Laurie's casual attitude toward her frustrates Amy, who is in high demand by other gentlemen. Watching her dance, lively and properly, Laurie grows in admiration, and is much more attentive when she returns. He is impressed that she has made so much of her opportunity to live and travel overseas. He signs up for all of the remaining dances, and the two enjoy a lovely evening together

The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering "poverty with flowers." At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away.

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all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_7_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 38

part 2, chapter 38

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41", "summary": "On the Shelf With Daisy and Demi, Meg and John's twins, come new challenges for the couple. Meg is completely absorbed in her babies for the first year of their lives, to the detriment of her happiness, John's, and their relationship. Meg ceases to give John her attention and time, and John responds by spending more time out of the house with friends. Once Daisy and Demi start to calm down and need less of her constant care, Meg finds herself alone at home in the evenings and misses John's company. She does not want to ask him to stay home, and so they continue, missing one another, until Marmee learns of the situation. Marmee shows Meg that in her duty to her children, she has forgotten her duty to her husband. She encourages Meg to include John in raising the children, especially Demi, drawing on her own experience with Mr. March. She encourages Meg to do more housework while Hannah attends to the babies and to take interest in the world's affairs, since they affect her as well as any man. Meg agrees, and surprises John with a nice supper and an attentive wife. Demi tries to join the supper, and learns that John is much stricter on discipline than Meg. This is initially hard for Meg, but she learns to trust that John will be kind as well as firm. They each try to take interest in the other's concerns of politics and sewing, and agree to go out more and make home more enjoyable for all, to great success", "analysis": "The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering \"poverty with flowers.\" At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away."}

XXXVIII. ON THE SHELF. In France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when "_Vive la liberté_" becomes their motto. In America, as every one knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with republican zest; but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne, and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, "I'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I'm married." Not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever. As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help, for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive; but, as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing, with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of repose; Meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was neglected, and Kitty, the cook, who took life "aisy," kept him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma; if he came gayly in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "Hush! they are just asleep after worrying all day." If he proposed a little amusement at home, "No, it would disturb the babies." If he hinted at a lecture or concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided "Leave my children for pleasure, never!" His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night; his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above; and when he read his paper of an evening, Demi's colic got into the shipping-list, and Daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news. The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife; home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual "hushing" made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babyland. He bore it very patiently for six months, and, when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do,--tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chess-board ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style. John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely; but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and enjoyed his neighbor's society. Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by and by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her work-basket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing-gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender. She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them. Want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle. "Yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "I'm getting old and ugly; John doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the babies love me; they don't care if I am thin and pale, and haven't time to crimp my hair; they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?" To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for Meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation. "I wouldn't tell any one except you, mother; but I really do need advice, for, if John goes on so much longer I might as well be widowed," replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy's bib, with an injured air. "Goes on how, my dear?" asked her mother anxiously. "He's away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is continually going over to the Scotts'. It isn't fair that I should have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the best of them." "So are women; don't blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself." "But it can't be right for him to neglect me." "Don't you neglect him?" "Why, mother, I thought you'd take my part!" "So I do, as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is yours, Meg." "I don't see how." "Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure time?" "No; but I can't do it now, with two babies to tend." "I think you could, dear; and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as mother who sympathizes?" "Indeed I will! Speak to me as if I were little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for everything." Meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and, with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever. "You have only made the mistake that most young wives make,--forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways; for children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support them. I've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time." "I'm afraid it won't. If I ask him to stay, he'll think I'm jealous; and I wouldn't insult him by such an idea. He doesn't see that I want him, and I don't know how to tell him without words." "Make it so pleasant he won't want to go away. My dear, he's longing for his little home; but it isn't home without you, and you are always in the nursery." "Oughtn't I to be there?" "Not all the time; too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies; don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well as yours, and the children need him; let him feel that he has his part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all." "You really think so, mother?" "I know it, Meg, for I've tried it; and I seldom give advice unless I've proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just as you are, feeling as if I didn't do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor father took to his books, after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone. I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoilt her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home happiness: he does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together, always." "It is so, mother; and my great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours. Show me how; I'll do anything you say." "You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you, I'd let John have more to do with the management of Demi, for the boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin. Then I'd do what I have often proposed, let Hannah come and help you; she is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again. Go out more; keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather. Then I'd try to take an interest in whatever John likes,--talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours." "John is so sensible, I'm afraid he will think I'm stupid if I ask questions about politics and things." "I don't believe he would; love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott's suppers." "I will. Poor John! I'm afraid I _have_ neglected him sadly, but I thought I was right, and he never said anything." "He tried not to be selfish, but he _has_ felt rather forlorn, I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together; for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it; and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given them to train. Don't let John be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear, good-by; think over mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all!" Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character,--we won't call it obstinacy,--and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience; so Master Demi early discovered that when he undertook to "wrastle" with "parpar," he always got the worst of it; yet, like the Englishman, Baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "No, no," was more impressive than all mamma's love-pats. A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John; so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But, unfortunately, Demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage; so poor Meg sung and rocked, told stories and tried every sleep-provoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut; and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good-nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance. "Will Demi lie still like a good boy, while mamma runs down and gives poor papa his tea?" asked Meg, as the hall-door softly closed, and the well-known step went tiptoeing into the dining-room. "Me has tea!" said Demi, preparing to join in the revel. "No; but I'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go bye-by like Daisy. Will you, lovey?" "Iss!" and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the desired day. Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away, and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face, and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once, and said, with pleased surprise,-- "Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect company?" "Only you, dear." "Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?" "No; I'm tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are; so why shouldn't I when I have the time?" "I do it out of respect to you, my dear," said old-fashioned John. "Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke," laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot. "Well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes right. I drink your health, dear." And John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration, however; for, as he put down his cup, the door-handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently,-- "Opy doy; me's tummin!" "It's that naughty boy. I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas," said Meg, answering the call. [Illustration: Mornin' now] "Mornin' now," announced Demi, in a joyful tone, as he entered, with his long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eying the "cakies" with loving glances. "No, it isn't morning yet. You must go to bed, and not trouble poor mamma; then you can have the little cake with sugar on it." "Me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to Meg,-- "If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you." "Yes, of course. Come, Demi;" and Meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery. Nor was he disappointed; for that short-sighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till morning. "Iss!" said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful. Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding,-- "More sudar, marmar." "Now this won't do," said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner. "We shall never know any peace till that child learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough; give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed and leave him, Meg." "He won't stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him." "I'll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma bids you." "S'ant!" replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted "cakie," and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity. "You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don't go yourself." "Go 'way; me don't love parpar;" and Demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection. But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a "Be gentle with him, John," which struck the culprit with dismay; for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment-day was at hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg; but John sat as unmoved as the post which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story; even the light was put out, and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the "big dark" which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for "marmar," as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly,-- "Let me stay with him; he'll be good, now, John." "No, my dear, I've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him; and he must, if I stay here all night." "But he'll cry himself sick," pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy. "No, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off, and then the matter is settled; for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don't interfere; I'll manage him." "He's my child, and I can't have his spirit broken by harshness." "He's my child, and I won't have his temper spoilt by indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me." When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted her docility. "Please let me kiss him once, John?" "Certainly. Demi, say 'good-night' to mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day." Meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory; for after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind. "Poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying. I'll cover him up, and then go and set Meg's heart at rest," thought John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep. But he wasn't; for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying, with a penitent hiccough, "Me's dood, now." Sitting on the stairs, outside, Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar; and, after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room, to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep; not in his usual spread-eagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser baby. So held, John had waited with womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold; and, while waiting, had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work. As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone,-- "I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies: he _does_ know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi _is_ getting too much for me." When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clew would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness, and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names; but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head, and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity,-- "Well, I really don't see what we are coming to." John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken. "She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I'll try and like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought John the Just, adding aloud,-- "That's very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast-cap?" [Illustration: My dear man, it's a bonnet] "My dear man, it's a bonnet! My very best go-to-concert-and-theatre bonnet." "I beg your pardon; it was so small, I naturally mistook it for one of the fly-away things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?" "These bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so;" and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible. "It's a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again," and John kissed the smiling face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin. "I'm glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night; I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you, please?" "Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?" "Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change and less care; so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It's only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake as much as for mine, because I've neglected you shamefully lately, and I'm going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don't object, I hope?" Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin; all that we have any business to know, is that John did _not_ appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means, but every one was better for the division of labor system; the children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew home-like again, and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes' now, and every one found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love. Even gay Sallie Moffatt liked to go there. "It is always so quiet and pleasant here; it does me good, Meg," she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness; for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her. This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home-love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age; walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the "house-band," and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it, not as a queen, but a wise wife and mother. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped]

part 2, Chapter 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41

On the Shelf With Daisy and Demi, Meg and John's twins, come new challenges for the couple. Meg is completely absorbed in her babies for the first year of their lives, to the detriment of her happiness, John's, and their relationship. Meg ceases to give John her attention and time, and John responds by spending more time out of the house with friends. Once Daisy and Demi start to calm down and need less of her constant care, Meg finds herself alone at home in the evenings and misses John's company. She does not want to ask him to stay home, and so they continue, missing one another, until Marmee learns of the situation. Marmee shows Meg that in her duty to her children, she has forgotten her duty to her husband. She encourages Meg to include John in raising the children, especially Demi, drawing on her own experience with Mr. March. She encourages Meg to do more housework while Hannah attends to the babies and to take interest in the world's affairs, since they affect her as well as any man. Meg agrees, and surprises John with a nice supper and an attentive wife. Demi tries to join the supper, and learns that John is much stricter on discipline than Meg. This is initially hard for Meg, but she learns to trust that John will be kind as well as firm. They each try to take interest in the other's concerns of politics and sewing, and agree to go out more and make home more enjoyable for all, to great success

The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering "poverty with flowers." At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away.

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all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_7_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 39

part 2, chapter 39

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41", "summary": "Lazy Laurence Laurie stays a month in Nice, rather than a week as he planned, as both he and Amy enjoy each other's companionship. One day they go to Valrosa and Amy sketches him and decides to find out what has changed. She and worries that he has gotten into trouble gambling or loving a married woman, but Laurie assures her that he has stayed out of mischief. He asks when she will become a great artist, but Amy divulges that Rome humbled her, made her see that her talent was not genius, and so she intends to be an ornament to society. Laurie admires her new goal, and suggests that Fred Vaughn might give her an opportunity. Amy is reserved in her reply, but admits that she will marry Fred if he asks, despite not feeling strong affection for her. Laurie is surprised and disappointed, saying that Fred is not the type he would have thought Amy to like. Amy then lectures Laurie on his indolence of late, and urges him to go to his grandfather as he says he will, and be useful. Amy tells him she despises him for his lazy selfishness, which squanders his opportunities of money, health, and good position. Amy wishes Jo were there to help her, and seeing Laurie's reaction, realizes what they never told her at home, that Jo refused him. Laurie confirms her realization, and Amy apologizes for being unkind, though encourages him to accept defeat more resolutely, and do something to make Jo love him, or be respected, if he cannot be loved. By graduating well, Laurie showed that he could accomplish great tasks if he tries, but he just needs another motivation now. Amy concludes her lecture by showing him her sketch of him and comparing it to an earlier, rougher sketch of him years ago taming a horse--active, energetic, and full of life. The next day Amy receives a note that Laurie has gone to his grandfather, like a good boy", "analysis": "The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering \"poverty with flowers.\" At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away."}

XXXIX. LAZY LAURENCE. Laurie went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy's familiar presence seemed to give a home-like charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part. He rather missed the "petting" he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again; for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other's society, and were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for, at Nice, no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sunk in hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have taken them; but, at the same time, he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise. "All the rest have gone to Monaco for the day; I preferred to stay at home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa to sketch; will you come?" said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon. "Well, yes; but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?" he answered slowly, for the shaded _salon_ looked inviting, after the glare without. "I'm going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella and keep your gloves nice," returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie. "Then I'll go with pleasure;" and he put out his hand for her sketch-book. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp-- "Don't trouble yourself; it's no exertion to me, but _you_ don't look equal to it." Laurie lifted his eyebrows, and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs; but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself, and left little Baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch. The two never quarrelled,--Amy was too well-bred, and just now Laurie was too lazy; so, in a minute he peeped under her hat-brim with an inquiring air; she answered with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable manner. It was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes. Here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them. There a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone, while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet. Meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly-cut grass, passed by, with a pretty girl in a _capaline_ sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went. Brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough. Gnarled olive-trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside; while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the Maritime Alps rose sharp and white against the blue Italian sky. Valrosa well deserved its name, for, in that climate of perpetual summer, roses blossomed everywhere. They overhung the archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon-trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill. Every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom; every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers, and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty. Roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny Mediterranean, and the white-walled city on its shore. "This is a regular honeymoon Paradise, isn't it? Did you ever see such roses?" asked Amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by. "No, nor felt such thorns," returned Laurie, with his thumb in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just beyond his reach. "Try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said Amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her. She put them in his button-hole, as a peace-offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in the Italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles, and food for romance everywhere. He had thought of Jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home. The pale roses Amy gave him were the sort that the Italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and, for a moment, he wondered if the omen was for Jo or for himself; but the next instant his American common-sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than Amy had heard since he came. "It's good advice; you'd better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech amused him. "Thank you, I will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest. "Laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?" she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat. "Very soon." "You have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks." "I dare say; short answers save trouble." "He expects you, and you really ought to go." "Hospitable creature! I know it." "Then why don't you do it?" "Natural depravity, I suppose." "Natural indolence, you mean. It's really dreadful!" and Amy looked severe. "Not so bad as it seems, for I should only plague him if I went, so I might as well stay, and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better; in fact, I think it agrees with you excellently;" and Laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade. Amy shook her head, and opened her sketch-book with an air of resignation; but she had made up her mind to lecture "that boy," and in a minute she began again. "What are you doing just now?" "Watching lizards." "No, no; I mean what do you intend and wish to do?" "Smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me." "How provoking you are! I don't approve of cigars, and I will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch; I need a figure." "With all the pleasure in life. How will you have me,--full-length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels? I should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also, and call it '_Dolce far niente._'" "Stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like. _I_ intend to work hard," said Amy, in her most energetic tone. "What delightful enthusiasm!" and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction. "What would Jo say if she saw you now?" asked Amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name. "As usual, 'Go away, Teddy, I'm busy!'" He laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed yet. Both tone and shadow struck Amy, for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on Laurie's face,--a hard, bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret. It was gone before she could study it, and the listless expression back again. She watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an Italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head, and eyes full of southern dreaminess; for he seemed to have forgotten her, and fallen into a reverie. "You look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone. "Wish I was!" "That's a foolish wish, unless you have spoilt your life. You are so changed, I sometimes think--" there Amy stopped, with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech. Laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to say it to her mother,-- "It's all right, ma'am." That satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately. It also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said,-- "I'm glad of that! I didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but I fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked Baden-Baden, lost your heart to some charming Frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour. Don't stay out there in the sun; come and lie on the grass here, and 'let us be friendly,' as Jo used to say when we got in the sofa-corner and told secrets." [Illustration: Laurie threw himself down on the turf] Laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of Amy's hat, that lay there. "I'm all ready for the secrets;" and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes. "I've none to tell; you may begin." "Haven't one to bless myself with. I thought perhaps you'd had some news from home." "You have heard all that has come lately. Don't you hear often? I fancied Jo would send you volumes." "She's very busy; I'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know. When do you begin your great work of art, Raphaella?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if Amy knew his secret, and wanted to talk about it. "Never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air. "Rome took all the vanity out of me; for after seeing the wonders there, I felt too insignificant to live, and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair." "Why should you, with so much energy and talent?" "That's just why,--because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so. I want to be great, or nothing. I won't be a common-place dauber, so I don't intend to try any more." "And what are you going to do with yourself now, if I may ask?" "Polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if I get the chance." It was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring; but audacity becomes young people, and Amy's ambition had a good foundation. Laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting. "Good! and here is where Fred Vaughn comes in, I fancy." Amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face, that made Laurie sit up and say gravely,-- "Now I'm going to play brother, and ask questions. May I?" "I don't promise to answer." "Your face will, if your tongue won't. You aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear. I heard rumors about Fred and you last year, and it's my private opinion that, if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it--hey?" "That's not for me to say," was Amy's prim reply; but her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye, which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge. "You are not engaged, I hope?" and Laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden. "No." "But you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down upon his knees, won't you?" "Very likely." "Then you are fond of old Fred?" "I could be, if I tried." "But you don't intend to try till the proper moment? Bless my soul, what unearthly prudence! He's a good fellow, Amy, but not the man I fancied you'd like." "He is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began Amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions. "I understand; queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way? Quite right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's girls." "True, nevertheless." A short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker. Laurie felt this instinctively, and laid himself down again, with a sense of disappointment which he could not explain. His look and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled Amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay. "I wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said sharply. "Do it for me, there's a dear girl." "I could, if I tried;" and she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style. "Try, then; I give you leave," returned Laurie, who enjoyed having some one to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime. "You'd be angry in five minutes." "I'm never angry with you. It takes two flints to make a fire: you are as cool and soft as snow." "You don't know what I can do; snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly. Your indifference is half affectation, and a good stirring up would prove it." "Stir away; it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said when his little wife beat him. Regard me in the light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees with you." Being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him, Amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and began:-- "Flo and I have got a new name for you; it's 'Lazy Laurence.' How do you like it?" She thought it would annoy him; but he only folded his arms under his head, with an imperturbable "That's not bad. Thank you, ladies." "Do you want to know what I honestly think of you?" "Pining to be told." "Well, I despise you." If she had even said "I hate you," in a petulant or coquettish tone, he would have laughed, and rather liked it; but the grave, almost sad, accent of her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly,-- "Why, if you please?" "Because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable." "Strong language, mademoiselle." "If you like it, I'll go on." "Pray, do; it's quite interesting." "I thought you'd find it so; selfish people always like to talk about themselves." "Am _I_ selfish?" The question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity. "Yes, very selfish," continued Amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as effective, just then, as an angry one. "I'll show you how, for I've studied you while we have been frolicking, and I'm not at all satisfied with you. Here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends." "Isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-years grind?" "You don't look as if you'd had much; at any rate, you are none the better for it, as far as I can see. I said, when we first met, that you had improved. Now I take it all back, for I don't think you half so nice as when I left you at home. You have grown abominably lazy; you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things; you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise ones. With money, talent, position, health, and beauty,--ah, you like that, Old Vanity! but it's the truth, so I can't help saying it,--with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle; and, instead of being the man you might and ought to be, you are only--" There she stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it. "Saint Laurence on a gridiron," added Laurie, blandly finishing the sentence. But the lecture began to take effect, for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now, and a half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former indifference. "I supposed you'd take it so. You men tell us we are angels, and say we can make you what we will; but the instant we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us, and won't listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth." Amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating martyr at her feet. In a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, and Laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child,-- "I will be good, oh, I will be good!" But Amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest; and, tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly,-- "Aren't you ashamed of a hand like that? It's as soft and white as a woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear Jouvin's best gloves, and pick flowers for ladies. You are not a dandy, thank Heaven! so I'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal-rings on it, only the little old one Jo gave you so long ago. Dear soul, I wish she was here to help me!" "So do I!" The hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even Amy. She glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind; but he was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth. She only saw his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of. All in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in Amy's mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her. She remembered that Laurie never spoke voluntarily of Jo; she recalled the shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little old ring, which was no ornament to a handsome hand. Girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence. Amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was sure of it. Her keen eyes filled, and, when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so. "I know I have no right to talk so to you, Laurie; and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me. But we are all so fond and proud of you, I couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at home as I have been, though, perhaps, they would understand the change better than I do." "I think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as touching as a broken one. "They ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, when I should have been more kind and patient than ever. I never did like that Miss Randal, and now I hate her!" said artful Amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time. "Hang Miss Randal!" and Laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady. "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." "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," said 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 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 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,-- [Illustration: A rough sketch of Laurie taming a horse] "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 gayety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each. "Shall we see you this evening, _mon frère_?" 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." "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!" [Illustration: The Valley of the Shadow]

part 2, Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41

Lazy Laurence Laurie stays a month in Nice, rather than a week as he planned, as both he and Amy enjoy each other's companionship. One day they go to Valrosa and Amy sketches him and decides to find out what has changed. She and worries that he has gotten into trouble gambling or loving a married woman, but Laurie assures her that he has stayed out of mischief. He asks when she will become a great artist, but Amy divulges that Rome humbled her, made her see that her talent was not genius, and so she intends to be an ornament to society. Laurie admires her new goal, and suggests that Fred Vaughn might give her an opportunity. Amy is reserved in her reply, but admits that she will marry Fred if he asks, despite not feeling strong affection for her. Laurie is surprised and disappointed, saying that Fred is not the type he would have thought Amy to like. Amy then lectures Laurie on his indolence of late, and urges him to go to his grandfather as he says he will, and be useful. Amy tells him she despises him for his lazy selfishness, which squanders his opportunities of money, health, and good position. Amy wishes Jo were there to help her, and seeing Laurie's reaction, realizes what they never told her at home, that Jo refused him. Laurie confirms her realization, and Amy apologizes for being unkind, though encourages him to accept defeat more resolutely, and do something to make Jo love him, or be respected, if he cannot be loved. By graduating well, Laurie showed that he could accomplish great tasks if he tries, but he just needs another motivation now. Amy concludes her lecture by showing him her sketch of him and comparing it to an earlier, rougher sketch of him years ago taming a horse--active, energetic, and full of life. The next day Amy receives a note that Laurie has gone to his grandfather, like a good boy

The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering "poverty with flowers." At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_7_part_4.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 40

part 2, chapter 40

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 40", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41", "summary": "The Valley of the Shadow At home, everyone does her best to make Beth's remaining time happy. A room is set up for her with her piano and worktable and everyone's nicest trinkets and pleasures. Beth, never idle, sits and makes gifts to drop out the window to the schoolchildren passing below. This sunny time together, with the family spending time reading and working in one room, prepares them for the hard time to come, when Beth feels pain and exhaustion. Jo sleeps on a couch in the room to be always near, feeling that nursing sweet Beth is the highest honor of her life to date. This time teaches Jo patience, duty, tenderness, and faith, and she recognizes the beauty of her sister's simple and humble life. She composes a poem of admiration to Beth's life and gratitude for all Beth taught her, which Beth finds to her great comfort, as her one regret was the fear that she had wasted her life and been useless. Jo says Beth will continue to be with her, in all that she has learned, and Beth asks Jo to take her place at home and be strong for Mother and Father. Jo agrees, taking up this new goal and giving up her dreams of being a great writer or traveling abroad. Beth dies quietly and peacefully that spring, and those who loved her most are thankful that she is finally at rest", "analysis": "The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering \"poverty with flowers.\" At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away."}

XL. 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 work-table, 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 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, 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 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 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; 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 Ones 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 strand 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. "O 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 some one 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 snow-drops 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. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Sat staring up at the busts]

part 2, Chapter 40

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-37-through-chapter-41

The Valley of the Shadow At home, everyone does her best to make Beth's remaining time happy. A room is set up for her with her piano and worktable and everyone's nicest trinkets and pleasures. Beth, never idle, sits and makes gifts to drop out the window to the schoolchildren passing below. This sunny time together, with the family spending time reading and working in one room, prepares them for the hard time to come, when Beth feels pain and exhaustion. Jo sleeps on a couch in the room to be always near, feeling that nursing sweet Beth is the highest honor of her life to date. This time teaches Jo patience, duty, tenderness, and faith, and she recognizes the beauty of her sister's simple and humble life. She composes a poem of admiration to Beth's life and gratitude for all Beth taught her, which Beth finds to her great comfort, as her one regret was the fear that she had wasted her life and been useless. Jo says Beth will continue to be with her, in all that she has learned, and Beth asks Jo to take her place at home and be strong for Mother and Father. Jo agrees, taking up this new goal and giving up her dreams of being a great writer or traveling abroad. Beth dies quietly and peacefully that spring, and those who loved her most are thankful that she is finally at rest

The theme of work is discussed in this section in Amy's lecture of Laurie. She despises him because he is lazy and wasteful with money. Laurie always struggled with indolence; indeed, laziness, and wanting to pursue music rather than work for his grandfather, and loving Jo are Laurie's three main burdens. At Amy's urging, Laurie overcomes all three challenges in this section. Amy also overcomes her selfishness in denying Fred Vaughn. In contrast to Laurie is industrious Beth. Beth's death draws out several key themes of the book. Her own selflessness is celebrated and revered. Her self-improvement continues to the end, striving to accept death cheerfully and faithfully. Beth asks Jo to care dutifully for Mother and Father, and Jo agrees, sacrificing her own dreams and ambitions. She makes this sacrifice in part after learning the beauty of selflessness from Beth herself. Beth's death is also the impetus to bring Laurie and Amy together. Their joining is romantic, but is also an act of making the family whole. Throughout the book, several characters refer to wanting Laurie to be officially part of their family. The motif of flowers continues to prevalent in this section. At the Christmas Ball in Nice, Amy's use of flowers as her ornamentation makes Laurie admire her for covering "poverty with flowers." At Valrosa, Laurie pricks himself on a thorny rose and thinks of Jo, and Amy gives him smaller, cream-colored ones, butting them in his buttonhole as she has seen lovers do. Laurie at first thinks the cream roses symbolize death, which foreshadows the loss of Beth, but later associates them with Amy. In this exchange, Alcott foreshadows his proposal, choosing Amy instead of Jo. Amy continues to send Laurie pressed roses in her letters. In Meg and John's struggles with domesticity, the themes of duty and women's rights are relevant. Meg feels John is not fulfilling his duty to her, when in fact she is the culprit. Marmee urges her to balance her duty to children and to husband. This domestic focus appears to subjugate women to the household, even if they are the rulers there, but Marmee also encourages Meg to stay interested in the world beyond the house. While Meg is not particularly able to follow politics, Marmee knows that they do affect her, as evidenced by the Civil War that took Father away.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/42.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_8_part_1.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 42

part 2, chapter 42

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 42", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47", "summary": "All Alone Despite her preparation, Jo is devastated at losing Beth, and feels despair at spending life attending only to household worries. She is comforted by her Mother, who shares her sorrow, and by her Father, whose ministry and counsel she seeks out. Through her work she tries to adopt Beth's spirit of cheerful housekeeping, taking care to make home cozy and comfortable. Jo sees how improved Meg is through her marriage, particularly her children, and wonders if it might in fact be enjoyable for her. In the meantime, Mother suggests writing as a way for Jo to find more joy. Jo is wary, but finds herself writing a simple story that is greatly received by family, then friends, and even newspapers. Jo wonders at her success, but Father explains that rather than writing for money, Jo is simply writing the truth, with a direct simplicity that speaks to people's hearts. When Laurie and Amy write of their engagement, Jo is genuinely happy for them, but begins to wish to find the love and joy they have. She wanders to the garret, where she comes across reminders of her winter in New York and Mr. Bhaer's friendship, and wishes to see him again", "analysis": "Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help \"poor gentlefolk\" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a \"little woman,\" but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings."}

XLII. ALL ALONE. It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example; but when the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo found her promise very hard to keep. How could she "comfort father and mother," when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister; how could she "make the house cheerful," when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old home for the new; and where in all the world could she "find some useful, happy work to do," that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow; it was not fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble, and hard work. Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody don't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first efforts failed, and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable. But some one did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good angels at once, because they wore familiar shapes, and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night, thinking Beth called her; and when the sight of the little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of an unsubmissive sorrow, "O Beth, come back! come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain; for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms. When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found help; for one day she went to the study, and, leaning over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said, very humbly,-- "Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did, for I'm all wrong." "My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he, too, needed help, and did not fear to ask it. [Illustration: Jo and her father] Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her troubles,--the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation in the act; for the time had come when they could talk together not only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called "the church of one member," and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit; for the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power. Other helps had Jo,--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both; and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger round the little mop and the old brush, that was never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cosey, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it, till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand,-- "You thoughtful creter, you're determined we sha'n't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the Lord will bless you for't, see ef He don't." As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister Meg was; how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing for each other. "Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?" said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi, in the topsy-turvy nursery. "It's just what you need to bring out the tender, womanly half of your nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut-burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can only get at it. Love will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will fall off." "Frost opens chestnut-burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them," returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob. Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her power; and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly. Grief is the best opener for some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for the bag: a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the burr, and find the kernel sound and sweet. If she had suspected this, she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever; fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so, when the time came, down she dropped. Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral story-book, she ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine; she was only a struggling human girl, like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did not; but to do it cheerfully--ah, that was another thing! She had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard; and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her? And, if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others? Providence had taken her at her word; here was the task, not what she had expected, but better, because self had no part in it: now, could she do it? She decided that she would try; and, in her first attempt, she found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed the hill called Difficulty. "Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her mother, once, when the desponding fit overshadowed Jo. "I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things." "We do; write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world. Try it, dear; I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much." "Don't believe I can;" but Jo got out her desk, and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts. An hour afterward her mother peeped in, and there she was, scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused Mrs. March to smile, and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it; for, when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and, to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested. Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success; and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once. "I don't understand it. What _can_ there be in a simple little story like that, to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered. "There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret; humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no thought of fame or money, and put your heart into it, my daughter; you have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success." "If there _is_ anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine; I owe it all to you and mother and to Beth," said Jo, more touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from the world. So, taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers; for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes. When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set at rest; for, though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for "the children" before she read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in lover-like fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make. "You like it, mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets, and looked at one another. "Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the 'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day." "How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to me." "Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled." "I'm not the scatter-brain I was; you may trust me, I'm sober and sensible enough for any one's _confidante_ now." "So you are, dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved any one else." "Now, mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish, after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?" "I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might, perhaps, feel like giving another answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart; so I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now." "No, mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to love him. But you are right in one thing: I _am_ lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes,' not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away." "I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward." "Mothers are the _best_ lovers in the world; but I don't mind whispering to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many; mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite contented with my family. I don't understand it." "I do;" and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie. "It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me; he isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast.' I pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while God lets us be together. O mother, I never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!" "And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" And Jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the work-a-day world again. By and by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true; she knew that, and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for some one to "love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them be together." Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended, stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owner's name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise-books caught her eye. She drew them out, turned them over, and re-lived that pleasant winter at kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as if they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart. "Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely come." "Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always; my dear old Fritz, I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now how I should love to see him, for every one seems going away from me, and I'm all alone." And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag-bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof. [Illustration: Jo laid her head on a comfortable rag-bag and cried] Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say? [Illustration: A substantial lifelike ghost leaning over her]

part 2, Chapter 42

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47

All Alone Despite her preparation, Jo is devastated at losing Beth, and feels despair at spending life attending only to household worries. She is comforted by her Mother, who shares her sorrow, and by her Father, whose ministry and counsel she seeks out. Through her work she tries to adopt Beth's spirit of cheerful housekeeping, taking care to make home cozy and comfortable. Jo sees how improved Meg is through her marriage, particularly her children, and wonders if it might in fact be enjoyable for her. In the meantime, Mother suggests writing as a way for Jo to find more joy. Jo is wary, but finds herself writing a simple story that is greatly received by family, then friends, and even newspapers. Jo wonders at her success, but Father explains that rather than writing for money, Jo is simply writing the truth, with a direct simplicity that speaks to people's hearts. When Laurie and Amy write of their engagement, Jo is genuinely happy for them, but begins to wish to find the love and joy they have. She wanders to the garret, where she comes across reminders of her winter in New York and Mr. Bhaer's friendship, and wishes to see him again

Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help "poor gentlefolk" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a "little woman," but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/43.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_8_part_2.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 43

part 2, chapter 43

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47", "summary": "Surprises The day before her twenty-fifth birthday, Jo laments that she will be a literary spinster. The narrator here urges readers to be kind and respectful to spinsters, as there is tragedy and sacrifice often in their histories, and remember the kindnesses that countless Aunts have shown them. Jo is surprised out of her reverie by Laurie, who has returned from abroad with Amy. They are awkward for a moment, but they are delighted to see each other and rekindle their exuberant friendship, and Laurie lets slip that he and Amy had gotten married, so that she could accompany him and Grandfather back home while the Carrols stayed another year abroad. Laurie explains to Jo that he does still love her, as a brother, and that it would have all come about naturally if he had been sensible and not proposed, as Jo urged. He asks if they can go back to being best friends as they were, and Jo assures him that they can be friends, but now as man and woman, and not as children as they were before. Having Laurie nearby is a great cheer to Jo, and when the entire family troops in, joy is plentiful all around, with gentle sad reminders of dear Beth, as when Mr. Laurence asks Jo to be his girl now. After tea, the party goes upstairs, leaving Jo to feel lonely again just for a moment, when there is a knock at the door, and she finds Mr. Bhaer has come to visit. She invites him in and proudly introduces him to the family, where is he is a quick favorite. Mr. Bhaer and Father are kindred spirits, the babies enjoy his pockets of treats, and even Laurie overcomes his brotherly suspicion of the man's intentions. Mr. Bhaer looks wistfully and Laurie and occasionally at Jo, until he learns that Laurie has married Amy, to his delight. The evening ends with Amy leading them through Beth's old songs, and Mr. Bhaer and Jo singing a duet. Mr. Bhaer promises to come again, for he has business in town, and all pronounce their approval of him", "analysis": "Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help \"poor gentlefolk\" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a \"little woman,\" but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings."}

XLIII. SURPRISES. Jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking. It was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk; no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on Beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away. Her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad; for to-morrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished. Almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it. Jo was mistaken in that; there was a good deal to show, and by and by she saw, and was grateful for it. "An old maid, that's what I'm to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps; when, like poor Johnson, I'm old, and can't enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it. Well, I needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner; and, I dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it; but--" and there Jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting. It seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty; but it's not so bad as it looks, and one can get on quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon. At twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly resolve that they never will be; at thirty they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and, if sensible, console themselves by remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully. Don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragical romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God's sight. Even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason; and, looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may miss the blossom time; that rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by and by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now. Gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color. Just recollect the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks; the scrapes they have helped you out of, the "tips" they have given you from their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live. The bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them; and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some Aunt Priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for the "the best nevvy in the world." Jo must have fallen asleep (as I dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly Laurie's ghost seemed to stand before her,--a substantial, lifelike ghost,--leaning over her, with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show it. But, like Jenny in the ballad,-- "She could not think it he," and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her. Then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully,-- "O my Teddy! O my Teddy!" "Dear Jo, you are glad to see me, then?" "Glad! My blessed boy, words can't express my gladness. Where's Amy?" "Your mother has got her down at Meg's. We stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches." "Your what?" cried Jo, for Laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him. "Oh, the dickens! now I've done it;" and he looked so guilty that Jo was down upon him like a flash. "You've gone and got married!" "Yes, please, but I never will again;" and he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, and triumph. "Actually married?" "Very much so, thank you." "Mercy on us! What dreadful thing will you do next?" and Jo fell into her seat, with a gasp. "A characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation," returned Laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction. "What can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that? Get up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it." "Not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade." Jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said, in a cordial tone,-- "The old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now; so, come and 'fess, Teddy." "How good it sounds to hear you say 'Teddy'! No one ever calls me that but you;" and Laurie sat down, with an air of great content. "What does Amy call you?" "My lord." "That's like her. Well, you look it;" and Jo's eyes plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever. The pillow was gone, but there _was_ a barricade, nevertheless,--a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart. Both felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them. It was gone directly, however, for Laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity,-- "Don't I look like a married man and the head of a family?" "Not a bit, and you never will. You've grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever." "Now, really, Jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began Laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely. "How can I, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that I can't keep sober!" answered Jo, smiling all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion. "It's no use your going out in the cold to get Amy, for they are all coming up presently. I couldn't wait; I wanted to be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have 'first skim,' as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream." "Of course you did, and spoilt your story by beginning at the wrong end. Now, start right, and tell me how it all happened; I'm pining to know." "Well, I did it to please Amy," began Laurie, with a twinkle that made Jo exclaim,-- "Fib number one; Amy did it to please you. Go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir." "Now she's beginning to marm it; isn't it jolly to hear her?" said Laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed. "It's all the same, you know, she and I being one. We planned to come home with the Carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in Paris. But grandpa wanted to come home; he went to please me, and I couldn't let him go alone, neither could I leave Amy; and Mrs. Carrol had got English notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let Amy come with us. So I just settled the difficulty by saying, 'Let's be married, and then we can do as we like.'" "Of course you did; you always have things to suit you." "Not always;" and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily,-- "How did you ever get aunt to agree?" "It was hard work; but, between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side. There wasn't time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by and by, and it was only 'taking Time by the fetlock,' as my wife says." "Aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?" interrupted Jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last. "A trifle, perhaps; she's such a captivating little woman I can't help being proud of her. Well, then, uncle and aunt were there to play propriety; we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round; so we did it." "When, where, how?" asked Jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle. "Six weeks ago, at the American consul's, in Paris; a very quiet wedding, of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear little Beth." Jo put her hand in his as he said that, and Laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well. "Why didn't you let us know afterward?" asked Jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute. "We wanted to surprise you; we thought we were coming directly home, at first; but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked. Amy had once called Valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives. My faith! wasn't it love among the roses!" Laurie seemed to forget Jo for a minute, and Jo was glad of it; for the fact that he told her these things so freely and naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten. She tried to draw away her hand; but, as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, Laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before,-- "Jo, dear, I want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever. As I told you in my letter, when I wrote that Amy had been so kind to me, I never shall stop loving you; but the love is altered, and I have learned to see that it is better as it is. Amy and you change places in my heart, that's all. I think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if I had waited, as you tried to make me; but I never could be patient, and so I got a heartache. I was a boy then, headstrong and violent; and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake. For it _was_ one, Jo, as you said, and I found it out, after making a fool of myself. Upon my word, I was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that I didn't know which I loved best, you or Amy, and tried to love both alike; but I couldn't, and when I saw her in Switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once. You both got into your right places, and I felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new; that I could honestly share my heart between sister Jo and wife Amy, and love them both dearly. Will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?" "I'll believe it, with all my heart; but, Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again: the happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I'm sure you feel this; I see the change in you, and you'll find it in me. I shall miss my boy, but I shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what I hoped he would. We can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won't we, Laurie?" He did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both. Presently Jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home to be a sad one,-- "I can't make it true that you children are really married, and going to set up housekeeping. Why, it seems only yesterday that I was buttoning Amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased. Mercy me, how time does fly!" "As one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma. I flatter myself I'm a 'gentleman growed,' as Peggotty said of David; and when you see Amy, you'll find her rather a precocious infant," said Laurie, looking amused at her maternal air. "You may be a little older in years, but I'm ever so much older in feeling, Teddy. Women always are; and this last year has been such a hard one that I feel forty." "Poor Jo! we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring. You _are_ older; here's a line, and there's another; unless you smile, your eyes look sad, and when I touched the cushion, just now, I found a tear on it. You've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone. What a selfish beast I've been!" and Laurie pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look. But Jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone which she tried to make quite cheerful,-- "No, I had father and mother to help me, the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and Amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear. I _am_ lonely, sometimes, but I dare say it's good for me, and--" "You never shall be again," broke in Laurie, putting his arm about her, as if to fence out every human ill. "Amy and I can't get on without you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all be blissfully happy and friendly together." "If I shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant. I begin to feel quite young already; for, somehow, all my troubles seemed to fly away when you came. You always were a comfort, Teddy;" and Jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when Beth lay ill, and Laurie told her to hold on to him. He looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but Jo was smiling to herself, as if, in truth, her troubles _had_ all vanished at his coming. "You are the same Jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and laughing the next. You look a little wicked now; what is it, grandma?" "I was wondering how you and Amy get on together." "Like angels!" "Yes, of course, at first; but which rules?" "I don't mind telling you that she does, now; at least I let her think so,--it pleases her, you know. By and by we shall take turns, for marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties." "You'll go on as you begin, and Amy will rule you all the days of your life." "Well, she does it so imperceptibly that I don't think I shall mind much. She is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well; in fact, I rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you a favor all the while." "That ever I should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying it!" cried Jo, with uplifted hands. It was good to see Laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty" air,-- "Amy is too well-bred for that, and I am not the sort of man to submit to it. My wife and I respect ourselves and one another too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel." Jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her pleasure. "I am sure of that; Amy and you never did quarrel as we used to. She is the sun and I the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, you remember." "She can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed Laurie. "Such a lecture as I got at Nice! I give you my word it was a deal worse than any of your scoldings,--a regular rouser. I'll tell you all about it sometime,--_she_ never will, because, after telling me that she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and married the good-for-nothing." "What baseness! Well, if she abuses you, come to me, and I'll defend you." "I look as if I needed it, don't I?" said Laurie, getting up and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the rapturous, as Amy's voice was heard calling,-- "Where is she? Where's my dear old Jo?" In trooped the whole family, and every one was hugged and kissed all over again, and, after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were set down to be looked at and exulted over. Mr. Laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever. It was good to see him beam at "my children," as he called the young pair; it was better still to see Amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart; and best of all, to watch Laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made. The minute she put her eyes upon Amy, Meg became conscious that her own dress hadn't a Parisian air, that young Mrs. Moffat would be entirely eclipsed by young Mrs. Laurence, and that "her ladyship" was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman. Jo thought, as she watched the pair, "How well they look together! I was right, and Laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy old Jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him." Mrs. March and her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness. For Amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning. No little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to become. "Love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly. "She has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," Mr. March whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside him. Daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her "pitty aunty," but attached herself like a lap-dog to the wonderful châtelaine full of delightful charms. Demi paused to consider the new relationship before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from Berne. A flank movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for Laurie knew where to have him. "Young man, when I first had the honor of making your acquaintance you hit me in the face: now I demand the satisfaction of a gentleman;" and with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted his boyish soul. [Illustration: The tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew] "Blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot? Ain't it a relishin' sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks calling little Amy, Mis. Laurence?" muttered old Hannah, who could not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner. Mercy on us, how they did talk! first one, then the other, then all burst out together, trying to tell the history of three years in half an hour. It was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and provide refreshment, for they would have been hoarse and faint if they had gone on much longer. Such a happy procession as filed away into the little dining-room! Mr. March proudly escorted "Mrs. Laurence;" Mrs. March as proudly leaned on the arm of "my son;" the old gentleman took Jo, with a whispered "You must be my girl now," and a glance at the empty corner by the fire, that made Jo whisper back, with trembling lips, "I'll try to fill her place, sir." The twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for every one was so busy with the new-comers that they were left to revel at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the opportunity. Didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread _ab libitum_, get a hot biscuit apiece, and, as a crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human nature and pastry are frail? Burdened with the guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that Dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little sinners attached themselves to "Dranpa," who hadn't his spectacles on. Amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on Father Laurence's arm; the others paired off as before, and this arrangement left Jo companionless. She did not mind it at the minute, for she lingered to answer Hannah's eager inquiry,-- "Will Miss Amy ride in her coop (_coupé_), and use all them lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?" "Shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and wore diamonds and point-lace every day. Teddy thinks nothing too good for her," returned Jo with infinite satisfaction. "No more there is! Will you have hash or fish-balls for breakfast?" asked Hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose. "I don't care;" and Jo shut the door, feeling that food was an uncongenial topic just then. She stood a minute looking at the party vanishing above, and, as Demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, for even Teddy had deserted her. If she had known what birthday gift was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to herself, "I'll weep a little weep when I go to bed; it won't do to be dismal now." Then she drew her hand over her eyes,--for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was,--and had just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch-door. She opened it with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her; for there stood a tall, bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun. "O Mr. Bhaer, I _am_ so glad to see you!" cried Jo, with a clutch, as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in. [Illustration: O Mr. Bhaer, I am so glad to see you] "And I to see Miss Marsch,--but no, you haf a party--" and the Professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to them. "No, we haven't, only the family. My sister and friends have just come home, and we are all very happy. Come in, and make one of us." Though a very social man, I think Mr. Bhaer would have gone decorously away, and come again another day; but how could he, when Jo shut the door behind him, and bereft him of his hat? Perhaps her face had something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes. "If I shall not be Monsieur de Trop, I will so gladly see them all. You haf been ill, my friend?" He put the question abruptly, for, as Jo hung up his coat, the light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it. "Not ill, but tired and sorrowful. We have had trouble since I saw you last." "Ah, yes, I know. My heart was sore for you when I heard that;" and he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that Jo felt as if no comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand. "Father, mother, this is my friend, Professor Bhaer," she said, with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish. If the stranger had had any doubts about his reception, they were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received. Every one greeted him kindly, for Jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for his own. They could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the more friendly because he was poor; for poverty enriches those who live above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits. Mr. Bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveller who knocks at a strange door, and, when it opens, finds himself at home. The children went to him like bees to a honey-pot; and, establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity. The women telegraphed their approval to one another, and Mr. March, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while silent John listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and Mr. Laurence found it impossible to go to sleep. If Jo had not been otherwise engaged, Laurie's behavior would have amused her; for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe the new-comer with brotherly circumspection. But it did not last long. He got interested in spite of himself, and, before he knew it, was drawn into the circle; for Mr. Bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice. He seldom spoke to Laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime. Then his eye would turn to Jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it; but Jo had her own eyes to take care of, and, feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt. A stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious omens. Mr. Bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with Laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment. Then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic. Jo quite glowed with triumph when Teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "How he would enjoy having such a man as my Professor to talk with every day!" Lastly, Mr. Bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman than ever. His bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for, in exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do; and Jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a Jove-like aspect. Poor Jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact that Mr. Bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands! "Dear old fellow! He couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said Jo to herself; and then a sudden thought, born of the words, made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face. The manœuvre did not succeed as well as she expected, however; for, though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral-pile, the Professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball. Of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them. Nobody knew where the evening went to; for Hannah skilfully abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and Mr. Laurence went home to rest. The others sat round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till Meg, whose maternal mind was impressed with a firm conviction that Daisy had tumbled out of bed, and Demi set his night-gown afire studying the structure of matches, made a move to go. "We must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together again once more," said Jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul. They were not _all_ there. But no one found the words thoughtless or untrue; for Beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the household league that love made indissoluble. The little chair stood in its old place; the tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished when the needle grew "so heavy," was still on its accustomed shelf; the beloved instrument, seldom touched now, had not been moved; and above it Beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say, "Be happy. I am here." "Play something, Amy. Let them hear how much you have improved," said Laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil. But Amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool,-- "Not to-night, dear. I can't show off to-night." But she did show something better than brilliancy or skill; for she sung Beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master could not have taught, and touched the listeners' hearts with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her. The room was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of Beth's favorite hymn. It was hard to say,-- "Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;" and Amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her welcome home was not quite perfect without Beth's kiss. "Now, we must finish with Mignon's song; for Mr. Bhaer sings that," said Jo, before the pause grew painful. And Mr. Bhaer cleared his throat with a gratified "Hem!" as he stepped into the corner where Jo stood, saying,-- "You will sing with me? We go excellently well together." A pleasing fiction, by the way; for Jo had no more idea of music than a grasshopper. But she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune. It didn't much matter; for Mr. Bhaer sang like a true German, heartily and well; and Jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone. [Illustration: Mr. Bhaer sang heartily] "Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms," used to be the Professor's favorite line, for "das land" meant Germany to him; but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody, upon the words,-- "There, oh there, might I with thee, O my beloved, go!" and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither whenever he liked. The song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered with laurels. But a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners entirely, and stared at Amy putting on her bonnet; for she had been introduced simply as "my sister," and no one had called her by her new name since he came. He forgot himself still further when Laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting,-- "My wife and I are very glad to meet you, sir. Please remember that there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way." Then the Professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly illuminated with satisfaction, that Laurie thought him the most delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met. "I too shall go; but I shall gladly come again, if you will gif me leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here some days." He spoke to Mrs. March, but he looked at Jo; and the mother's voice gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes; for Mrs. March was not so blind to her children's interest as Mrs. Moffat supposed. "I suspect that is a wise man," remarked Mr. March, with placid satisfaction, from the hearth-rug, after the last guest had gone. "I know he is a good one," added Mrs. March, with decided approval, as she wound up the clock. "I thought you'd like him," was all Jo said, as she slipped away to her bed. She wondered what the business was that brought Mr. Bhaer to the city, and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor, somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact. If she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon the subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture in the dark. [Illustration: Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap]

part 2, Chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47

Surprises The day before her twenty-fifth birthday, Jo laments that she will be a literary spinster. The narrator here urges readers to be kind and respectful to spinsters, as there is tragedy and sacrifice often in their histories, and remember the kindnesses that countless Aunts have shown them. Jo is surprised out of her reverie by Laurie, who has returned from abroad with Amy. They are awkward for a moment, but they are delighted to see each other and rekindle their exuberant friendship, and Laurie lets slip that he and Amy had gotten married, so that she could accompany him and Grandfather back home while the Carrols stayed another year abroad. Laurie explains to Jo that he does still love her, as a brother, and that it would have all come about naturally if he had been sensible and not proposed, as Jo urged. He asks if they can go back to being best friends as they were, and Jo assures him that they can be friends, but now as man and woman, and not as children as they were before. Having Laurie nearby is a great cheer to Jo, and when the entire family troops in, joy is plentiful all around, with gentle sad reminders of dear Beth, as when Mr. Laurence asks Jo to be his girl now. After tea, the party goes upstairs, leaving Jo to feel lonely again just for a moment, when there is a knock at the door, and she finds Mr. Bhaer has come to visit. She invites him in and proudly introduces him to the family, where is he is a quick favorite. Mr. Bhaer and Father are kindred spirits, the babies enjoy his pockets of treats, and even Laurie overcomes his brotherly suspicion of the man's intentions. Mr. Bhaer looks wistfully and Laurie and occasionally at Jo, until he learns that Laurie has married Amy, to his delight. The evening ends with Amy leading them through Beth's old songs, and Mr. Bhaer and Jo singing a duet. Mr. Bhaer promises to come again, for he has business in town, and all pronounce their approval of him

Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help "poor gentlefolk" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a "little woman," but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/44.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_8_part_3.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 44

part 2, chapter 44

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47", "summary": "My Lord and Lady Laurie and Amy discuss the potential of Mr. Bhaer marrying Jo, and wish they could help his poverty without hurting their pride. Laurie reassures Amy that he will be fully glad for Jo, without remorse, and Amy reassures Laurie that she would have married him if he were a pauper. They lament that there are girls who do marry for money, and gentleman and ladies who are ambitious but poor, to proud to ask for help. They commit to sharing their blessings with others less fortunate, particularly young women with artistic talents, and feel their love strengthened by their wish to share it", "analysis": "Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help \"poor gentlefolk\" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a \"little woman,\" but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings."}

XLIV. MY LORD AND LADY. "Please, Madam Mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour? The luggage has come, and I've been making hay of Amy's Paris finery, trying to find some things I want," said Laurie, coming in the next day to find Mrs. Laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made "the baby" again. "Certainly. Go, dear; I forget that you have any home but this," and Mrs. March pressed the white hand that wore the wedding-ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness. "I shouldn't have come over if I could have helped it; but I can't get on without my little woman any more than a--" "Weathercock can without wind," suggested Jo, as he paused for a simile; Jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since Teddy came home. "Exactly; for Amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and I haven't had an easterly spell since I was married; don't know anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?" "Lovely weather so far; I don't know how long it will last, but I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning how to sail my ship. Come home, dear, and I'll find your bootjack; I suppose that's what you are rummaging after among my things. Men are _so_ helpless, mother," said Amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband. "What are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?" asked Jo, buttoning Amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores. "We have our plans; we don't mean to say much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle. I'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight grandfather, and prove to him that I'm not spoilt. I need something of the sort to keep me steady. I'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man." "And Amy, what is she going to do?" asked Mrs. March, well pleased at Laurie's decision, and the energy with which he spoke. "After doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the world at large. That's about it, isn't it, Madame Récamier?" asked Laurie, with a quizzical look at Amy. "Time will show. Come away, Impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their faces," answered Amy, resolving that there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a _salon_ as a queen of society. "How happy those children seem together!" observed Mr. March, finding it difficult to become absorbed in his Aristotle after the young couple had gone. "Yes, and I think it will last," added Mrs. March, with the restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port. "I know it will. Happy Amy!" and Jo sighed, then smiled brightly as Professor Bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push. Later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the bootjack, Laurie said suddenly to his wife, who was flitting about, arranging her new art treasures,-- "Mrs. Laurence." "My lord!" "That man intends to marry our Jo!" "I hope so; don't you, dear?" "Well, my love, I consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but I do wish he was a little younger and a good deal richer." "Now, Laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded. If they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor. Women _never_ should marry for money--" Amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with malicious gravity,-- "Certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes. If my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty to make a rich match; that accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me." "O my dearest boy, don't, don't say that! I forgot you were rich when I said 'Yes.' I'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and I sometimes wish you _were_ poor that I might show how much I love you;" and Amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words. "You don't really think I am such a mercenary creature as I tried to be once, do you? It would break my heart if you didn't believe that I'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake." "Am I an idiot and a brute? How could I think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half I want to now, when I have the right? Girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation; but you had better lessons, and, though I trembled for you at one time, I was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching. I told mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if I'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity. You are not listening to my moral remarks, Mrs. Laurence;" and Laurie paused, for Amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face. "Yes, I am, and admiring the dimple in your chin at the same time. I don't wish to make you vain, but I must confess that I'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money. Don't laugh, but your nose is _such_ a comfort to me;" and Amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction. Laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed, though he did laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly,-- "May I ask you a question, dear?" "Of course you may." "Shall you care if Jo does marry Mr. Bhaer?" "Oh, that's the trouble, is it? I thought there was something in the dimple that didn't suit you. Not being a dog in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, I assure you I can dance at Jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels. Do you doubt it, my darling?" Amy looked up at him, and was satisfied; her last little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and confidence. "I wish we could do something for that capital old Professor. Couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in Germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?" said Laurie, when they began to pace up and down the long drawing-room, arm-in-arm, as they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden. [Illustration: They began to pace up and down] "Jo would find us out, and spoil it all; she is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful thing." "Bless her dear heart! she won't think so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support. We won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in spite of themselves. I owe Jo for a part of my education, and she believes in people's paying their honest debts, so I'll get round her in that way." "How delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it? That was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely; and, thanks to you, the dream has come true." "Ah! we'll do quantities of good, won't we? There's one sort of poverty that I particularly like to help. Out-and-out beggars get taken care of, but poor gentlefolks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people don't dare to offer charity; yet there are a thousand ways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not offend. I must say, I like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a blarneying beggar; I suppose it's wrong, but I do, though it is harder." "Because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the domestic admiration society. "Thank you, I'm afraid I don't deserve that pretty compliment. But I was going to say that while I was dawdling about abroad, I saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams. Splendid fellows, some of them, working like heroes, poor and friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition, that I was ashamed of myself, and longed to give them a right good lift. Those are people whom it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot boiling; if they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it out." "Yes, indeed; and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in silence. I know something of it, for I belonged to it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the beggar-maid in the old story. Ambitious girls have a hard time, Laurie, and often have to see youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right minute. People have been very kind to me; and whenever I see girls struggling along, as we used to do, I want to put out my hand and help them, as I was helped." "And so you shall, like an angel as you are!" cried Laurie, resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies. "Rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their money accumulate for others to waste. It's not half so sensible to leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy making one's fellow-creatures happy with it. We'll have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a generous taste. Will you be a little Dorcas, going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?" "With all my heart, if you will be a brave St. Martin, stopping, as you ride gallantly through the world, to share your cloak with the beggar." "It's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!" So the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more home-like because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they. [Illustration: Tail-piece]

part 2, Chapter 44

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My Lord and Lady Laurie and Amy discuss the potential of Mr. Bhaer marrying Jo, and wish they could help his poverty without hurting their pride. Laurie reassures Amy that he will be fully glad for Jo, without remorse, and Amy reassures Laurie that she would have married him if he were a pauper. They lament that there are girls who do marry for money, and gentleman and ladies who are ambitious but poor, to proud to ask for help. They commit to sharing their blessings with others less fortunate, particularly young women with artistic talents, and feel their love strengthened by their wish to share it

Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help "poor gentlefolk" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a "little woman," but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings.

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all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_8_part_4.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 45

part 2, chapter 45

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47", "summary": "Daisy and Demi The narrator insists on describing Daisy and Demi. Both are quite precocious, with Daisy modeling housekeeping and Demi energetically modeling machine making. Daisy is a sweet creature, whose angelic nature reminds the family of Beth, though she is not shy. Demi loves to understand how things work, including his own body and mind, and reasons with his Mother about their rules. Both love Jo, or \"Aunt Dodo,\" and are saddened when Mr. Bhaer's visits take her time and attention away from them, though they enjoy his company and chocolates. Seeing Mr. Bhaer give Jo a chocolate, Demi asks him if great boys like great girls, to the embarrassment of all. It is then that Mr. March realizes that Mr. Bhaer has not been visiting entirely to speak with him about philosophy, but also to woo Jo, though neither Jo nor Mr. Bhaer have spoken of it", "analysis": "Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help \"poor gentlefolk\" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a \"little woman,\" but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings."}

XLV. DAISY AND DEMI. I cannot feel that I have done my duty as humble historian of the March family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious and important members of it. Daisy and Demi had now arrived at years of discretion; for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do. If there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoilt by adoration, it was these prattling Brookes. Of course they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when I mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders. At three, Daisy demanded a "needler," and actually made a bag with four stitches in it; she likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking-stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to Hannah's eyes, while Demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming the letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels. The boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his "sewin-sheen,"--a mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothes-pins, and spools, for wheels to go "wound and wound;" also a basket hung over the back of a big chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "Why, marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up." Though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarrelled more than thrice a day. Of course, Demi tyrannized over Daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other aggressor; while Daisy made a galley-slave of herself, and adored her brother as the one perfect being in the world. A rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul was Daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled there. One of the captivating children, who seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general approval on all festive occasions. Her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human. It was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window in her little night-gown to look out, and say, no matter whether it rained or shone, "Oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!" Every one was a friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful worshippers. [Illustration: Me loves evvybody] "Me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish the whole world. As she grew, her mother began to feel that the Dove-cote would be blest by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had entertained an angel unawares. Her grandfather often called her "Beth," and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could see. Demi, like a true Yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "What for?" He also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his grandfather, who used to hold Socratic conversations with him, in which the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk. [Illustration: What makes my legs go, dranpa?] "What makes my legs go, dranpa?" asked the young philosopher, surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night. "It's your little mind, Demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow head respectfully. "What is a little mine?" "It is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the wheels go in my watch when I showed it to you." "Open me; I want to see it go wound." "I can't do that any more than you could open the watch. God winds you up, and you go till He stops you." "Does I?" and Demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the new thought. "Is I wounded up like the watch?" "Yes; but I can't show you how; for it is done when we don't see." Demi felt of his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked,-- "I dess Dod does it when I's asleep." A careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said,-- "My dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby? He's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions." "If he is old enough to ask the questions he is old enough to receive true answers. I am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping him unfold those already there. These children are wiser than we are, and I have no doubt the boy understands every word I have said to him. Now, Demi, tell me where you keep your mind?" If the boy had replied like Alcibiades, "By the gods, Socrates, I cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised; but when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "In my little belly," the old gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics. There might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if Demi had not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding philosopher; for, often, after a discussion which caused Hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "That child ain't long for this world," he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their parents' souls. Meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them; but what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show themselves accomplished Artful Dodgers? "No more raisins, Demi, they'll make you sick," says mamma to the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day. "Me likes to be sick." "I don't want to have you, so run away and help Daisy make patty-cakes." He reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit; and, by and by, when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a shrewd bargain. "Now you have been good children, and I'll play anything you like," says Meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot. "Truly, marmar?" asks Demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head. "Yes, truly; anything you say," replies the short-sighted parent, preparing herself to sing "The Three Little Kittens" half a dozen times over, or to take her family to "Buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or limb. But Demi corners her by the cool reply,-- "Then we'll go and eat up all the raisins." Aunt Dodo was chief playmate and _confidante_ of both children, and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy. Aunt Amy was as yet only a name to them, Aunt Beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but Aunt Dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which compliment she was deeply grateful. But when Mr. Bhaer came, Jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their little souls. Daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt; Demi, with infantile penetration, soon discovered that Dodo liked to play with "the bear-man" better than she did with him; but, though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate-drops in his waistcoat-pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers. Some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes; but Demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the "bear-man" with pensive affability, while Daisy bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures of surpassing worth. Gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard; but this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not deceive anybody a particle. Mr. Bhaer's devotion was sincere, however likewise effective,--for honesty is the best policy in love as in law; he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one. His business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see--well, he always asked for Mr. March, so I suppose _he_ was the attraction. The excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and revelled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him. Mr. Bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye. Prone upon the floor lay Mr. March, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him, likewise prone, was Demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovellers so seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators, till Mr. Bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and Jo cried out, with a scandalized face,-- "Father, father, here's the Professor!" Down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity,-- "Good evening, Mr. Bhaer. Excuse me for a moment; we are just finishing our lesson. Now, Demi, make the letter and tell its name." "I knows him!" and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly shouted, "It's a We, dranpa, it's a We!" [Illustration: Dranpa, it's a We] "He's a born Weller," laughed Jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was over. "What have you been at to-day, bübchen?" asked Mr. Bhaer, picking up the gymnast. "Me went to see little Mary." "And what did you there?" "I kissed her," began Demi, with artless frankness. "Prut! thou beginnest early. What did the little Mary say to that?" asked Mr. Bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon his knee, exploring the waistcoat-pocket. "Oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and I liked it. _Don't_ little boys like little girls?" added Demi, with his mouth full, and an air of bland satisfaction. "You precocious chick! Who put that into your head?" said Jo, enjoying the innocent revelations as much as the Professor. "'Tisn't in mine head; it's in mine mouf," answered literal Demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate-drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas. "Thou shouldst save some for the little friend: sweets to the sweet, mannling;" and Mr. Bhaer offered Jo some, with a look that made her wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods. Demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessly inquired,-- "Do great boys like great girls, too, 'Fessor?" Like young Washington, Mr. Bhaer "couldn't tell a lie;" so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that made Mr. March put down his clothes-brush, glance at Jo's retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the "precocious chick" had put an idea into _his_ head that was both sweet and sour. Why Dodo, when she caught him in the china-closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which Demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades]

part 2, Chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47

Daisy and Demi The narrator insists on describing Daisy and Demi. Both are quite precocious, with Daisy modeling housekeeping and Demi energetically modeling machine making. Daisy is a sweet creature, whose angelic nature reminds the family of Beth, though she is not shy. Demi loves to understand how things work, including his own body and mind, and reasons with his Mother about their rules. Both love Jo, or "Aunt Dodo," and are saddened when Mr. Bhaer's visits take her time and attention away from them, though they enjoy his company and chocolates. Seeing Mr. Bhaer give Jo a chocolate, Demi asks him if great boys like great girls, to the embarrassment of all. It is then that Mr. March realizes that Mr. Bhaer has not been visiting entirely to speak with him about philosophy, but also to woo Jo, though neither Jo nor Mr. Bhaer have spoken of it

Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help "poor gentlefolk" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a "little woman," but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings.

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all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Little Women/section_8_part_6.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 47

part 2, chapter 47

{"name": "part 2, Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47", "summary": "Harvest Time Jo and her Professor work and wait for a year, writing letters and cultivating their love. When Aunt March dies, she lives her large estate Plumfield to Jo, who has the idea of turning it into a school for boys. She long had the dream of having a school, particularly for orphan boys whom she would love to mother, and shared it with Friedrich, and they agreed to do it once they got rich. Now, with Plumfield, they have the space, Friedrich to teach and Jo to mother, with Father and Mother's advice. Everyone finds it a lovely idea, though Laurie advises that Jo will need rich pupils too, to fund the place. Jo agrees, noting that she already has success raising one such boy to be a successful and admirable man who is accomplished and philanthropic, and says she will make Laurie the model for all her students. Jo is thus married and settled at Plumfield, with a crop of boys rather quickly. Mr. Laurence finds a way to help despite Jo's pride by sending her the poor or orphan boys she wishes and paying their way. Jo has her fill of the boylike life she has always cherished, befriending them and inventing stories for their benefit alone. She and Mr. Bhaer have two sons of their own, Rob and Teddy. Five years later, the entire family gathers at Plumfield for picking apples and celebrating Mrs. March's sixtieth birthday. The evening ends with a great surprise, with all the pupils singing like angels in the trees a song Jo wrote and Laurie set to music. Afterwards, the sisters all sit together and remember their castles in the air, as well as how differently their lives have turned out. Meg's life is closest to her castle, though her simple home is not full of luxurious things. Jo's life is quite different her dream of being a genius author, though she thinks she may still write a great book yet, informed with all her life's experiences. Amy's castle is also different, but she is blessed by her life and her sweet daughter Beth, although Beth is fragile and weak. The thought of losing her has brought her and Laurie even closer. All agree that they are deeply happy, and Mrs. March is thankful for her happiness and theirs", "analysis": "Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help \"poor gentlefolk\" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a \"little woman,\" but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings."}

XLVII. HARVEST TIME. For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over,--for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue,--they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible. "It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum; for of course you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the matter over, some weeks later. "No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress. "You don't mean to live there?" "Yes, I do." "But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it." "He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it." "And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work." "The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one;" and Jo laughed. "Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?" "Boys. I want to open a school for little lads,--a good, happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them, and Fritz to teach them." "There's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he. "I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly. "So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth. "It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her one all-absorbing son. "Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help. "I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long-cherished plan. Before my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads, who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going to ruin, for want of help at the right minute; I love so to do anything for them; I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and, oh, I should _so_ like to be a mother to them!" Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a long while. "I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart, he's been doing it all his life,--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting rich; that he'll never be; money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than I ever deserved, _I'm_ rich, at least I feel so, and we can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school. It's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain. There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard: such work is healthy, isn't it, sir? Then Fritz can train and teach in his own way, and father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet and scold them; and mother will be my stand-by. I've always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough; now I can fill the house full, and revel in the little dears to my heart's content. Think what luxury,--Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me!" As Jo waved her hands, and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought he'd have an apoplectic fit. "I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard. "Nothing could be more natural or proper than for my Professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside on my own estate." "She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins, I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs. Bhaer." "Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich pupils, also,--perhaps begin with such altogether; then, when I've got a start, I can take a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through mismanagement or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn, all at once, from pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain much,--plucky little souls,--but they feel it. I've been through something of it, and I know all about it. I've a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?" "I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie, with a grateful look. "And I've succeeded beyond my hopes; for here you are, a steady, sensible business man, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not merely a business man: you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times. I _am_ proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and every one feels it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my flock, I'll just point to you, and say, 'There's your model, my lads.'" Poor Laurie didn't know where to look; for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all faces turn approvingly upon him. "I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless; so, if I've got on at all, you may thank these two for it;" and he laid one hand gently on his grandfather's white head, the other on Amy's golden one, for the three were never far apart. "I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually uplifted frame of mind just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly. And that night, when she went to her room, after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth. It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich; for Mr. Laurence was continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support. In this way the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted. Of course it was up-hill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes; but the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her "wilderness of boys," and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles round; and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable "cow with a crumpled horn" used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be called the "Bhaer-garten," as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants. It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a fortune; but it _was_ just what Jo intended it to be,--"a happy, homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness." Every room in the big house was soon full; every little plot in the garden soon had its owner; a regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed; and, three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for "Mother Bhaer." She had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and, in time, success; for no mortal boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads; their penitent sniffs and whispers after wrong-doing; their droll or touching little confidences; their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans; even their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more. There were slow boys and bashful boys; feeble boys and riotous boys; boys that lisped and boys that stuttered; one or two lame ones; and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was welcome to the "Bhaer-garten," though some people predicted that his admission would ruin the school. Yes; Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily, and found the applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world; for now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness,--Rob, named for grandpa, and Teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts; but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well. There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking; for then the Marches, Laurences, Brookes, and Bhaers turned out in full force, and made a day of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred,--a mellow October day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise, and the blood dance healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire; golden-rod and asters fringed the mossy walls; grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast; squirrels were busy with their small harvesting; birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane; and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake. Everybody was there; everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down; everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it; and every one gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world. Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying-- "The gentle apple's winey juice." The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among the birds' nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck. Mrs. March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring in; while Amy, with a beautiful motherly expression in her face, sketched the various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch beside him. Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly. [Illustration: Teddy bore a charmed life] At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the apple-pickers rested, and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day. The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked,--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leap-frog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple-turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird. The little girls had a private tea-party, and Ted roved among the edibles at his own sweet will. When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times,--"Aunt March, God bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her memory green. "Now, grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times three!" That was given with a will, as you may well believe; and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed, from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished guinea-pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to grandma's,--for the children's gifts were all their own. Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March; Demi's shoe-box was a miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut; Rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs, that she declared was very soothing; and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared, in tipsy capitals, the words,--"To dear Grandma, from her little Beth." During this ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared; and, when Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sung, with all their hearts, the little song Jo had written, Laurie set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand success; for Mrs. March couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all. After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree. [Illustration: "Leaving Mrs. March and her daughters under the festival tree."--Page 583] "I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'Unlucky Jo' again, when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer, taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk-pitcher, in which he was rapturously churning. "And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys. "Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business, and frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all mankind. "Yes, I remember; but the life I wanted then seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these;" and Jo pointed from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to them. "My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world;" and Meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and devout content. "My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine myself to helping others fulfil their dreams of beauty. I've begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing I've ever done. I think so myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little angel." As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in her arms; for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender; Laurie was growing more serious, strong, and firm; and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blest; for-- "Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and sad and dreary." "She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tender-hearted Daisy stooped from her knee, to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale one. "I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always, that I can't love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg, 'Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'" "There's no need for me to say it, for every one can see that I'm far happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is getting gray and stout; I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty; we never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs _will_ smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already. But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among boys, I can't help using their expressions now and then." "Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of countenance. "Not half so good as yours, mother. Here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never could outgrow. "I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy softly. "A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee dear," added Meg's tender voice. Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility,-- "O, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this!" [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration]

part 2, Chapter 47

https://web.archive.org/web/20210609010508/https://www.gradesaver.com/little-women/study-guide/summary-chapter-42-through-chapter-47

Harvest Time Jo and her Professor work and wait for a year, writing letters and cultivating their love. When Aunt March dies, she lives her large estate Plumfield to Jo, who has the idea of turning it into a school for boys. She long had the dream of having a school, particularly for orphan boys whom she would love to mother, and shared it with Friedrich, and they agreed to do it once they got rich. Now, with Plumfield, they have the space, Friedrich to teach and Jo to mother, with Father and Mother's advice. Everyone finds it a lovely idea, though Laurie advises that Jo will need rich pupils too, to fund the place. Jo agrees, noting that she already has success raising one such boy to be a successful and admirable man who is accomplished and philanthropic, and says she will make Laurie the model for all her students. Jo is thus married and settled at Plumfield, with a crop of boys rather quickly. Mr. Laurence finds a way to help despite Jo's pride by sending her the poor or orphan boys she wishes and paying their way. Jo has her fill of the boylike life she has always cherished, befriending them and inventing stories for their benefit alone. She and Mr. Bhaer have two sons of their own, Rob and Teddy. Five years later, the entire family gathers at Plumfield for picking apples and celebrating Mrs. March's sixtieth birthday. The evening ends with a great surprise, with all the pupils singing like angels in the trees a song Jo wrote and Laurie set to music. Afterwards, the sisters all sit together and remember their castles in the air, as well as how differently their lives have turned out. Meg's life is closest to her castle, though her simple home is not full of luxurious things. Jo's life is quite different her dream of being a genius author, though she thinks she may still write a great book yet, informed with all her life's experiences. Amy's castle is also different, but she is blessed by her life and her sweet daughter Beth, although Beth is fragile and weak. The thought of losing her has brought her and Laurie even closer. All agree that they are deeply happy, and Mrs. March is thankful for her happiness and theirs

Despite her promise to Beth, it is difficult for Jo to do her duty to her parents. Jo feels that her sacrifice goes unrewarded, while Amy enjoys her trip abroad. Jo takes comfort in work and in her parents, and Hannah foreshadows that Jo, too, will be rewarded. Indeed Jo is, as marked by the final stage of her growth in womanhood and through Mr. Bhaer's love for her. This section celebrates the generosity of the Laurences, recalling Marmee saying that money could be used nobly, and Jo telling Laurie in college that if he only spent money helping friends, no one would think the less of him. Now he and his father are exceptionally generous and derive great joy from sharing their wealth. Laurie and Amy's dedication to help "poor gentlefolk" reflect on the situation of the March family - and the Alcott family, who often benefited from the generosity of others. Part II, in addition to Part I, closes as the beginning of Part I opens, with the March sisters discussing their wishes. Now they are reflecting back on their lives, rather than looking forward. The family is still their core orientation, but the family has grown even more to include children. Even Aunt March has found a place of welcome in the family, through remembrance of her generosity, albeit used differently than she imagined. The granddaughters Daisy and Beth are both reminiscent of the sister Beth, as is Jo's more tempered spirit. At the close of the book, all feel happy regardless of wealth. Jo is determined to contribute to her household and works in partnership with her husband. She has grown into a "little woman," but enjoys her boys immensely as a mother. The harvest metaphor the girls use to discuss their families in the final paragraphs of the book signifies the hard work and patient cultivation that has one into creating the family's blessings.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/37106-chapters/40.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/Little Women/section_39_part_0.txt

Little Women.part 2.chapter 40

chapter 40

{"name": "Chapter 40", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210225041510/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/little-women/summary/chapter-40", "summary": "The March family accepts that Beth is dying. They band together to make her last days easy and comfortable and to comfort one another. Everyone contributes something to make Beth comfortable; a room is set aside for her, and Meg visits frequently with her twins. Even in her dying days, Beth keeps doing little domestic tasks. Her favorite thing to do is to knit and sew gifts for the poor schoolchildren who pass underneath her window every day. The first few months are pleasant - the family hangs out together in Beth's room and everyone is cheerful and loving. Soon, however, Beth becomes much sicker. She's too weak to sew and she is very ill and disturbed. Jo spends all her time nursing Beth - she even sleeps on the couch in Beth's room. Beth spends a lot of her time reading the Bible. Watching Beth come to grips with her mortality is an important moral lesson for Jo. She starts to realize how important Beth is to the family, even though she doesn't do anything ambitious or showy. One night when Jo is asleep, Beth starts reading Pilgrim's Progress and finds a copy of a poem in Jo's handwriting. She reads the poem, which is about her, and finds it loving and comforting. Jo wakes up and she and Beth talk about the poem, and about how much Beth has meant to the family. Beth says that she knows now that she hasn't wasted her life. Beth and Jo talk about their religious faith and their belief that death will not really part them, in the end. Beth makes Jo promise to take her place as the \"angel in the house\" and take care of their parents. Beth doesn't say any famous last words, but her death is easy and gentle. Beth's family prepare her body for burial - that's pretty typical for the nineteenth century. The family thanks God for Beth's life.", "analysis": ""}

XL. 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 work-table, 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 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, 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 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 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; 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 Ones 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 strand 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. "O 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 some one 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 snow-drops 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. [Illustration: Tail-piece] [Illustration: Sat staring up at the busts]

Chapter 40

https://web.archive.org/web/20210225041510/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/little-women/summary/chapter-40

The March family accepts that Beth is dying. They band together to make her last days easy and comfortable and to comfort one another. Everyone contributes something to make Beth comfortable; a room is set aside for her, and Meg visits frequently with her twins. Even in her dying days, Beth keeps doing little domestic tasks. Her favorite thing to do is to knit and sew gifts for the poor schoolchildren who pass underneath her window every day. The first few months are pleasant - the family hangs out together in Beth's room and everyone is cheerful and loving. Soon, however, Beth becomes much sicker. She's too weak to sew and she is very ill and disturbed. Jo spends all her time nursing Beth - she even sleeps on the couch in Beth's room. Beth spends a lot of her time reading the Bible. Watching Beth come to grips with her mortality is an important moral lesson for Jo. She starts to realize how important Beth is to the family, even though she doesn't do anything ambitious or showy. One night when Jo is asleep, Beth starts reading Pilgrim's Progress and finds a copy of a poem in Jo's handwriting. She reads the poem, which is about her, and finds it loving and comforting. Jo wakes up and she and Beth talk about the poem, and about how much Beth has meant to the family. Beth says that she knows now that she hasn't wasted her life. Beth and Jo talk about their religious faith and their belief that death will not really part them, in the end. Beth makes Jo promise to take her place as the "angel in the house" and take care of their parents. Beth doesn't say any famous last words, but her death is easy and gentle. Beth's family prepare her body for burial - that's pretty typical for the nineteenth century. The family thanks God for Beth's life.

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Babbitt.chapter i

chapter i

{"name": "Chapter I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-i-iii", "summary": "As the city begins to bustle with hordes of men going to work in the huge factories of the city of Zenith, forty-six-year-old George F. Babbitt awakens in his bed on the sleeping-porch in a residential district of Zenith called Floral Heights. Mourning the retreat from his recurrent, romantic dream about a fairy child, he reflects on how very much he detests both \"the grind of the real-estate business\" and his family. Begrudgingly getting out of bed at his wife's prompting, he considers his home and congratulates himself because it is almost entirely \"up-to-date\" with all of the modern conveniences and the latest technology. It is entirely \"competent and glossy\". But it is far too impersonal to be a real home. As he performs his morning routine, he finds himself increasingly infuriated by the seemingly normal habits of his wife, Myra, and their children. George and Myra have a humorously mundane conversation about the state of George's suits and about their diet as he completes his regimen. George complains about the lack of occupational direction exhibited by Verona and Ted, but briefly viewing the city from his window fills him with inspiration for \"the religion of business\"", "analysis": "The novel opens with a description of the city of Zenith in all of its grandeur. It is a new city, recently built and freshly gleaming, though with remnants of the \"fretted structures\" of its inferior past. Although the city seems figuratively to rise above the humans who occupy it, Lewis highlights the fact that it is, indeed, the work of humans. People envisioned it and built it, and people run the factories and offices that make it a functioning city. Even so, to Babbitt it exists on a scale entirely beyond average human existence; it is \"a city built--it --for giants\" . The rapid shift from the focus on Zenith to a close-up of George Babbitt asleep in his bed, in whose aspect there is \"nothing of the giant\" , establishes a juxtaposition that reveals Babbitt's relative insignificance and characteristic ineffectuality. He is pink, plump, and in a state of utter inaction, which immediately contrasts with the streamlined, metallic bustling of the city. He knows that it is larger than he can be. Even the exciting and romantic dream that he is having about the fairy child is disrupted by the noise of the milk truck, suggesting that there is nothing transcendent in Babbitt's banal life. His is not a world of pleasure and indulgence but material reality, and even his dreams crash against this mundane reality. Such dreams, however, offer the reader a glimpse into Babbitt's inner life--a consciousness that even he does not fully recognize. His dreams and dissatisfactions reveal his longing for a deeper satisfaction. Although we do not yet know what Babbitt has in his life, we already know that it is not quite what he wants. Shortly afterward, we do learn about what Babbitt has. He has \"the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks\" , he has an almost entirely modern and up-to-date house, he has several objects that he carries around in his pockets and never uses, and he has a car that represents \"poetry and tragedy\" to him. In short, he has an overwhelming tendency to worship objects and technology, which offers him fleeting moments of gratification and self-importance. He is a reverent and unknowing slave to the objects that govern his life, and as the novel progresses, it becomes obvious that this infatuation has replaced the potential for meaningful relationships with other people or with his community. The emptiness of his relationships becomes evident through the extended conversation that he has with his wife, Myra, about which suit to wear. The exchange is utterly devoid of any substance. Similarly, his conversations with other community members revolve around little more than the weather. He finds even the most innocuous behavior of his family to be completely unbearable, and he is plagued by dissatisfaction and fatigue that only his love for city and technology can temporarily improve. Whatever a fairy girl might give him, perhaps, could be the key he needs to something more, or in Babbitt's hands she could become just a more idealized kind of boring partner. At the beginning of the novel, we learn that his dissatisfaction at home has just started to appear at work. As co-owner of the Babbitt-Thompson Reality Company, he has previously enjoyed the work of selling real estate for far more than its worth. Now, however, he feels \"smothered in the stale office air\" . With satiric sarcasm, Lewis indicates that not even the new \"up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking\" water cooler satisfies him, as it usually would. At work, he is also depicted as somewhat of a bumbling egotist. Shortly after he silently bemoans the fact that his salesmanship is far superior to that of his employees, he dictates an incomprehensible letter for Miss McGoun to type up. When she edits it and makes substantial improvements, he wishes she would \"quit trying to improve dictation\" and does not notice that the word \"Realty\" is mistakenly replaced with \"Reality.\" Despite his minor frustration with her, Babbitt cannot help but be attracted to Miss McGoun, with whom he associates the fairy girl of his dreams. In fact, in his twenty-three years of marriage, he has looked longingly on every other beautiful woman he has seen, and though he has never been unfaithful, it is clear that Babbitt wants more than what he has."}

THE towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs and delicate as silver rods. They were neither citadels nor churches, but frankly and beautifully office-buildings. The mist took pity on the fretted structures of earlier generations: the Post Office with its shingle-tortured mansard, the red brick minarets of hulking old houses, factories with stingy and sooted windows, wooden tenements colored like mud. The city was full of such grotesqueries, but the clean towers were thrusting them from the business center, and on the farther hills were shining new houses, homes--they seemed--for laughter and tranquillity. Over a concrete bridge fled a limousine of long sleek hood and noiseless engine. These people in evening clothes were returning from an all-night rehearsal of a Little Theater play, an artistic adventure considerably illuminated by champagne. Below the bridge curved a railroad, a maze of green and crimson lights. The New York Flyer boomed past, and twenty lines of polished steel leaped into the glare. In one of the skyscrapers the wires of the Associated Press were closing down. The telegraph operators wearily raised their celluloid eye-shades after a night of talking with Paris and Peking. Through the building crawled the scrubwomen, yawning, their old shoes slapping. The dawn mist spun away. Cues of men with lunch-boxes clumped toward the immensity of new factories, sheets of glass and hollow tile, glittering shops where five thousand men worked beneath one roof, pouring out the honest wares that would be sold up the Euphrates and across the veldt. The whistles rolled out in greeting a chorus cheerful as the April dawn; the song of labor in a city built--it seemed--for giants. II There was nothing of the giant in the aspect of the man who was beginning to awaken on the sleeping-porch of a Dutch Colonial house in that residential district of Zenith known as Floral Heights. His name was George F. Babbitt. He was forty-six years old now, in April, 1920, and he made nothing in particular, neither butter nor shoes nor poetry, but he was nimble in the calling of selling houses for more than people could afford to pay. His large head was pink, his brown hair thin and dry. His face was babyish in slumber, despite his wrinkles and the red spectacle-dents on the slopes of his nose. He was not fat but he was exceedingly well fed; his cheeks were pads, and the unroughened hand which lay helpless upon the khaki-colored blanket was slightly puffy. He seemed prosperous, extremely married and unromantic; and altogether unromantic appeared this sleeping-porch, which looked on one sizable elm, two respectable grass-plots, a cement driveway, and a corrugated iron garage. Yet Babbitt was again dreaming of the fairy child, a dream more romantic than scarlet pagodas by a silver sea. For years the fairy child had come to him. Where others saw but Georgie Babbitt, she discerned gallant youth. She waited for him, in the darkness beyond mysterious groves. When at last he could slip away from the crowded house he darted to her. His wife, his clamoring friends, sought to follow, but he escaped, the girl fleet beside him, and they crouched together on a shadowy hillside. She was so slim, so white, so eager! She cried that he was gay and valiant, that she would wait for him, that they would sail-- Rumble and bang of the milk-truck. Babbitt moaned; turned over; struggled back toward his dream. He could see only her face now, beyond misty waters. The furnace-man slammed the basement door. A dog barked in the next yard. As Babbitt sank blissfully into a dim warm tide, the paper-carrier went by whistling, and the rolled-up Advocate thumped the front door. Babbitt roused, his stomach constricted with alarm. As he relaxed, he was pierced by the familiar and irritating rattle of some one cranking a Ford: snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah, snap-ah-ah. Himself a pious motorist, Babbitt cranked with the unseen driver, with him waited through taut hours for the roar of the starting engine, with him agonized as the roar ceased and again began the infernal patient snap-ah-ah--a round, flat sound, a shivering cold-morning sound, a sound infuriating and inescapable. Not till the rising voice of the motor told him that the Ford was moving was he released from the panting tension. He glanced once at his favorite tree, elm twigs against the gold patina of sky, and fumbled for sleep as for a drug. He who had been a boy very credulous of life was no longer greatly interested in the possible and improbable adventures of each new day. He escaped from reality till the alarm-clock rang, at seven-twenty. III It was the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks, with all modern attachments, including cathedral chime, intermittent alarm, and a phosphorescent dial. Babbitt was proud of being awakened by such a rich device. Socially it was almost as creditable as buying expensive cord tires. He sulkily admitted now that there was no more escape, but he lay and detested the grind of the real-estate business, and disliked his family, and disliked himself for disliking them. The evening before, he had played poker at Vergil Gunch's till midnight, and after such holidays he was irritable before breakfast. It may have been the tremendous home-brewed beer of the prohibition-era and the cigars to which that beer enticed him; it may have been resentment of return from this fine, bold man-world to a restricted region of wives and stenographers, and of suggestions not to smoke so much. From the bedroom beside the sleeping-porch, his wife's detestably cheerful "Time to get up, Georgie boy," and the itchy sound, the brisk and scratchy sound, of combing hairs out of a stiff brush. He grunted; he dragged his thick legs, in faded baby-blue pajamas, from under the khaki blanket; he sat on the edge of the cot, running his fingers through his wild hair, while his plump feet mechanically felt for his slippers. He looked regretfully at the blanket--forever a suggestion to him of freedom and heroism. He had bought it for a camping trip which had never come off. It symbolized gorgeous loafing, gorgeous cursing, virile flannel shirts. He creaked to his feet, groaning at the waves of pain which passed behind his eyeballs. Though he waited for their scorching recurrence, he looked blurrily out at the yard. It delighted him, as always; it was the neat yard of a successful business man of Zenith, that is, it was perfection, and made him also perfect. He regarded the corrugated iron garage. For the three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth time in a year he reflected, "No class to that tin shack. Have to build me a frame garage. But by golly it's the only thing on the place that isn't up-to-date!" While he stared he thought of a community garage for his acreage development, Glen Oriole. He stopped puffing and jiggling. His arms were akimbo. His petulant, sleep-swollen face was set in harder lines. He suddenly seemed capable, an official, a man to contrive, to direct, to get things done. On the vigor of his idea he was carried down the hard, clean, unused-looking hall into the bathroom. Though the house was not large it had, like all houses on Floral Heights, an altogether royal bathroom of porcelain and glazed tile and metal sleek as silver. The towel-rack was a rod of clear glass set in nickel. The tub was long enough for a Prussian Guard, and above the set bowl was a sensational exhibit of tooth-brush holder, shaving-brush holder, soap-dish, sponge-dish, and medicine-cabinet, so glittering and so ingenious that they resembled an electrical instrument-board. But the Babbitt whose god was Modern Appliances was not pleased. The air of the bathroom was thick with the smell of a heathen toothpaste. "Verona been at it again! 'Stead of sticking to Lilidol, like I've re-peat-ed-ly asked her, she's gone and gotten some confounded stinkum stuff that makes you sick!" The bath-mat was wrinkled and the floor was wet. (His daughter Verona eccentrically took baths in the morning, now and then.) He slipped on the mat, and slid against the tub. He said "Damn!" Furiously he snatched up his tube of shaving-cream, furiously he lathered, with a belligerent slapping of the unctuous brush, furiously he raked his plump cheeks with a safety-razor. It pulled. The blade was dull. He said, "Damn--oh--oh--damn it!" He hunted through the medicine-cabinet for a packet of new razor-blades (reflecting, as invariably, "Be cheaper to buy one of these dinguses and strop your own blades,") and when he discovered the packet, behind the round box of bicarbonate of soda, he thought ill of his wife for putting it there and very well of himself for not saying "Damn." But he did say it, immediately afterward, when with wet and soap-slippery fingers he tried to remove the horrible little envelope and crisp clinging oiled paper from the new blade. Then there was the problem, oft-pondered, never solved, of what to do with the old blade, which might imperil the fingers of his young. As usual, he tossed it on top of the medicine-cabinet, with a mental note that some day he must remove the fifty or sixty other blades that were also temporarily, piled up there. He finished his shaving in a growing testiness increased by his spinning headache and by the emptiness in his stomach. When he was done, his round face smooth and streamy and his eyes stinging from soapy water, he reached for a towel. The family towels were wet, wet and clammy and vile, all of them wet, he found, as he blindly snatched them--his own face-towel, his wife's, Verona's, Ted's, Tinka's, and the lone bath-towel with the huge welt of initial. Then George F. Babbitt did a dismaying thing. He wiped his face on the guest-towel! It was a pansy-embroidered trifle which always hung there to indicate that the Babbitts were in the best Floral Heights society. No one had ever used it. No guest had ever dared to. Guests secretively took a corner of the nearest regular towel. He was raging, "By golly, here they go and use up all the towels, every doggone one of 'em, and they use 'em and get 'em all wet and sopping, and never put out a dry one for me--of course, I'm the goat!--and then I want one and--I'm the only person in the doggone house that's got the slightest doggone bit of consideration for other people and thoughtfulness and consider there may be others that may want to use the doggone bathroom after me and consider--" He was pitching the chill abominations into the bath-tub, pleased by the vindictiveness of that desolate flapping sound; and in the midst his wife serenely trotted in, observed serenely, "Why Georgie dear, what are you doing? Are you going to wash out the towels? Why, you needn't wash out the towels. Oh, Georgie, you didn't go and use the guest-towel, did you?" It is not recorded that he was able to answer. For the first time in weeks he was sufficiently roused by his wife to look at her. IV Myra Babbitt--Mrs. George F. Babbitt--was definitely mature. She had creases from the corners of her mouth to the bottom of her chin, and her plump neck bagged. But the thing that marked her as having passed the line was that she no longer had reticences before her husband, and no longer worried about not having reticences. She was in a petticoat now, and corsets which bulged, and unaware of being seen in bulgy corsets. She had become so dully habituated to married life that in her full matronliness she was as sexless as an anemic nun. She was a good woman, a kind woman, a diligent woman, but no one, save perhaps Tinka her ten-year-old, was at all interested in her or entirely aware that she was alive. After a rather thorough discussion of all the domestic and social aspects of towels she apologized to Babbitt for his having an alcoholic headache; and he recovered enough to endure the search for a B.V.D. undershirt which had, he pointed out, malevolently been concealed among his clean pajamas. He was fairly amiable in the conference on the brown suit. "What do you think, Myra?" He pawed at the clothes hunched on a chair in their bedroom, while she moved about mysteriously adjusting and patting her petticoat and, to his jaundiced eye, never seeming to get on with her dressing. "How about it? Shall I wear the brown suit another day?" "Well, it looks awfully nice on you." "I know, but gosh, it needs pressing." "That's so. Perhaps it does." "It certainly could stand being pressed, all right." "Yes, perhaps it wouldn't hurt it to be pressed." "But gee, the coat doesn't need pressing. No sense in having the whole darn suit pressed, when the coat doesn't need it." "That's so." "But the pants certainly need it, all right. Look at them--look at those wrinkles--the pants certainly do need pressing." "That's so. Oh, Georgie, why couldn't you wear the brown coat with the blue trousers we were wondering what we'd do with them?" "Good Lord! Did you ever in all my life know me to wear the coat of one suit and the pants of another? What do you think I am? A busted bookkeeper?" "Well, why don't you put on the dark gray suit to-day, and stop in at the tailor and leave the brown trousers?" "Well, they certainly need--Now where the devil is that gray suit? Oh, yes, here we are." He was able to get through the other crises of dressing with comparative resoluteness and calm. His first adornment was the sleeveless dimity B.V.D. undershirt, in which he resembled a small boy humorlessly wearing a cheesecloth tabard at a civic pageant. He never put on B.V.D.'s without thanking the God of Progress that he didn't wear tight, long, old-fashioned undergarments, like his father-in-law and partner, Henry Thompson. His second embellishment was combing and slicking back his hair. It gave him a tremendous forehead, arching up two inches beyond the former hair-line. But most wonder-working of all was the donning of his spectacles. There is character in spectacles--the pretentious tortoiseshell, the meek pince-nez of the school teacher, the twisted silver-framed glasses of the old villager. Babbitt's spectacles had huge, circular, frameless lenses of the very best glass; the ear-pieces were thin bars of gold. In them he was the modern business man; one who gave orders to clerks and drove a car and played occasional golf and was scholarly in regard to Salesmanship. His head suddenly appeared not babyish but weighty, and you noted his heavy, blunt nose, his straight mouth and thick, long upper lip, his chin overfleshy but strong; with respect you beheld him put on the rest of his uniform as a Solid Citizen. The gray suit was well cut, well made, and completely undistinguished. It was a standard suit. White piping on the V of the vest added a flavor of law and learning. His shoes were black laced boots, good boots, honest boots, standard boots, extraordinarily uninteresting boots. The only frivolity was in his purple knitted scarf. With considerable comment on the matter to Mrs. Babbitt (who, acrobatically fastening the back of her blouse to her skirt with a safety-pin, did not hear a word he said), he chose between the purple scarf and a tapestry effect with stringless brown harps among blown palms, and into it he thrust a snake-head pin with opal eyes. A sensational event was changing from the brown suit to the gray the contents of his pockets. He was earnest about these objects. They were of eternal importance, like baseball or the Republican Party. They included a fountain pen and a silver pencil (always lacking a supply of new leads) which belonged in the righthand upper vest pocket. Without them he would have felt naked. On his watch-chain were a gold penknife, silver cigar-cutter, seven keys (the use of two of which he had forgotten), and incidentally a good watch. Depending from the chain was a large, yellowish elk's-tooth-proclamation of his membership in the Brotherly and Protective Order of Elks. Most significant of all was his loose-leaf pocket note-book, that modern and efficient note-book which contained the addresses of people whom he had forgotten, prudent memoranda of postal money-orders which had reached their destinations months ago, stamps which had lost their mucilage, clippings of verses by T. Cholmondeley Frink and of the newspaper editorials from which Babbitt got his opinions and his polysyllables, notes to be sure and do things which he did not intend to do, and one curious inscription--D.S.S. D.M.Y.P.D.F. But he had no cigarette-case. No one had ever happened to give him one, so he hadn't the habit, and people who carried cigarette-cases he regarded as effeminate. Last, he stuck in his lapel the Boosters' Club button. With the conciseness of great art the button displayed two words: "Boosters-Pep!" It made Babbitt feel loyal and important. It associated him with Good Fellows, with men who were nice and human, and important in business circles. It was his V.C., his Legion of Honor ribbon, his Phi Beta Kappa key. With the subtleties of dressing ran other complex worries. "I feel kind of punk this morning," he said. "I think I had too much dinner last evening. You oughtn't to serve those heavy banana fritters." "But you asked me to have some." "I know, but--I tell you, when a fellow gets past forty he has to look after his digestion. There's a lot of fellows that don't take proper care of themselves. I tell you at forty a man's a fool or his doctor--I mean, his own doctor. Folks don't give enough attention to this matter of dieting. Now I think--Course a man ought to have a good meal after the day's work, but it would be a good thing for both of us if we took lighter lunches." "But Georgie, here at home I always do have a light lunch." "Mean to imply I make a hog of myself, eating down-town? Yes, sure! You'd have a swell time if you had to eat the truck that new steward hands out to us at the Athletic Club! But I certainly do feel out of sorts, this morning. Funny, got a pain down here on the left side--but no, that wouldn't be appendicitis, would it? Last night, when I was driving over to Verg Gunch's, I felt a pain in my stomach, too. Right here it was--kind of a sharp shooting pain. I--Where'd that dime go to? Why don't you serve more prunes at breakfast? Of course I eat an apple every evening--an apple a day keeps the doctor away--but still, you ought to have more prunes, and not all these fancy doodads." "The last time I had prunes you didn't eat them." "Well, I didn't feel like eating 'em, I suppose. Matter of fact, I think I did eat some of 'em. Anyway--I tell you it's mighty important to--I was saying to Verg Gunch, just last evening, most people don't take sufficient care of their diges--" "Shall we have the Gunches for our dinner, next week?" "Why sure; you bet." "Now see here, George: I want you to put on your nice dinner-jacket that evening." "Rats! The rest of 'em won't want to dress." "Of course they will. You remember when you didn't dress for the Littlefields' supper-party, and all the rest did, and how embarrassed you were." "Embarrassed, hell! I wasn't embarrassed. Everybody knows I can put on as expensive a Tux. as anybody else, and I should worry if I don't happen to have it on sometimes. All a darn nuisance, anyway. All right for a woman, that stays around the house all the time, but when a fellow's worked like the dickens all day, he doesn't want to go and hustle his head off getting into the soup-and-fish for a lot of folks that he's seen in just reg'lar ordinary clothes that same day." "You know you enjoy being seen in one. The other evening you admitted you were glad I'd insisted on your dressing. You said you felt a lot better for it. And oh, Georgie, I do wish you wouldn't say 'Tux.' It's 'dinner-jacket.'" "Rats, what's the odds?" "Well, it's what all the nice folks say. Suppose Lucile McKelvey heard you calling it a 'Tux.'" "Well, that's all right now! Lucile McKelvey can't pull anything on me! Her folks are common as mud, even if her husband and her dad are millionaires! I suppose you're trying to rub in your exalted social position! Well, let me tell you that your revered paternal ancestor, Henry T., doesn't even call it a 'Tux.'! He calls it a 'bobtail jacket for a ringtail monkey,' and you couldn't get him into one unless you chloroformed him!" "Now don't be horrid, George." "Well, I don't want to be horrid, but Lord! you're getting as fussy as Verona. Ever since she got out of college she's been too rambunctious to live with--doesn't know what she wants--well, I know what she wants!--all she wants is to marry a millionaire, and live in Europe, and hold some preacher's hand, and simultaneously at the same time stay right here in Zenith and be some blooming kind of a socialist agitator or boss charity-worker or some damn thing! Lord, and Ted is just as bad! He wants to go to college, and he doesn't want to go to college. Only one of the three that knows her own mind is Tinka. Simply can't understand how I ever came to have a pair of shillyshallying children like Rone and Ted. I may not be any Rockefeller or James J. Shakespeare, but I certainly do know my own mind, and I do keep right on plugging along in the office and--Do you know the latest? Far as I can figure out, Ted's new bee is he'd like to be a movie actor and--And here I've told him a hundred times, if he'll go to college and law-school and make good, I'll set him up in business and--Verona just exactly as bad. Doesn't know what she wants. Well, well, come on! Aren't you ready yet? The girl rang the bell three minutes ago." V Before he followed his wife, Babbitt stood at the westernmost window of their room. This residential settlement, Floral Heights, was on a rise; and though the center of the city was three miles away--Zenith had between three and four hundred thousand inhabitants now--he could see the top of the Second National Tower, an Indiana limestone building of thirty-five stories. Its shining walls rose against April sky to a simple cornice like a streak of white fire. Integrity was in the tower, and decision. It bore its strength lightly as a tall soldier. As Babbitt stared, the nervousness was soothed from his face, his slack chin lifted in reverence. All he articulated was "That's one lovely sight!" but he was inspired by the rhythm of the city; his love of it renewed. He beheld the tower as a temple-spire of the religion of business, a faith passionate, exalted, surpassing common men; and as he clumped down to breakfast he whistled the ballad "Oh, by gee, by gosh, by jingo" as though it were a hymn melancholy and noble.

Chapter I

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-i-iii

As the city begins to bustle with hordes of men going to work in the huge factories of the city of Zenith, forty-six-year-old George F. Babbitt awakens in his bed on the sleeping-porch in a residential district of Zenith called Floral Heights. Mourning the retreat from his recurrent, romantic dream about a fairy child, he reflects on how very much he detests both "the grind of the real-estate business" and his family. Begrudgingly getting out of bed at his wife's prompting, he considers his home and congratulates himself because it is almost entirely "up-to-date" with all of the modern conveniences and the latest technology. It is entirely "competent and glossy". But it is far too impersonal to be a real home. As he performs his morning routine, he finds himself increasingly infuriated by the seemingly normal habits of his wife, Myra, and their children. George and Myra have a humorously mundane conversation about the state of George's suits and about their diet as he completes his regimen. George complains about the lack of occupational direction exhibited by Verona and Ted, but briefly viewing the city from his window fills him with inspiration for "the religion of business"

The novel opens with a description of the city of Zenith in all of its grandeur. It is a new city, recently built and freshly gleaming, though with remnants of the "fretted structures" of its inferior past. Although the city seems figuratively to rise above the humans who occupy it, Lewis highlights the fact that it is, indeed, the work of humans. People envisioned it and built it, and people run the factories and offices that make it a functioning city. Even so, to Babbitt it exists on a scale entirely beyond average human existence; it is "a city built--it --for giants" . The rapid shift from the focus on Zenith to a close-up of George Babbitt asleep in his bed, in whose aspect there is "nothing of the giant" , establishes a juxtaposition that reveals Babbitt's relative insignificance and characteristic ineffectuality. He is pink, plump, and in a state of utter inaction, which immediately contrasts with the streamlined, metallic bustling of the city. He knows that it is larger than he can be. Even the exciting and romantic dream that he is having about the fairy child is disrupted by the noise of the milk truck, suggesting that there is nothing transcendent in Babbitt's banal life. His is not a world of pleasure and indulgence but material reality, and even his dreams crash against this mundane reality. Such dreams, however, offer the reader a glimpse into Babbitt's inner life--a consciousness that even he does not fully recognize. His dreams and dissatisfactions reveal his longing for a deeper satisfaction. Although we do not yet know what Babbitt has in his life, we already know that it is not quite what he wants. Shortly afterward, we do learn about what Babbitt has. He has "the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks" , he has an almost entirely modern and up-to-date house, he has several objects that he carries around in his pockets and never uses, and he has a car that represents "poetry and tragedy" to him. In short, he has an overwhelming tendency to worship objects and technology, which offers him fleeting moments of gratification and self-importance. He is a reverent and unknowing slave to the objects that govern his life, and as the novel progresses, it becomes obvious that this infatuation has replaced the potential for meaningful relationships with other people or with his community. The emptiness of his relationships becomes evident through the extended conversation that he has with his wife, Myra, about which suit to wear. The exchange is utterly devoid of any substance. Similarly, his conversations with other community members revolve around little more than the weather. He finds even the most innocuous behavior of his family to be completely unbearable, and he is plagued by dissatisfaction and fatigue that only his love for city and technology can temporarily improve. Whatever a fairy girl might give him, perhaps, could be the key he needs to something more, or in Babbitt's hands she could become just a more idealized kind of boring partner. At the beginning of the novel, we learn that his dissatisfaction at home has just started to appear at work. As co-owner of the Babbitt-Thompson Reality Company, he has previously enjoyed the work of selling real estate for far more than its worth. Now, however, he feels "smothered in the stale office air" . With satiric sarcasm, Lewis indicates that not even the new "up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking" water cooler satisfies him, as it usually would. At work, he is also depicted as somewhat of a bumbling egotist. Shortly after he silently bemoans the fact that his salesmanship is far superior to that of his employees, he dictates an incomprehensible letter for Miss McGoun to type up. When she edits it and makes substantial improvements, he wishes she would "quit trying to improve dictation" and does not notice that the word "Realty" is mistakenly replaced with "Reality." Despite his minor frustration with her, Babbitt cannot help but be attracted to Miss McGoun, with whom he associates the fairy girl of his dreams. In fact, in his twenty-three years of marriage, he has looked longingly on every other beautiful woman he has seen, and though he has never been unfaithful, it is clear that Babbitt wants more than what he has.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_0_part_2.txt

Babbitt.chapter ii

chapter ii

{"name": "Chapter II", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-i-iii", "summary": "George is uncharacteristically irritable when he goes down to breakfast. The sense of disliking his family returns as he argues with Verona about the ills of socialism and complains about the food. Ted and Verona proceed to argue childishly. George complains to Myra and tries to speak with her about the news, but she is clearly uninformed and uninterested. Though he betrays a moment of tenderness for her and her humbleness, he leaves the house still feeling disenchanted, cranky, and tired", "analysis": "The novel opens with a description of the city of Zenith in all of its grandeur. It is a new city, recently built and freshly gleaming, though with remnants of the \"fretted structures\" of its inferior past. Although the city seems figuratively to rise above the humans who occupy it, Lewis highlights the fact that it is, indeed, the work of humans. People envisioned it and built it, and people run the factories and offices that make it a functioning city. Even so, to Babbitt it exists on a scale entirely beyond average human existence; it is \"a city built--it --for giants\" . The rapid shift from the focus on Zenith to a close-up of George Babbitt asleep in his bed, in whose aspect there is \"nothing of the giant\" , establishes a juxtaposition that reveals Babbitt's relative insignificance and characteristic ineffectuality. He is pink, plump, and in a state of utter inaction, which immediately contrasts with the streamlined, metallic bustling of the city. He knows that it is larger than he can be. Even the exciting and romantic dream that he is having about the fairy child is disrupted by the noise of the milk truck, suggesting that there is nothing transcendent in Babbitt's banal life. His is not a world of pleasure and indulgence but material reality, and even his dreams crash against this mundane reality. Such dreams, however, offer the reader a glimpse into Babbitt's inner life--a consciousness that even he does not fully recognize. His dreams and dissatisfactions reveal his longing for a deeper satisfaction. Although we do not yet know what Babbitt has in his life, we already know that it is not quite what he wants. Shortly afterward, we do learn about what Babbitt has. He has \"the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks\" , he has an almost entirely modern and up-to-date house, he has several objects that he carries around in his pockets and never uses, and he has a car that represents \"poetry and tragedy\" to him. In short, he has an overwhelming tendency to worship objects and technology, which offers him fleeting moments of gratification and self-importance. He is a reverent and unknowing slave to the objects that govern his life, and as the novel progresses, it becomes obvious that this infatuation has replaced the potential for meaningful relationships with other people or with his community. The emptiness of his relationships becomes evident through the extended conversation that he has with his wife, Myra, about which suit to wear. The exchange is utterly devoid of any substance. Similarly, his conversations with other community members revolve around little more than the weather. He finds even the most innocuous behavior of his family to be completely unbearable, and he is plagued by dissatisfaction and fatigue that only his love for city and technology can temporarily improve. Whatever a fairy girl might give him, perhaps, could be the key he needs to something more, or in Babbitt's hands she could become just a more idealized kind of boring partner. At the beginning of the novel, we learn that his dissatisfaction at home has just started to appear at work. As co-owner of the Babbitt-Thompson Reality Company, he has previously enjoyed the work of selling real estate for far more than its worth. Now, however, he feels \"smothered in the stale office air\" . With satiric sarcasm, Lewis indicates that not even the new \"up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking\" water cooler satisfies him, as it usually would. At work, he is also depicted as somewhat of a bumbling egotist. Shortly after he silently bemoans the fact that his salesmanship is far superior to that of his employees, he dictates an incomprehensible letter for Miss McGoun to type up. When she edits it and makes substantial improvements, he wishes she would \"quit trying to improve dictation\" and does not notice that the word \"Realty\" is mistakenly replaced with \"Reality.\" Despite his minor frustration with her, Babbitt cannot help but be attracted to Miss McGoun, with whom he associates the fairy girl of his dreams. In fact, in his twenty-three years of marriage, he has looked longingly on every other beautiful woman he has seen, and though he has never been unfaithful, it is clear that Babbitt wants more than what he has."}

RELIEVED of Babbitt's bumbling and the soft grunts with which his wife expressed the sympathy she was too experienced to feel and much too experienced not to show, their bedroom settled instantly into impersonality. It gave on the sleeping-porch. It served both of them as dressing-room, and on the coldest nights Babbitt luxuriously gave up the duty of being manly and retreated to the bed inside, to curl his toes in the warmth and laugh at the January gale. The room displayed a modest and pleasant color-scheme, after one of the best standard designs of the decorator who "did the interiors" for most of the speculative-builders' houses in Zenith. The walls were gray, the woodwork white, the rug a serene blue; and very much like mahogany was the furniture--the bureau with its great clear mirror, Mrs. Babbitt's dressing-table with toilet-articles of almost solid silver, the plain twin beds, between them a small table holding a standard electric bedside lamp, a glass for water, and a standard bedside book with colored illustrations--what particular book it was cannot be ascertained, since no one had ever opened it. The mattresses were firm but not hard, triumphant modern mattresses which had cost a great deal of money; the hot-water radiator was of exactly the proper scientific surface for the cubic contents of the room. The windows were large and easily opened, with the best catches and cords, and Holland roller-shades guaranteed not to crack. It was a masterpiece among bedrooms, right out of Cheerful Modern Houses for Medium Incomes. Only it had nothing to do with the Babbitts, nor with any one else. If people had ever lived and loved here, read thrillers at midnight and lain in beautiful indolence on a Sunday morning, there were no signs of it. It had the air of being a very good room in a very good hotel. One expected the chambermaid to come in and make it ready for people who would stay but one night, go without looking back, and never think of it again. Every second house in Floral Heights had a bedroom precisely like this. The Babbitts' house was five years old. It was all as competent and glossy as this bedroom. It had the best of taste, the best of inexpensive rugs, a simple and laudable architecture, and the latest conveniences. Throughout, electricity took the place of candles and slatternly hearth-fires. Along the bedroom baseboard were three plugs for electric lamps, concealed by little brass doors. In the halls were plugs for the vacuum cleaner, and in the living-room plugs for the piano lamp, for the electric fan. The trim dining-room (with its admirable oak buffet, its leaded-glass cupboard, its creamy plaster walls, its modest scene of a salmon expiring upon a pile of oysters) had plugs which supplied the electric percolator and the electric toaster. In fact there was but one thing wrong with the Babbitt house: It was not a home. II Often of a morning Babbitt came bouncing and jesting in to breakfast. But things were mysteriously awry to-day. As he pontifically tread the upper hall he looked into Verona's bedroom and protested, "What's the use of giving the family a high-class house when they don't appreciate it and tend to business and get down to brass tacks?" He marched upon them: Verona, a dumpy brown-haired girl of twenty-two, just out of Bryn Mawr, given to solicitudes about duty and sex and God and the unconquerable bagginess of the gray sports-suit she was now wearing. Ted--Theodore Roosevelt Babbitt--a decorative boy of seventeen. Tinka--Katherine--still a baby at ten, with radiant red hair and a thin skin which hinted of too much candy and too many ice cream sodas. Babbitt did not show his vague irritation as he tramped in. He really disliked being a family tyrant, and his nagging was as meaningless as it was frequent. He shouted at Tinka, "Well, kittiedoolie!" It was the only pet name in his vocabulary, except the "dear" and "hon." with which he recognized his wife, and he flung it at Tinka every morning. He gulped a cup of coffee in the hope of pacifying his stomach and his soul. His stomach ceased to feel as though it did not belong to him, but Verona began to be conscientious and annoying, and abruptly there returned to Babbitt the doubts regarding life and families and business which had clawed at him when his dream-life and the slim fairy girl had fled. Verona had for six months been filing-clerk at the Gruensberg Leather Company offices, with a prospect of becoming secretary to Mr. Gruensberg and thus, as Babbitt defined it, "getting some good out of your expensive college education till you're ready to marry and settle down." But now said Verona: "Father! I was talking to a classmate of mine that's working for the Associated Charities--oh, Dad, there's the sweetest little babies that come to the milk-station there!--and I feel as though I ought to be doing something worth while like that." "What do you mean 'worth while'? If you get to be Gruensberg's secretary--and maybe you would, if you kept up your shorthand and didn't go sneaking off to concerts and talkfests every evening--I guess you'll find thirty-five or forty bones a week worth while!" "I know, but--oh, I want to--contribute--I wish I were working in a settlement-house. I wonder if I could get one of the department-stores to let me put in a welfare-department with a nice rest-room and chintzes and wicker chairs and so on and so forth. Or I could--" "Now you look here! The first thing you got to understand is that all this uplift and flipflop and settlement-work and recreation is nothing in God's world but the entering wedge for socialism. The sooner a man learns he isn't going to be coddled, and he needn't expect a lot of free grub and, uh, all these free classes and flipflop and doodads for his kids unless he earns 'em, why, the sooner he'll get on the job and produce--produce--produce! That's what the country needs, and not all this fancy stuff that just enfeebles the will-power of the working man and gives his kids a lot of notions above their class. And you--if you'd tend to business instead of fooling and fussing--All the time! When I was a young man I made up my mind what I wanted to do, and stuck to it through thick and thin, and that's why I'm where I am to-day, and--Myra! What do you let the girl chop the toast up into these dinky little chunks for? Can't get your fist onto 'em. Half cold, anyway!" Ted Babbitt, junior in the great East Side High School, had been making hiccup-like sounds of interruption. He blurted now, "Say, Rone, you going to--" Verona whirled. "Ted! Will you kindly not interrupt us when we're talking about serious matters!" "Aw punk," said Ted judicially. "Ever since somebody slipped up and let you out of college, Ammonia, you been pulling these nut conversations about what-nots and so-on-and-so-forths. Are you going to--I want to use the car tonight." Babbitt snorted, "Oh, you do! May want it myself!" Verona protested, "Oh, you do, Mr. Smarty! I'm going to take it myself!" Tinka wailed, "Oh, papa, you said maybe you'd drive us down to Rosedale!" and Mrs. Babbitt, "Careful, Tinka, your sleeve is in the butter." They glared, and Verona hurled, "Ted, you're a perfect pig about the car!" "Course you're not! Not a-tall!" Ted could be maddeningly bland. "You just want to grab it off, right after dinner, and leave it in front of some skirt's house all evening while you sit and gas about lite'ature and the highbrows you're going to marry--if they only propose!" "Well, Dad oughtn't to EVER let you have it! You and those beastly Jones boys drive like maniacs. The idea of your taking the turn on Chautauqua Place at forty miles an hour!" "Aw, where do you get that stuff! You're so darn scared of the car that you drive up-hill with the emergency brake on!" "I do not! And you--Always talking about how much you know about motors, and Eunice Littlefield told me you said the battery fed the generator!" "You--why, my good woman, you don't know a generator from a differential." Not unreasonably was Ted lofty with her. He was a natural mechanic, a maker and tinkerer of machines; he lisped in blueprints for the blueprints came. "That'll do now!" Babbitt flung in mechanically, as he lighted the gloriously satisfying first cigar of the day and tasted the exhilarating drug of the Advocate-Times headlines. Ted negotiated: "Gee, honest, Rone, I don't want to take the old boat, but I promised couple o' girls in my class I'd drive 'em down to the rehearsal of the school chorus, and, gee, I don't want to, but a gentleman's got to keep his social engagements." "Well, upon my word! You and your social engagements! In high school!" "Oh, ain't we select since we went to that hen college! Let me tell you there isn't a private school in the state that's got as swell a bunch as we got in Gamma Digamma this year. There's two fellows that their dads are millionaires. Say, gee, I ought to have a car of my own, like lots of the fellows." Babbitt almost rose. "A car of your own! Don't you want a yacht, and a house and lot? That pretty nearly takes the cake! A boy that can't pass his Latin examinations, like any other boy ought to, and he expects me to give him a motor-car, and I suppose a chauffeur, and an areoplane maybe, as a reward for the hard work he puts in going to the movies with Eunice Littlefield! Well, when you see me giving you--" Somewhat later, after diplomacies, Ted persuaded Verona to admit that she was merely going to the Armory, that evening, to see the dog and cat show. She was then, Ted planned, to park the car in front of the candy-store across from the Armory and he would pick it up. There were masterly arrangements regarding leaving the key, and having the gasoline tank filled; and passionately, devotees of the Great God Motor, they hymned the patch on the spare inner-tube, and the lost jack-handle. Their truce dissolving, Ted observed that her friends were "a scream of a bunch-stuck-up gabby four-flushers." His friends, she indicated, were "disgusting imitation sports, and horrid little shrieking ignorant girls." Further: "It's disgusting of you to smoke cigarettes, and so on and so forth, and those clothes you've got on this morning, they're too utterly ridiculous--honestly, simply disgusting." Ted balanced over to the low beveled mirror in the buffet, regarded his charms, and smirked. His suit, the latest thing in Old Eli Togs, was skin-tight, with skimpy trousers to the tops of his glaring tan boots, a chorus-man waistline, pattern of an agitated check, and across the back a belt which belted nothing. His scarf was an enormous black silk wad. His flaxen hair was ice-smooth, pasted back without parting. When he went to school he would add a cap with a long vizor like a shovel-blade. Proudest of all was his waistcoat, saved for, begged for, plotted for; a real Fancy Vest of fawn with polka dots of a decayed red, the points astoundingly long. On the lower edge of it he wore a high-school button, a class button, and a fraternity pin. And none of it mattered. He was supple and swift and flushed; his eyes (which he believed to be cynical) were candidly eager. But he was not over-gentle. He waved his hand at poor dumpy Verona and drawled: "Yes, I guess we're pretty ridiculous and disgusticulus, and I rather guess our new necktie is some smear!" Babbitt barked: "It is! And while you're admiring yourself, let me tell you it might add to your manly beauty if you wiped some of that egg off your mouth!" Verona giggled, momentary victor in the greatest of Great Wars, which is the family war. Ted looked at her hopelessly, then shrieked at Tinka: "For the love o' Pete, quit pouring the whole sugar bowl on your corn flakes!" When Verona and Ted were gone and Tinka upstairs, Babbitt groaned to his wife: "Nice family, I must say! I don't pretend to be any baa-lamb, and maybe I'm a little cross-grained at breakfast sometimes, but the way they go on jab-jab-jabbering, I simply can't stand it. I swear, I feel like going off some place where I can get a little peace. I do think after a man's spent his lifetime trying to give his kids a chance and a decent education, it's pretty discouraging to hear them all the time scrapping like a bunch of hyenas and never--and never--Curious; here in the paper it says--Never silent for one mom--Seen the morning paper yet?" "No, dear." In twenty-three years of married life, Mrs. Babbitt had seen the paper before her husband just sixty-seven times. "Lots of news. Terrible big tornado in the South. Hard luck, all right. But this, say, this is corking! Beginning of the end for those fellows! New York Assembly has passed some bills that ought to completely outlaw the socialists! And there's an elevator-runners' strike in New York and a lot of college boys are taking their places. That's the stuff! And a mass-meeting in Birmingham's demanded that this Mick agitator, this fellow De Valera, be deported. Dead right, by golly! All these agitators paid with German gold anyway. And we got no business interfering with the Irish or any other foreign government. Keep our hands strictly off. And there's another well-authenticated rumor from Russia that Lenin is dead. That's fine. It's beyond me why we don't just step in there and kick those Bolshevik cusses out." "That's so," said Mrs. Babbitt. "And it says here a fellow was inaugurated mayor in overalls--a preacher, too! What do you think of that!" "Humph! Well!" He searched for an attitude, but neither as a Republican, a Presbyterian, an Elk, nor a real-estate broker did he have any doctrine about preacher-mayors laid down for him, so he grunted and went on. She looked sympathetic and did not hear a word. Later she would read the headlines, the society columns, and the department-store advertisements. "What do you know about this! Charley McKelvey still doing the sassiety stunt as heavy as ever. Here's what that gushy woman reporter says about last night:" Never is Society with the big, big S more flattered than when they are bidden to partake of good cheer at the distinguished and hospitable residence of Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. McKelvey as they were last night. Set in its spacious lawns and landscaping, one of the notable sights crowning Royal Ridge, but merry and homelike despite its mighty stone walls and its vast rooms famed for their decoration, their home was thrown open last night for a dance in honor of Mrs. McKelvey's notable guest, Miss J. Sneeth of Washington. The wide hall is so generous in its proportions that it made a perfect ballroom, its hardwood floor reflecting the charming pageant above its polished surface. Even the delights of dancing paled before the alluring opportunities for tete-a-tetes that invited the soul to loaf in the long library before the baronial fireplace, or in the drawing-room with its deep comfy armchairs, its shaded lamps just made for a sly whisper of pretty nothings all a deux; or even in the billiard room where one could take a cue and show a prowess at still another game than that sponsored by Cupid and Terpsichore. There was more, a great deal more, in the best urban journalistic style of Miss Elnora Pearl Bates, the popular society editor of the Advocate-Times. But Babbitt could not abide it. He grunted. He wrinkled the newspaper. He protested: "Can you beat it! I'm willing to hand a lot of credit to Charley McKelvey. When we were in college together, he was just as hard up as any of us, and he's made a million good bucks out of contracting and hasn't been any dishonester or bought any more city councils than was necessary. And that's a good house of his--though it ain't any 'mighty stone walls' and it ain't worth the ninety thousand it cost him. But when it comes to talking as though Charley McKelvey and all that booze-hoisting set of his are any blooming bunch of of, of Vanderbilts, why, it makes me tired!" Timidly from Mrs. Babbitt: "I would like to see the inside of their house though. It must be lovely. I've never been inside." "Well, I have! Lots of--couple of times. To see Chaz about business deals, in the evening. It's not so much. I wouldn't WANT to go there to dinner with that gang of, of high-binders. And I'll bet I make a whole lot more money than some of those tin-horns that spend all they got on dress-suits and haven't got a decent suit of underwear to their name! Hey! What do you think of this!" Mrs. Babbitt was strangely unmoved by the tidings from the Real Estate and Building column of the Advocate-Times: Ashtabula Street, 496--J. K. Dawson to Thomas Mullally, April 17, 15.7 X 112.2, mtg. $4000 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nom And this morning Babbitt was too disquieted to entertain her with items from Mechanics' Liens, Mortgages Recorded, and Contracts Awarded. He rose. As he looked at her his eyebrows seemed shaggier than usual. Suddenly: "Yes, maybe--Kind of shame to not keep in touch with folks like the McKelveys. We might try inviting them to dinner, some evening. Oh, thunder, let's not waste our good time thinking about 'em! Our little bunch has a lot liver times than all those plutes. Just compare a real human like you with these neurotic birds like Lucile McKelvey--all highbrow talk and dressed up like a plush horse! You're a great old girl, hon.!" He covered his betrayal of softness with a complaining: "Say, don't let Tinka go and eat any more of that poison nutfudge. For Heaven's sake, try to keep her from ruining her digestion. I tell you, most folks don't appreciate how important it is to have a good digestion and regular habits. Be back 'bout usual time, I guess." He kissed her--he didn't quite kiss her--he laid unmoving lips against her unflushing cheek. He hurried out to the garage, muttering: "Lord, what a family! And now Myra is going to get pathetic on me because we don't train with this millionaire outfit. Oh, Lord, sometimes I'd like to quit the whole game. And the office worry and detail just as bad. And I act cranky and--I don't mean to, but I get--So darn tired!"

Chapter II

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-i-iii

George is uncharacteristically irritable when he goes down to breakfast. The sense of disliking his family returns as he argues with Verona about the ills of socialism and complains about the food. Ted and Verona proceed to argue childishly. George complains to Myra and tries to speak with her about the news, but she is clearly uninformed and uninterested. Though he betrays a moment of tenderness for her and her humbleness, he leaves the house still feeling disenchanted, cranky, and tired

The novel opens with a description of the city of Zenith in all of its grandeur. It is a new city, recently built and freshly gleaming, though with remnants of the "fretted structures" of its inferior past. Although the city seems figuratively to rise above the humans who occupy it, Lewis highlights the fact that it is, indeed, the work of humans. People envisioned it and built it, and people run the factories and offices that make it a functioning city. Even so, to Babbitt it exists on a scale entirely beyond average human existence; it is "a city built--it --for giants" . The rapid shift from the focus on Zenith to a close-up of George Babbitt asleep in his bed, in whose aspect there is "nothing of the giant" , establishes a juxtaposition that reveals Babbitt's relative insignificance and characteristic ineffectuality. He is pink, plump, and in a state of utter inaction, which immediately contrasts with the streamlined, metallic bustling of the city. He knows that it is larger than he can be. Even the exciting and romantic dream that he is having about the fairy child is disrupted by the noise of the milk truck, suggesting that there is nothing transcendent in Babbitt's banal life. His is not a world of pleasure and indulgence but material reality, and even his dreams crash against this mundane reality. Such dreams, however, offer the reader a glimpse into Babbitt's inner life--a consciousness that even he does not fully recognize. His dreams and dissatisfactions reveal his longing for a deeper satisfaction. Although we do not yet know what Babbitt has in his life, we already know that it is not quite what he wants. Shortly afterward, we do learn about what Babbitt has. He has "the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks" , he has an almost entirely modern and up-to-date house, he has several objects that he carries around in his pockets and never uses, and he has a car that represents "poetry and tragedy" to him. In short, he has an overwhelming tendency to worship objects and technology, which offers him fleeting moments of gratification and self-importance. He is a reverent and unknowing slave to the objects that govern his life, and as the novel progresses, it becomes obvious that this infatuation has replaced the potential for meaningful relationships with other people or with his community. The emptiness of his relationships becomes evident through the extended conversation that he has with his wife, Myra, about which suit to wear. The exchange is utterly devoid of any substance. Similarly, his conversations with other community members revolve around little more than the weather. He finds even the most innocuous behavior of his family to be completely unbearable, and he is plagued by dissatisfaction and fatigue that only his love for city and technology can temporarily improve. Whatever a fairy girl might give him, perhaps, could be the key he needs to something more, or in Babbitt's hands she could become just a more idealized kind of boring partner. At the beginning of the novel, we learn that his dissatisfaction at home has just started to appear at work. As co-owner of the Babbitt-Thompson Reality Company, he has previously enjoyed the work of selling real estate for far more than its worth. Now, however, he feels "smothered in the stale office air" . With satiric sarcasm, Lewis indicates that not even the new "up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking" water cooler satisfies him, as it usually would. At work, he is also depicted as somewhat of a bumbling egotist. Shortly after he silently bemoans the fact that his salesmanship is far superior to that of his employees, he dictates an incomprehensible letter for Miss McGoun to type up. When she edits it and makes substantial improvements, he wishes she would "quit trying to improve dictation" and does not notice that the word "Realty" is mistakenly replaced with "Reality." Despite his minor frustration with her, Babbitt cannot help but be attracted to Miss McGoun, with whom he associates the fairy girl of his dreams. In fact, in his twenty-three years of marriage, he has looked longingly on every other beautiful woman he has seen, and though he has never been unfaithful, it is clear that Babbitt wants more than what he has.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/3.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_0_part_3.txt

Babbitt.chapter iii

chapter iii

{"name": "Chapter III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-i-iii", "summary": "Disappointed that he had no trouble starting his car as he had expected, he backs out of his garage and enters a conversation with Howard Littlefield about the weather and about the country's need for a real business administration. Babbitt feels calmer and more cheerful after his conversation with Littlefield, and he rediscovers his love for Zenith. Now energized by routine and self-congratulation, he offers a ride to a \"respectable-looking man\" who is waiting for a trolley car in an act of selfish benevolence. As he drives, Babbitt actively respects the bigness of Zenith and feels \"pretty good\" by the time he drops off the passenger. He peacefully enters the Reeves building and goes up to his office, the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. Then, as he notices his co-worker Stanley Graff fumbling a deal with a client over the phone, he is reminded of the difficulty of finding competent employees. Suddenly, the \"zest of the spring morning smothered in the stale office air\". Like his house, Babbitt's office is completely up-to-date, but again he is suddenly overcome by a desire to escape to the wilderness. Babbitt summons Miss McGoun and provides her with a barely comprehensible dictation of a letter to a client for which, in return, she provides him with a blatantly incomprehensible and mistake-ridden final version. For the most part, Babbitt is pleased with the product. As he looks at Miss McGoun, Babbitt is filled with longing and loneliness. These feelings have predominated during his twenty-three years of marriage, and he identifies her with the \"fairy girl of his dreams\"", "analysis": "The novel opens with a description of the city of Zenith in all of its grandeur. It is a new city, recently built and freshly gleaming, though with remnants of the \"fretted structures\" of its inferior past. Although the city seems figuratively to rise above the humans who occupy it, Lewis highlights the fact that it is, indeed, the work of humans. People envisioned it and built it, and people run the factories and offices that make it a functioning city. Even so, to Babbitt it exists on a scale entirely beyond average human existence; it is \"a city built--it --for giants\" . The rapid shift from the focus on Zenith to a close-up of George Babbitt asleep in his bed, in whose aspect there is \"nothing of the giant\" , establishes a juxtaposition that reveals Babbitt's relative insignificance and characteristic ineffectuality. He is pink, plump, and in a state of utter inaction, which immediately contrasts with the streamlined, metallic bustling of the city. He knows that it is larger than he can be. Even the exciting and romantic dream that he is having about the fairy child is disrupted by the noise of the milk truck, suggesting that there is nothing transcendent in Babbitt's banal life. His is not a world of pleasure and indulgence but material reality, and even his dreams crash against this mundane reality. Such dreams, however, offer the reader a glimpse into Babbitt's inner life--a consciousness that even he does not fully recognize. His dreams and dissatisfactions reveal his longing for a deeper satisfaction. Although we do not yet know what Babbitt has in his life, we already know that it is not quite what he wants. Shortly afterward, we do learn about what Babbitt has. He has \"the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks\" , he has an almost entirely modern and up-to-date house, he has several objects that he carries around in his pockets and never uses, and he has a car that represents \"poetry and tragedy\" to him. In short, he has an overwhelming tendency to worship objects and technology, which offers him fleeting moments of gratification and self-importance. He is a reverent and unknowing slave to the objects that govern his life, and as the novel progresses, it becomes obvious that this infatuation has replaced the potential for meaningful relationships with other people or with his community. The emptiness of his relationships becomes evident through the extended conversation that he has with his wife, Myra, about which suit to wear. The exchange is utterly devoid of any substance. Similarly, his conversations with other community members revolve around little more than the weather. He finds even the most innocuous behavior of his family to be completely unbearable, and he is plagued by dissatisfaction and fatigue that only his love for city and technology can temporarily improve. Whatever a fairy girl might give him, perhaps, could be the key he needs to something more, or in Babbitt's hands she could become just a more idealized kind of boring partner. At the beginning of the novel, we learn that his dissatisfaction at home has just started to appear at work. As co-owner of the Babbitt-Thompson Reality Company, he has previously enjoyed the work of selling real estate for far more than its worth. Now, however, he feels \"smothered in the stale office air\" . With satiric sarcasm, Lewis indicates that not even the new \"up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking\" water cooler satisfies him, as it usually would. At work, he is also depicted as somewhat of a bumbling egotist. Shortly after he silently bemoans the fact that his salesmanship is far superior to that of his employees, he dictates an incomprehensible letter for Miss McGoun to type up. When she edits it and makes substantial improvements, he wishes she would \"quit trying to improve dictation\" and does not notice that the word \"Realty\" is mistakenly replaced with \"Reality.\" Despite his minor frustration with her, Babbitt cannot help but be attracted to Miss McGoun, with whom he associates the fairy girl of his dreams. In fact, in his twenty-three years of marriage, he has looked longingly on every other beautiful woman he has seen, and though he has never been unfaithful, it is clear that Babbitt wants more than what he has."}

To George F. Babbitt, as to most prosperous citizens of Zenith, his motor car was poetry and tragedy, love and heroism. The office was his pirate ship but the car his perilous excursion ashore. Among the tremendous crises of each day none was more dramatic than starting the engine. It was slow on cold mornings; there was the long, anxious whirr of the starter; and sometimes he had to drip ether into the cocks of the cylinders, which was so very interesting that at lunch he would chronicle it drop by drop, and orally calculate how much each drop had cost him. This morning he was darkly prepared to find something wrong, and he felt belittled when the mixture exploded sweet and strong, and the car didn't even brush the door-jamb, gouged and splintery with many bruisings by fenders, as he backed out of the garage. He was confused. He shouted "Morning!" to Sam Doppelbrau with more cordiality than he had intended. Babbitt's green and white Dutch Colonial house was one of three in that block on Chatham Road. To the left of it was the residence of Mr. Samuel Doppelbrau, secretary of an excellent firm of bathroom-fixture jobbers. His was a comfortable house with no architectural manners whatever; a large wooden box with a squat tower, a broad porch, and glossy paint yellow as a yolk. Babbitt disapproved of Mr. and Mrs. Doppelbrau as "Bohemian." From their house came midnight music and obscene laughter; there were neighborhood rumors of bootlegged whisky and fast motor rides. They furnished Babbitt with many happy evenings of discussion, during which he announced firmly, "I'm not strait-laced, and I don't mind seeing a fellow throw in a drink once in a while, but when it comes to deliberately trying to get away with a lot of hell-raising all the while like the Doppelbraus do, it's too rich for my blood!" On the other side of Babbitt lived Howard Littlefield, Ph.D., in a strictly modern house whereof the lower part was dark red tapestry brick, with a leaded oriel, the upper part of pale stucco like spattered clay, and the roof red-tiled. Littlefield was the Great Scholar of the neighborhood; the authority on everything in the world except babies, cooking, and motors. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Blodgett College, and a Doctor of Philosophy in economics of Yale. He was the employment-manager and publicity-counsel of the Zenith Street Traction Company. He could, on ten hours' notice, appear before the board of aldermen or the state legislature and prove, absolutely, with figures all in rows and with precedents from Poland and New Zealand, that the street-car company loved the Public and yearned over its employees; that all its stock was owned by Widows and Orphans; and that whatever it desired to do would benefit property-owners by increasing rental values, and help the poor by lowering rents. All his acquaintances turned to Littlefield when they desired to know the date of the battle of Saragossa, the definition of the word "sabotage," the future of the German mark, the translation of "hinc illae lachrimae," or the number of products of coal tar. He awed Babbitt by confessing that he often sat up till midnight reading the figures and footnotes in Government reports, or skimming (with amusement at the author's mistakes) the latest volumes of chemistry, archeology, and ichthyology. But Littlefield's great value was as a spiritual example. Despite his strange learnings he was as strict a Presbyterian and as firm a Republican as George F. Babbitt. He confirmed the business men in the faith. Where they knew only by passionate instinct that their system of industry and manners was perfect, Dr. Howard Littlefield proved it to them, out of history, economics, and the confessions of reformed radicals. Babbitt had a good deal of honest pride in being the neighbor of such a savant, and in Ted's intimacy with Eunice Littlefield. At sixteen Eunice was interested in no statistics save those regarding the ages and salaries of motion-picture stars, but--as Babbitt definitively put it--"she was her father's daughter." The difference between a light man like Sam Doppelbrau and a really fine character like Littlefield was revealed in their appearances. Doppelbrau was disturbingly young for a man of forty-eight. He wore his derby on the back of his head, and his red face was wrinkled with meaningless laughter. But Littlefield was old for a man of forty-two. He was tall, broad, thick; his gold-rimmed spectacles were engulfed in the folds of his long face; his hair was a tossed mass of greasy blackness; he puffed and rumbled as he talked; his Phi Beta Kappa key shone against a spotty black vest; he smelled of old pipes; he was altogether funereal and archidiaconal; and to real-estate brokerage and the jobbing of bathroom-fixtures he added an aroma of sanctity. This morning he was in front of his house, inspecting the grass parking between the curb and the broad cement sidewalk. Babbitt stopped his car and leaned out to shout "Mornin'!" Littlefield lumbered over and stood with one foot up on the running-board. "Fine morning," said Babbitt, lighting--illegally early--his second cigar of the day. "Yes, it's a mighty fine morning," said Littlefield. "Spring coming along fast now." "Yes, it's real spring now, all right," said Littlefield. "Still cold nights, though. Had to have a couple blankets, on the sleeping-porch last night." "Yes, it wasn't any too warm last night," said Littlefield. "But I don't anticipate we'll have any more real cold weather now." "No, but still, there was snow at Tiflis, Montana, yesterday," said the Scholar, "and you remember the blizzard they had out West three days ago--thirty inches of snow at Greeley, Colorado--and two years ago we had a snow-squall right here in Zenith on the twenty-fifth of April." "Is that a fact! Say, old man, what do you think about the Republican candidate? Who'll they nominate for president? Don't you think it's about time we had a real business administration?" "In my opinion, what the country needs, first and foremost, is a good, sound, business-like conduct of its affairs. What we need is--a business administration!" said Littlefield. "I'm glad to hear you say that! I certainly am glad to hear you say that! I didn't know how you'd feel about it, with all your associations with colleges and so on, and I'm glad you feel that way. What the country needs--just at this present juncture--is neither a college president nor a lot of monkeying with foreign affairs, but a good--sound economical--business--administration, that will give us a chance to have something like a decent turnover." "Yes. It isn't generally realized that even in China the schoolmen are giving way to more practical men, and of course you can see what that implies." "Is that a fact! Well, well!" breathed Babbitt, feeling much calmer, and much happier about the way things were going in the world. "Well, it's been nice to stop and parleyvoo a second. Guess I'll have to get down to the office now and sting a few clients. Well, so long, old man. See you tonight. So long." II They had labored, these solid citizens. Twenty years before, the hill on which Floral Heights was spread, with its bright roofs and immaculate turf and amazing comfort, had been a wilderness of rank second-growth elms and oaks and maples. Along the precise streets were still a few wooded vacant lots, and the fragment of an old orchard. It was brilliant to-day; the apple boughs were lit with fresh leaves like torches of green fire. The first white of cherry blossoms flickered down a gully, and robins clamored. Babbitt sniffed the earth, chuckled at the hysteric robins as he would have chuckled at kittens or at a comic movie. He was, to the eye, the perfect office-going executive--a well-fed man in a correct brown soft hat and frameless spectacles, smoking a large cigar, driving a good motor along a semi-suburban parkway. But in him was some genius of authentic love for his neighborhood, his city, his clan. The winter was over; the time was come for the building, the visible growth, which to him was glory. He lost his dawn depression; he was ruddily cheerful when he stopped on Smith Street to leave the brown trousers, and to have the gasoline-tank filled. The familiarity of the rite fortified him: the sight of the tall red iron gasoline-pump, the hollow-tile and terra-cotta garage, the window full of the most agreeable accessories--shiny casings, spark-plugs with immaculate porcelain jackets tire-chains of gold and silver. He was flattered by the friendliness with which Sylvester Moon, dirtiest and most skilled of motor mechanics, came out to serve him. "Mornin', Mr. Babbitt!" said Moon, and Babbitt felt himself a person of importance, one whose name even busy garagemen remembered--not one of these cheap-sports flying around in flivvers. He admired the ingenuity of the automatic dial, clicking off gallon by gallon; admired the smartness of the sign: "A fill in time saves getting stuck--gas to-day 31 cents"; admired the rhythmic gurgle of the gasoline as it flowed into the tank, and the mechanical regularity with which Moon turned the handle. "How much we takin' to-day?" asked Moon, in a manner which combined the independence of the great specialist, the friendliness of a familiar gossip, and respect for a man of weight in the community, like George F. Babbitt. "Fill 'er up." "Who you rootin' for for Republican candidate, Mr. Babbitt?" "It's too early to make any predictions yet. After all, there's still a good month and two weeks--no, three weeks--must be almost three weeks--well, there's more than six weeks in all before the Republican convention, and I feel a fellow ought to keep an open mind and give all the candidates a show--look 'em all over and size 'em up, and then decide carefully." "That's a fact, Mr. Babbitt." "But I'll tell you--and my stand on this is just the same as it was four years ago, and eight years ago, and it'll be my stand four years from now--yes, and eight years from now! What I tell everybody, and it can't be too generally understood, is that what we need first, last, and all the time is a good, sound business administration!" "By golly, that's right!" "How do those front tires look to you?" "Fine! Fine! Wouldn't be much work for garages if everybody looked after their car the way you do." "Well, I do try and have some sense about it." Babbitt paid his bill, said adequately, "Oh, keep the change," and drove off in an ecstasy of honest self-appreciation. It was with the manner of a Good Samaritan that he shouted at a respectable-looking man who was waiting for a trolley car, "Have a lift?" As the man climbed in Babbitt condescended, "Going clear down-town? Whenever I see a fellow waiting for a trolley, I always make it a practice to give him a lift--unless, of course, he looks like a bum." "Wish there were more folks that were so generous with their machines," dutifully said the victim of benevolence. "Oh, no, 'tain't a question of generosity, hardly. Fact, I always feel--I was saying to my son just the other night--it's a fellow's duty to share the good things of this world with his neighbors, and it gets my goat when a fellow gets stuck on himself and goes around tooting his horn merely because he's charitable." The victim seemed unable to find the right answer. Babbitt boomed on: "Pretty punk service the Company giving us on these car-lines. Nonsense to only run the Portland Road cars once every seven minutes. Fellow gets mighty cold on a winter morning, waiting on a street corner with the wind nipping at his ankles." "That's right. The Street Car Company don't care a damn what kind of a deal they give us. Something ought to happen to 'em." Babbitt was alarmed. "But still, of course it won't do to just keep knocking the Traction Company and not realize the difficulties they're operating under, like these cranks that want municipal ownership. The way these workmen hold up the Company for high wages is simply a crime, and of course the burden falls on you and me that have to pay a seven-cent fare! Fact, there's remarkable service on all their lines--considering." "Well--" uneasily. "Darn fine morning," Babbitt explained. "Spring coming along fast." "Yes, it's real spring now." The victim had no originality, no wit, and Babbitt fell into a great silence and devoted himself to the game of beating trolley cars to the corner: a spurt, a tail-chase, nervous speeding between the huge yellow side of the trolley and the jagged row of parked motors, shooting past just as the trolley stopped--a rare game and valiant. And all the while he was conscious of the loveliness of Zenith. For weeks together he noticed nothing but clients and the vexing To Rent signs of rival brokers. To-day, in mysterious malaise, he raged or rejoiced with equal nervous swiftness, and to-day the light of spring was so winsome that he lifted his head and saw. He admired each district along his familiar route to the office: The bungalows and shrubs and winding irregular drive ways of Floral Heights. The one-story shops on Smith Street, a glare of plate-glass and new yellow brick; groceries and laundries and drug-stores to supply the more immediate needs of East Side housewives. The market gardens in Dutch Hollow, their shanties patched with corrugated iron and stolen doors. Billboards with crimson goddesses nine feet tall advertising cinema films, pipe tobacco, and talcum powder. The old "mansions" along Ninth Street, S. E., like aged dandies in filthy linen; wooden castles turned into boarding-houses, with muddy walks and rusty hedges, jostled by fast-intruding garages, cheap apartment-houses, and fruit-stands conducted by bland, sleek Athenians. Across the belt of railroad-tracks, factories with high-perched water-tanks and tall stacks-factories producing condensed milk, paper boxes, lighting-fixtures, motor cars. Then the business center, the thickening darting traffic, the crammed trolleys unloading, and high doorways of marble and polished granite. It was big--and Babbitt respected bigness in anything; in mountains, jewels, muscles, wealth, or words. He was, for a spring-enchanted moment, the lyric and almost unselfish lover of Zenith. He thought of the outlying factory suburbs; of the Chaloosa River with its strangely eroded banks; of the orchard-dappled Tonawanda Hills to the North, and all the fat dairy land and big barns and comfortable herds. As he dropped his passenger he cried, "Gosh, I feel pretty good this morning!" III Epochal as starting the car was the drama of parking it before he entered his office. As he turned from Oberlin Avenue round the corner into Third Street, N.E., he peered ahead for a space in the line of parked cars. He angrily just missed a space as a rival driver slid into it. Ahead, another car was leaving the curb, and Babbitt slowed up, holding out his hand to the cars pressing on him from behind, agitatedly motioning an old woman to go ahead, avoiding a truck which bore down on him from one side. With front wheels nicking the wrought-steel bumper of the car in front, he stopped, feverishly cramped his steering-wheel, slid back into the vacant space and, with eighteen inches of room, manoeuvered to bring the car level with the curb. It was a virile adventure masterfully executed. With satisfaction he locked a thief-proof steel wedge on the front wheel, and crossed the street to his real-estate office on the ground floor of the Reeves Building. The Reeves Building was as fireproof as a rock and as efficient as a typewriter; fourteen stories of yellow pressed brick, with clean, upright, unornamented lines. It was filled with the offices of lawyers, doctors, agents for machinery, for emery wheels, for wire fencing, for mining-stock. Their gold signs shone on the windows. The entrance was too modern to be flamboyant with pillars; it was quiet, shrewd, neat. Along the Third Street side were a Western Union Telegraph Office, the Blue Delft Candy Shop, Shotwell's Stationery Shop, and the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. Babbitt could have entered his office from the street, as customers did, but it made him feel an insider to go through the corridor of the building and enter by the back door. Thus he was greeted by the villagers. The little unknown people who inhabited the Reeves Building corridors--elevator-runners, starter, engineers, superintendent, and the doubtful-looking lame man who conducted the news and cigar stand--were in no way city-dwellers. They were rustics, living in a constricted valley, interested only in one another and in The Building. Their Main Street was the entrance hall, with its stone floor, severe marble ceiling, and the inner windows of the shops. The liveliest place on the street was the Reeves Building Barber Shop, but this was also Babbitt's one embarrassment. Himself, he patronized the glittering Pompeian Barber Shop in the Hotel Thornleigh, and every time he passed the Reeves shop--ten times a day, a hundred times--he felt untrue to his own village. Now, as one of the squirearchy, greeted with honorable salutations by the villagers, he marched into his office, and peace and dignity were upon him, and the morning's dissonances all unheard. They were heard again, immediately. Stanley Graff, the outside salesman, was talking on the telephone with tragic lack of that firm manner which disciplines clients: "Say, uh, I think I got just the house that would suit you--the Percival House, in Linton.... Oh, you've seen it. Well, how'd it strike you?... Huh? ...Oh," irresolutely, "oh, I see." As Babbitt marched into his private room, a coop with semi-partition of oak and frosted glass, at the back of the office, he reflected how hard it was to find employees who had his own faith that he was going to make sales. There were nine members of the staff, besides Babbitt and his partner and father-in-law, Henry Thompson, who rarely came to the office. The nine were Stanley Graff, the outside salesman--a youngish man given to cigarettes and the playing of pool; old Mat Penniman, general utility man, collector of rents and salesman of insurance--broken, silent, gray; a mystery, reputed to have been a "crack" real-estate man with a firm of his own in haughty Brooklyn; Chester Kirby Laylock, resident salesman out at the Glen Oriole acreage development--an enthusiastic person with a silky mustache and much family; Miss Theresa McGoun, the swift and rather pretty stenographer; Miss Wilberta Bannigan, the thick, slow, laborious accountant and file-clerk; and four freelance part-time commission salesmen. As he looked from his own cage into the main room Babbitt mourned, "McGoun's a good stenog., smart's a whip, but Stan Graff and all those bums--" The zest of the spring morning was smothered in the stale office air. Normally he admired the office, with a pleased surprise that he should have created this sure lovely thing; normally he was stimulated by the clean newness of it and the air of bustle; but to-day it seemed flat--the tiled floor, like a bathroom, the ocher-colored metal ceiling, the faded maps on the hard plaster walls, the chairs of varnished pale oak, the desks and filing-cabinets of steel painted in olive drab. It was a vault, a steel chapel where loafing and laughter were raw sin. He hadn't even any satisfaction in the new water-cooler! And it was the very best of water-coolers, up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking. It had cost a great deal of money (in itself a virtue). It possessed a non-conducting fiber ice-container, a porcelain water-jar (guaranteed hygienic), a drip-less non-clogging sanitary faucet, and machine-painted decorations in two tones of gold. He looked down the relentless stretch of tiled floor at the water-cooler, and assured himself that no tenant of the Reeves Building had a more expensive one, but he could not recapture the feeling of social superiority it had given him. He astoundingly grunted, "I'd like to beat it off to the woods right now. And loaf all day. And go to Gunch's again to-night, and play poker, and cuss as much as I feel like, and drink a hundred and nine-thousand bottles of beer." He sighed; he read through his mail; he shouted "Msgoun," which meant "Miss McGoun"; and began to dictate. This was his own version of his first letter: "Omar Gribble, send it to his office, Miss McGoun, yours of twentieth to hand and in reply would say look here, Gribble, I'm awfully afraid if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allen sale, I had Allen up on carpet day before yesterday and got right down to cases and think I can assure you--uh, uh, no, change that: all my experience indicates he is all right, means to do business, looked into his financial record which is fine--that sentence seems to be a little balled up, Miss McGoun; make a couple sentences out of it if you have to, period, new paragraph. "He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and strikes me, am dead sure there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for title insurance, so now for heaven's sake let's get busy--no, make that: so now let's go to it and get down--no, that's enough--you can tie those sentences up a little better when you type 'em, Miss McGoun--your sincerely, etcetera." This is the version of his letter which he received, typed, from Miss McGoun that afternoon: BABBITT-THOMPSON REALTY CO. Homes for Folks Reeves Bldg., Oberlin Avenue & 3d St., N.E Zenith Omar Gribble, Esq., 376 North American Building, Zenith. Dear Mr. Gribble: Your letter of the twentieth to hand. I must say I'm awfully afraid that if we go on shilly-shallying like this we'll just naturally lose the Allen sale. I had Allen up on the carpet day before yesterday, and got right down to cases. All my experience indicates that he means to do business. I have also looked into his financial record, which is fine. He is perfectly willing to pro rate the special assessment and there will be no difficulty in getting him to pay for title insurance. SO LET'S GO! Yours sincerely, As he read and signed it, in his correct flowing business-college hand, Babbitt reflected, "Now that's a good, strong letter, and clear's a bell. Now what the--I never told McGoun to make a third paragraph there! Wish she'd quit trying to improve on my dictation! But what I can't understand is: why can't Stan Graff or Chet Laylock write a letter like that? With punch! With a kick!" The most important thing he dictated that morning was the fortnightly form-letter, to be mimeographed and sent out to a thousand "prospects." It was diligently imitative of the best literary models of the day; of heart-to-heart-talk advertisements, "sales-pulling" letters, discourses on the "development of Will-power," and hand-shaking house-organs, as richly poured forth by the new school of Poets of Business. He had painfully written out a first draft, and he intoned it now like a poet delicate and distrait: SAY, OLD MAN! I just want to know can I do you a whaleuva favor? Honest! No kidding! I know you're interested in getting a house, not merely a place where you hang up the old bonnet but a love-nest for the wife and kiddies--and maybe for the flivver out beyant (be sure and spell that b-e-y-a-n-t, Miss McGoun) the spud garden. Say, did you ever stop to think that we're here to save you trouble? That's how we make a living--folks don't pay us for our lovely beauty! Now take a look: Sit right down at the handsome carved mahogany escritoire and shoot us in a line telling us just what you want, and if we can find it we'll come hopping down your lane with the good tidings, and if we can't, we won't bother you. To save your time, just fill out the blank enclosed. On request will also send blank regarding store properties in Floral Heights, Silver Grove, Linton, Bellevue, and all East Side residential districts. Yours for service, P.S.--Just a hint of some plums we can pick for you--some genuine bargains that came in to-day: SILVER GROVE.--Cute four-room California bungalow, a.m.i., garage, dandy shade tree, swell neighborhood, handy car line. $3700, $780 down and balance liberal, Babbitt-Thompson terms, cheaper than rent. DORCHESTER.--A corker! Artistic two-family house, all oak trim, parquet floors, lovely gas log, big porches, colonial, HEATED ALL-WEATHER GARAGE, a bargain at $11,250. Dictation over, with its need of sitting and thinking instead of bustling around and making a noise and really doing something, Babbitt sat creakily back in his revolving desk-chair and beamed on Miss McGoun. He was conscious of her as a girl, of black bobbed hair against demure cheeks. A longing which was indistinguishable from loneliness enfeebled him. While she waited, tapping a long, precise pencil-point on the desk-tablet, he half identified her with the fairy girl of his dreams. He imagined their eyes meeting with terrifying recognition; imagined touching her lips with frightened reverence and--She was chirping, "Any more, Mist' Babbitt?" He grunted, "That winds it up, I guess," and turned heavily away. For all his wandering thoughts, they had never been more intimate than this. He often reflected, "Nev' forget how old Jake Offutt said a wise bird never goes love-making in his own office or his own home. Start trouble. Sure. But--" In twenty-three years of married life he had peered uneasily at every graceful ankle, every soft shoulder; in thought he had treasured them; but not once had he hazarded respectability by adventuring. Now, as he calculated the cost of repapering the Styles house, he was restless again, discontented about nothing and everything, ashamed of his discontentment, and lonely for the fairy girl.

Chapter III

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-i-iii

Disappointed that he had no trouble starting his car as he had expected, he backs out of his garage and enters a conversation with Howard Littlefield about the weather and about the country's need for a real business administration. Babbitt feels calmer and more cheerful after his conversation with Littlefield, and he rediscovers his love for Zenith. Now energized by routine and self-congratulation, he offers a ride to a "respectable-looking man" who is waiting for a trolley car in an act of selfish benevolence. As he drives, Babbitt actively respects the bigness of Zenith and feels "pretty good" by the time he drops off the passenger. He peacefully enters the Reeves building and goes up to his office, the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. Then, as he notices his co-worker Stanley Graff fumbling a deal with a client over the phone, he is reminded of the difficulty of finding competent employees. Suddenly, the "zest of the spring morning smothered in the stale office air". Like his house, Babbitt's office is completely up-to-date, but again he is suddenly overcome by a desire to escape to the wilderness. Babbitt summons Miss McGoun and provides her with a barely comprehensible dictation of a letter to a client for which, in return, she provides him with a blatantly incomprehensible and mistake-ridden final version. For the most part, Babbitt is pleased with the product. As he looks at Miss McGoun, Babbitt is filled with longing and loneliness. These feelings have predominated during his twenty-three years of marriage, and he identifies her with the "fairy girl of his dreams"

The novel opens with a description of the city of Zenith in all of its grandeur. It is a new city, recently built and freshly gleaming, though with remnants of the "fretted structures" of its inferior past. Although the city seems figuratively to rise above the humans who occupy it, Lewis highlights the fact that it is, indeed, the work of humans. People envisioned it and built it, and people run the factories and offices that make it a functioning city. Even so, to Babbitt it exists on a scale entirely beyond average human existence; it is "a city built--it --for giants" . The rapid shift from the focus on Zenith to a close-up of George Babbitt asleep in his bed, in whose aspect there is "nothing of the giant" , establishes a juxtaposition that reveals Babbitt's relative insignificance and characteristic ineffectuality. He is pink, plump, and in a state of utter inaction, which immediately contrasts with the streamlined, metallic bustling of the city. He knows that it is larger than he can be. Even the exciting and romantic dream that he is having about the fairy child is disrupted by the noise of the milk truck, suggesting that there is nothing transcendent in Babbitt's banal life. His is not a world of pleasure and indulgence but material reality, and even his dreams crash against this mundane reality. Such dreams, however, offer the reader a glimpse into Babbitt's inner life--a consciousness that even he does not fully recognize. His dreams and dissatisfactions reveal his longing for a deeper satisfaction. Although we do not yet know what Babbitt has in his life, we already know that it is not quite what he wants. Shortly afterward, we do learn about what Babbitt has. He has "the best of nationally advertised and quantitatively produced alarm-clocks" , he has an almost entirely modern and up-to-date house, he has several objects that he carries around in his pockets and never uses, and he has a car that represents "poetry and tragedy" to him. In short, he has an overwhelming tendency to worship objects and technology, which offers him fleeting moments of gratification and self-importance. He is a reverent and unknowing slave to the objects that govern his life, and as the novel progresses, it becomes obvious that this infatuation has replaced the potential for meaningful relationships with other people or with his community. The emptiness of his relationships becomes evident through the extended conversation that he has with his wife, Myra, about which suit to wear. The exchange is utterly devoid of any substance. Similarly, his conversations with other community members revolve around little more than the weather. He finds even the most innocuous behavior of his family to be completely unbearable, and he is plagued by dissatisfaction and fatigue that only his love for city and technology can temporarily improve. Whatever a fairy girl might give him, perhaps, could be the key he needs to something more, or in Babbitt's hands she could become just a more idealized kind of boring partner. At the beginning of the novel, we learn that his dissatisfaction at home has just started to appear at work. As co-owner of the Babbitt-Thompson Reality Company, he has previously enjoyed the work of selling real estate for far more than its worth. Now, however, he feels "smothered in the stale office air" . With satiric sarcasm, Lewis indicates that not even the new "up-to-date, scientific, and right-thinking" water cooler satisfies him, as it usually would. At work, he is also depicted as somewhat of a bumbling egotist. Shortly after he silently bemoans the fact that his salesmanship is far superior to that of his employees, he dictates an incomprehensible letter for Miss McGoun to type up. When she edits it and makes substantial improvements, he wishes she would "quit trying to improve dictation" and does not notice that the word "Realty" is mistakenly replaced with "Reality." Despite his minor frustration with her, Babbitt cannot help but be attracted to Miss McGoun, with whom he associates the fairy girl of his dreams. In fact, in his twenty-three years of marriage, he has looked longingly on every other beautiful woman he has seen, and though he has never been unfaithful, it is clear that Babbitt wants more than what he has.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/4.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_1_part_1.txt

Babbitt.chapter iv

chapter iv

{"name": "Chapter IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-iv-vi", "summary": "Babbitt writes an advertisement for a cemetery on Linden Lane before returning to the monotony of \"routine details\" , which include constructing an illogical and futile scheme to quit smoking. He calls an old friend, Paul Riesling, and they decide to meet for lunch at the Athletic Club. Babbitt reflects on his own expertise in the real estate business, yet it is clear that he lacks the exhaustive knowledge of the city required of a truly informed salesman. In fact, his actions and beliefs seem to challenge each other in constant hypocrisy. He has a conference with Conrad Lyte and Archibold Purdy in which he convinces Lyte to buy to lot adjacent to Purdy's grocery store for thousands of dollars more than it is worth, and subsequently he convinces Purdy to buy the lot for several times its worth", "analysis": "Babbitt's ineptitude, inner conflict, and constant hypocrisy are perhaps most evident in his alleged attempts to quit smoking. He stops smoking \"at least once a month\" by coming up with a new elaborate plan involving several steps and a very detailed schedule. He does most of what he sets out to do--except stop smoking. He consistently forgets that he has resolved to quit. He even buys himself an electric cigar lighter. This is more than mere hypocrisy. Lewis's biting sarcasm here indicates that Babbitt's behavior is a reflection upon his lack of inner resolve and his inability to determine what he wants and believes. Appropriately, his professional life is also devoid of integrity and meaning . Although he considers himself an honest and competent salesman, Lewis makes it clear through the plot and satire that he is, in fact, regularly unethical in his business dealings and that he does not know nearly \"everything about his own city and its environs,\" despite his claim that this is the \"duty and privilege of the realtor\" . He relies on newspapers and the Church to tell him what to think and believe. His drive toward conformity has completely obliterated his agency as an individual. Babbitt shows how easily persuaded he is during his conversation with Ted about getting his education by correspondence. Despite the fact that these advertisements, included in full, are the victims of brutal satiric ridicule, he is nearly convinced that with minimal effort and money, his son really can learn the art of \"Prosperity and Domination\" and can hold all the secrets of a masterful personality. In addition to the ways in which these ads undermine themselves with ludicrous rags-to-riches stories of expensive automobiles and unparalleled social status, Lewis offers an unexpected blow with the address listed on the posting: \"Shortcut Educational Pub. Co., Desk, WA, Sandpit, Iowa\" . These courses offer nothing more than a shortcut to nowhere, and Mrs. Babbitt is the only one sensible enough to notice that Ted must go to college in order to attain money and prestige. Far from the decision is any idea that an education is a good in itself as part of an individual's personal development. The Zenith Athletic Club is subject to a similar brand of satire. Lewis notes that it is \"not athletic and it isn't exactly a club\" . It also has a fireplace without a fire, musicianless musicians, and members who criticize other clubs but join a club the moment they are invited. Despite the focus on Babbitt's complacent conformity and inept hypocrisy, these chapters also hint at the rebellion that is floating through his consciousness. At lunch with Paul, he reveals that, though he feels guilty about it, he is significantly dissatisfied with his wife and family. He explains that he has fulfilled the requirements of the American Dream ), yet he feels that his life is empty. Paul explains that he, too, is dissatisfied and unhappy, and he suspects that plenty of the other upstanding gentlemen whom they know are in the same position. Their conversation is a reflection on how the merely external aspects of the American Dream, once achieved, leave the superficial person feeling restless, unhappy, and betrayed."}

IT was a morning of artistic creation. Fifteen minutes after the purple prose of Babbitt's form-letter, Chester Kirby Laylock, the resident salesman at Glen Oriole, came in to report a sale and submit an advertisement. Babbitt disapproved of Laylock, who sang in choirs and was merry at home over games of Hearts and Old Maid. He had a tenor voice, wavy chestnut hair, and a mustache like a camel's-hair brush. Babbitt considered it excusable in a family-man to growl, "Seen this new picture of the kid--husky little devil, eh?" but Laylock's domestic confidences were as bubbling as a girl's. "Say, I think I got a peach of an ad for the Glen, Mr. Babbitt. Why don't we try something in poetry? Honest, it'd have wonderful pulling-power. Listen: 'Mid pleasures and palaces, Wherever you may roam, You just provide the little bride And we'll provide the home. Do you get it? See--like 'Home Sweet Home.' Don't you--" "Yes, yes, yes, hell yes, of course I get it. But--Oh, I think we'd better use something more dignified and forceful, like 'We lead, others follow,' or 'Eventually, why not now?' Course I believe in using poetry and humor and all that junk when it turns the trick, but with a high-class restricted development like the Glen we better stick to the more dignified approach, see how I mean? Well, I guess that's all, this morning, Chet." II By a tragedy familiar to the world of art, the April enthusiasm of Chet Laylock served only to stimulate the talent of the older craftsman, George F. Babbitt. He grumbled to Stanley Graff, "That tan-colored voice of Chet's gets on my nerves," yet he was aroused and in one swoop he wrote: DO YOU RESPECT YOUR LOVED ONES? When the last sad rites of bereavement are over, do you know for certain that you have done your best for the Departed? You haven't unless they lie in the Cemetery Beautiful, LINDEN LANE the only strictly up-to-date burial place in or near Zenith, where exquisitely gardened plots look from daisy-dotted hill-slopes across the smiling fields of Dorchester. Sole agents BABBITT-THOMPSON REALTY COMPANY Reeves Building He rejoiced, "I guess that'll show Chan Mott and his weedy old Wildwood Cemetery something about modern merchandizing!" III He sent Mat Penniman to the recorder's office to dig out the names of the owners of houses which were displaying For Rent signs of other brokers; he talked to a man who desired to lease a store-building for a pool-room; he ran over the list of home-leases which were about to expire; he sent Thomas Bywaters, a street-car conductor who played at real estate in spare time, to call on side-street "prospects" who were unworthy the strategies of Stanley Graff. But he had spent his credulous excitement of creation, and these routine details annoyed him. One moment of heroism he had, in discovering a new way of stopping smoking. He stopped smoking at least once a month. He went through with it like the solid citizen he was: admitted the evils of tobacco, courageously made resolves, laid out plans to check the vice, tapered off his allowance of cigars, and expounded the pleasures of virtuousness to every one he met. He did everything, in fact, except stop smoking. Two months before, by ruling out a schedule, noting down the hour and minute of each smoke, and ecstatically increasing the intervals between smokes, he had brought himself down to three cigars a day. Then he had lost the schedule. A week ago he had invented a system of leaving his cigar-case and cigarette-box in an unused drawer at the bottom of the correspondence-file, in the outer office. "I'll just naturally be ashamed to go poking in there all day long, making a fool of myself before my own employees!" he reasoned. By the end of three days he was trained to leave his desk, walk to the file, take out and light a cigar, without knowing that he was doing it. This morning it was revealed to him that it had been too easy to open the file. Lock it, that was the thing! Inspired, he rushed out and locked up his cigars, his cigarettes, and even his box of safety matches; and the key to the file drawer he hid in his desk. But the crusading passion of it made him so tobacco-hungry that he immediately recovered the key, walked with forbidding dignity to the file, took out a cigar and a match--"but only one match; if ole cigar goes out, it'll by golly have to stay out!" Later, when the cigar did go out, he took one more match from the file, and when a buyer and a seller came in for a conference at eleven-thirty, naturally he had to offer them cigars. His conscience protested, "Why, you're smoking with them!" but he bullied it, "Oh, shut up! I'm busy now. Of course by-and-by--" There was no by-and-by, yet his belief that he had crushed the unclean habit made him feel noble and very happy. When he called up Paul Riesling he was, in his moral splendor, unusually eager. He was fonder of Paul Riesling than of any one on earth except himself and his daughter Tinka. They had been classmates, roommates, in the State University, but always he thought of Paul Riesling, with his dark slimness, his precisely parted hair, his nose-glasses, his hesitant speech, his moodiness, his love of music, as a younger brother, to be petted and protected. Paul had gone into his father's business, after graduation; he was now a wholesaler and small manufacturer of prepared-paper roofing. But Babbitt strenuously believed and lengthily announced to the world of Good Fellows that Paul could have been a great violinist or painter or writer. "Why say, the letters that boy sent me on his trip to the Canadian Rockies, they just absolutely make you see the place as if you were standing there. Believe me, he could have given any of these bloomin' authors a whale of a run for their money!" Yet on the telephone they said only: "South 343. No, no, no! I said SOUTH--South 343. Say, operator, what the dickens is the trouble? Can't you get me South 343? Why certainly they'll answer. Oh, Hello, 343? Wanta speak Mist' Riesling, Mist' Babbitt talking. . . 'Lo, Paul?" "Yuh." "'S George speaking." "Yuh." "How's old socks?" "Fair to middlin'. How 're you?" "Fine, Paulibus. Well, what do you know?" "Oh, nothing much." "Where you been keepin' yourself?" "Oh, just stickin' round. What's up, Georgie?" "How 'bout lil lunch 's noon?" "Be all right with me, I guess. Club?' "Yuh. Meet you there twelve-thirty." "A' right. Twelve-thirty. S' long, Georgie." IV His morning was not sharply marked into divisions. Interwoven with correspondence and advertisement-writing were a thousand nervous details: calls from clerks who were incessantly and hopefully seeking five furnished rooms and bath at sixty dollars a month; advice to Mat Penniman on getting money out of tenants who had no money. Babbitt's virtues as a real-estate broker--as the servant of society in the department of finding homes for families and shops for distributors of food--were steadiness and diligence. He was conventionally honest, he kept his records of buyers and sellers complete, he had experience with leases and titles and an excellent memory for prices. His shoulders were broad enough, his voice deep enough, his relish of hearty humor strong enough, to establish him as one of the ruling caste of Good Fellows. Yet his eventual importance to mankind was perhaps lessened by his large and complacent ignorance of all architecture save the types of houses turned out by speculative builders; all landscape gardening save the use of curving roads, grass, and six ordinary shrubs; and all the commonest axioms of economics. He serenely believed that the one purpose of the real-estate business was to make money for George F. Babbitt. True, it was a good advertisement at Boosters' Club lunches, and all the varieties of Annual Banquets to which Good Fellows were invited, to speak sonorously of Unselfish Public Service, the Broker's Obligation to Keep Inviolate the Trust of His Clients, and a thing called Ethics, whose nature was confusing but if you had it you were a High-class Realtor and if you hadn't you were a shyster, a piker, and a fly-by-night. These virtues awakened Confidence, and enabled you to handle Bigger Propositions. But they didn't imply that you were to be impractical and refuse to take twice the value of a house if a buyer was such an idiot that he didn't jew you down on the asking-price. Babbitt spoke well--and often--at these orgies of commercial righteousness about the "realtor's function as a seer of the future development of the community, and as a prophetic engineer clearing the pathway for inevitable changes"--which meant that a real-estate broker could make money by guessing which way the town would grow. This guessing he called Vision. In an address at the Boosters' Club he had admitted, "It is at once the duty and the privilege of the realtor to know everything about his own city and its environs. Where a surgeon is a specialist on every vein and mysterious cell of the human body, and the engineer upon electricity in all its phases, or every bolt of some great bridge majestically arching o'er a mighty flood, the realtor must know his city, inch by inch, and all its faults and virtues." Though he did know the market-price, inch by inch, of certain districts of Zenith, he did not know whether the police force was too large or too small, or whether it was in alliance with gambling and prostitution. He knew the means of fire-proofing buildings and the relation of insurance-rates to fire-proofing, but he did not know how many firemen there were in the city, how they were trained and paid, or how complete their apparatus. He sang eloquently the advantages of proximity of school-buildings to rentable homes, but he did not know--he did not know that it was worth while to know--whether the city schoolrooms were properly heated, lighted, ventilated, furnished; he did not know how the teachers were chosen; and though he chanted "One of the boasts of Zenith is that we pay our teachers adequately," that was because he had read the statement in the Advocate-Times. Himself, he could not have given the average salary of teachers in Zenith or anywhere else. He had heard it said that "conditions" in the County Jail and the Zenith City Prison were not very "scientific;" he had, with indignation at the criticism of Zenith, skimmed through a report in which the notorious pessimist Seneca Doane, the radical lawyer, asserted that to throw boys and young girls into a bull-pen crammed with men suffering from syphilis, delirium tremens, and insanity was not the perfect way of educating them. He had controverted the report by growling, "Folks that think a jail ought to be a bloomin' Hotel Thornleigh make me sick. If people don't like a jail, let 'em behave 'emselves and keep out of it. Besides, these reform cranks always exaggerate." That was the beginning and quite completely the end of his investigations into Zenith's charities and corrections; and as to the "vice districts" he brightly expressed it, "Those are things that no decent man monkeys with. Besides, smatter fact, I'll tell you confidentially: it's a protection to our daughters and to decent women to have a district where tough nuts can raise cain. Keeps 'em away from our own homes." As to industrial conditions, however, Babbitt had thought a great deal, and his opinions may be coordinated as follows: "A good labor union is of value because it keeps out radical unions, which would destroy property. No one ought to be forced to belong to a union, however. All labor agitators who try to force men to join a union should be hanged. In fact, just between ourselves, there oughtn't to be any unions allowed at all; and as it's the best way of fighting the unions, every business man ought to belong to an employers'-association and to the Chamber of Commerce. In union there is strength. So any selfish hog who doesn't join the Chamber of Commerce ought to be forced to." In nothing--as the expert on whose advice families moved to new neighborhoods to live there for a generation--was Babbitt more splendidly innocent than in the science of sanitation. He did not know a malaria-bearing mosquito from a bat; he knew nothing about tests of drinking water; and in the matters of plumbing and sewage he was as unlearned as he was voluble. He often referred to the excellence of the bathrooms in the houses he sold. He was fond of explaining why it was that no European ever bathed. Some one had told him, when he was twenty-two, that all cesspools were unhealthy, and he still denounced them. If a client impertinently wanted him to sell a house which had a cesspool, Babbitt always spoke about it--before accepting the house and selling it. When he laid out the Glen Oriole acreage development, when he ironed woodland and dipping meadow into a glenless, orioleless, sunburnt flat prickly with small boards displaying the names of imaginary streets, he righteously put in a complete sewage-system. It made him feel superior; it enabled him to sneer privily at the Martin Lumsen development, Avonlea, which had a cesspool; and it provided a chorus for the full-page advertisements in which he announced the beauty, convenience, cheapness, and supererogatory healthfulness of Glen Oriole. The only flaw was that the Glen Oriole sewers had insufficient outlet, so that waste remained in them, not very agreeably, while the Avonlea cesspool was a Waring septic tank. The whole of the Glen Oriole project was a suggestion that Babbitt, though he really did hate men recognized as swindlers, was not too unreasonably honest. Operators and buyers prefer that brokers should not be in competition with them as operators and buyers themselves, but attend to their clients' interests only. It was supposed that the Babbitt-Thompson Company were merely agents for Glen Oriole, serving the real owner, Jake Offutt, but the fact was that Babbitt and Thompson owned sixty-two per cent. of the Glen, the president and purchasing agent of the Zenith Street Traction Company owned twenty-eight per cent., and Jake Offutt (a gang-politician, a small manufacturer, a tobacco-chewing old farceur who enjoyed dirty politics, business diplomacy, and cheating at poker) had only ten per cent., which Babbitt and the Traction officials had given to him for "fixing" health inspectors and fire inspectors and a member of the State Transportation Commission. But Babbitt was virtuous. He advocated, though he did not practise, the prohibition of alcohol; he praised, though he did not obey, the laws against motor-speeding; he paid his debts; he contributed to the church, the Red Cross, and the Y. M. C. A.; he followed the custom of his clan and cheated only as it was sanctified by precedent; and he never descended to trickery--though, as he explained to Paul Riesling: "Course I don't mean to say that every ad I write is literally true or that I always believe everything I say when I give some buyer a good strong selling-spiel. You see--you see it's like this: In the first place, maybe the owner of the property exaggerated when he put it into my hands, and it certainly isn't my place to go proving my principal a liar! And then most folks are so darn crooked themselves that they expect a fellow to do a little lying, so if I was fool enough to never whoop the ante I'd get the credit for lying anyway! In self-defense I got to toot my own horn, like a lawyer defending a client--his bounden duty, ain't it, to bring out the poor dub's good points? Why, the Judge himself would bawl out a lawyer that didn't, even if they both knew the guy was guilty! But even so, I don't pad out the truth like Cecil Rountree or Thayer or the rest of these realtors. Fact, I think a fellow that's willing to deliberately up and profit by lying ought to be shot!" Babbitt's value to his clients was rarely better shown than this morning, in the conference at eleven-thirty between himself, Conrad Lyte, and Archibald Purdy. V Conrad Lyte was a real-estate speculator. He was a nervous speculator. Before he gambled he consulted bankers, lawyers, architects, contracting builders, and all of their clerks and stenographers who were willing to be cornered and give him advice. He was a bold entrepreneur, and he desired nothing more than complete safety in his investments, freedom from attention to details, and the thirty or forty per cent. profit which, according to all authorities, a pioneer deserves for his risks and foresight. He was a stubby man with a cap-like mass of short gray curls and clothes which, no matter how well cut, seemed shaggy. Below his eyes were semicircular hollows, as though silver dollars had been pressed against them and had left an imprint. Particularly and always Lyte consulted Babbitt, and trusted in his slow cautiousness. Six months ago Babbitt had learned that one Archibald Purdy, a grocer in the indecisive residential district known as Linton, was talking of opening a butcher shop beside his grocery. Looking up the ownership of adjoining parcels of land, Babbitt found that Purdy owned his present shop but did not own the one available lot adjoining. He advised Conrad Lyte to purchase this lot, for eleven thousand dollars, though an appraisal on a basis of rents did not indicate its value as above nine thousand. The rents, declared Babbitt, were too low; and by waiting they could make Purdy come to their price. (This was Vision.) He had to bully Lyte into buying. His first act as agent for Lyte was to increase the rent of the battered store-building on the lot. The tenant said a number of rude things, but he paid. Now, Purdy seemed ready to buy, and his delay was going to cost him ten thousand extra dollars--the reward paid by the community to Mr. Conrad Lyte for the virtue of employing a broker who had Vision and who understood Talking Points, Strategic Values, Key Situations, Underappraisals, and the Psychology of Salesmanship. Lyte came to the conference exultantly. He was fond of Babbitt, this morning, and called him "old hoss." Purdy, the grocer, a long-nosed man and solemn, seemed to care less for Babbitt and for Vision, but Babbitt met him at the street door of the office and guided him toward the private room with affectionate little cries of "This way, Brother Purdy!" He took from the correspondence-file the entire box of cigars and forced them on his guests. He pushed their chairs two inches forward and three inches back, which gave an hospitable note, then leaned back in his desk-chair and looked plump and jolly. But he spoke to the weakling grocer with firmness. "Well, Brother Purdy, we been having some pretty tempting offers from butchers and a slew of other folks for that lot next to your store, but I persuaded Brother Lyte that we ought to give you a shot at the property first. I said to Lyte, 'It'd be a rotten shame,' I said, 'if somebody went and opened a combination grocery and meat market right next door and ruined Purdy's nice little business.' Especially--" Babbitt leaned forward, and his voice was harsh, "--it would be hard luck if one of these cash-and-carry chain-stores got in there and started cutting prices below cost till they got rid of competition and forced you to the wall!" Purdy snatched his thin hands from his pockets, pulled up his trousers, thrust his hands back into his pockets, tilted in the heavy oak chair, and tried to look amused, as he struggled: "Yes, they're bad competition. But I guess you don't realize the Pulling Power that Personality has in a neighborhood business." The great Babbitt smiled. "That's so. Just as you feel, old man. We thought we'd give you first chance. All right then--" "Now look here!" Purdy wailed. "I know f'r a fact that a piece of property 'bout same size, right near, sold for less 'n eighty-five hundred, 'twa'n't two years ago, and here you fellows are asking me twenty-four thousand dollars! Why, I'd have to mortgage--I wouldn't mind so much paying twelve thousand but--Why good God, Mr. Babbitt, you're asking more 'n twice its value! And threatening to ruin me if I don't take it!" "Purdy, I don't like your way of talking! I don't like it one little bit! Supposing Lyte and I were stinking enough to want to ruin any fellow human, don't you suppose we know it's to our own selfish interest to have everybody in Zenith prosperous? But all this is beside the point. Tell you what we'll do: We'll come down to twenty-three thousand-five thousand down and the rest on mortgage--and if you want to wreck the old shack and rebuild, I guess I can get Lyte here to loosen up for a building-mortgage on good liberal terms. Heavens, man, we'd be glad to oblige you! We don't like these foreign grocery trusts any better 'n you do! But it isn't reasonable to expect us to sacrifice eleven thousand or more just for neighborliness, IS it! How about it, Lyte? You willing to come down?" By warmly taking Purdy's part, Babbitt persuaded the benevolent Mr. Lyte to reduce his price to twenty-one thousand dollars. At the right moment Babbitt snatched from a drawer the agreement he had had Miss McGoun type out a week ago and thrust it into Purdy's hands. He genially shook his fountain pen to make certain that it was flowing, handed it to Purdy, and approvingly watched him sign. The work of the world was being done. Lyte had made something over nine thousand dollars, Babbitt had made a four-hundred-and-fifty dollar commission, Purdy had, by the sensitive mechanism of modern finance, been provided with a business-building, and soon the happy inhabitants of Linton would have meat lavished upon them at prices only a little higher than those down-town. It had been a manly battle, but after it Babbitt drooped. This was the only really amusing contest he had been planning. There was nothing ahead save details of leases, appraisals, mortgages. He muttered, "Makes me sick to think of Lyte carrying off most of the profit when I did all the work, the old skinflint! And--What else have I got to do to-day?... Like to take a good long vacation. Motor trip. Something." He sprang up, rekindled by the thought of lunching with Paul Riesling.

Chapter IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-iv-vi

Babbitt writes an advertisement for a cemetery on Linden Lane before returning to the monotony of "routine details" , which include constructing an illogical and futile scheme to quit smoking. He calls an old friend, Paul Riesling, and they decide to meet for lunch at the Athletic Club. Babbitt reflects on his own expertise in the real estate business, yet it is clear that he lacks the exhaustive knowledge of the city required of a truly informed salesman. In fact, his actions and beliefs seem to challenge each other in constant hypocrisy. He has a conference with Conrad Lyte and Archibold Purdy in which he convinces Lyte to buy to lot adjacent to Purdy's grocery store for thousands of dollars more than it is worth, and subsequently he convinces Purdy to buy the lot for several times its worth

Babbitt's ineptitude, inner conflict, and constant hypocrisy are perhaps most evident in his alleged attempts to quit smoking. He stops smoking "at least once a month" by coming up with a new elaborate plan involving several steps and a very detailed schedule. He does most of what he sets out to do--except stop smoking. He consistently forgets that he has resolved to quit. He even buys himself an electric cigar lighter. This is more than mere hypocrisy. Lewis's biting sarcasm here indicates that Babbitt's behavior is a reflection upon his lack of inner resolve and his inability to determine what he wants and believes. Appropriately, his professional life is also devoid of integrity and meaning . Although he considers himself an honest and competent salesman, Lewis makes it clear through the plot and satire that he is, in fact, regularly unethical in his business dealings and that he does not know nearly "everything about his own city and its environs," despite his claim that this is the "duty and privilege of the realtor" . He relies on newspapers and the Church to tell him what to think and believe. His drive toward conformity has completely obliterated his agency as an individual. Babbitt shows how easily persuaded he is during his conversation with Ted about getting his education by correspondence. Despite the fact that these advertisements, included in full, are the victims of brutal satiric ridicule, he is nearly convinced that with minimal effort and money, his son really can learn the art of "Prosperity and Domination" and can hold all the secrets of a masterful personality. In addition to the ways in which these ads undermine themselves with ludicrous rags-to-riches stories of expensive automobiles and unparalleled social status, Lewis offers an unexpected blow with the address listed on the posting: "Shortcut Educational Pub. Co., Desk, WA, Sandpit, Iowa" . These courses offer nothing more than a shortcut to nowhere, and Mrs. Babbitt is the only one sensible enough to notice that Ted must go to college in order to attain money and prestige. Far from the decision is any idea that an education is a good in itself as part of an individual's personal development. The Zenith Athletic Club is subject to a similar brand of satire. Lewis notes that it is "not athletic and it isn't exactly a club" . It also has a fireplace without a fire, musicianless musicians, and members who criticize other clubs but join a club the moment they are invited. Despite the focus on Babbitt's complacent conformity and inept hypocrisy, these chapters also hint at the rebellion that is floating through his consciousness. At lunch with Paul, he reveals that, though he feels guilty about it, he is significantly dissatisfied with his wife and family. He explains that he has fulfilled the requirements of the American Dream ), yet he feels that his life is empty. Paul explains that he, too, is dissatisfied and unhappy, and he suspects that plenty of the other upstanding gentlemen whom they know are in the same position. Their conversation is a reflection on how the merely external aspects of the American Dream, once achieved, leave the superficial person feeling restless, unhappy, and betrayed.

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finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_1_part_2.txt

Babbitt.chapter v

chapter v

{"name": "Chapter V", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-iv-vi", "summary": "As Babbitt makes his elaborate preparations to leave the office to go to lunch at the Zenith Athletic Club, he continues to make promises of self-improvement that he blatantly and continuously breaks. At least the promises make him \"feel exemplary\". As he drives, he takes pride in the familiar setting and in his role in it. On impulse, he stops to buy himself an expensive electric cigar-lighter for the car. At the club, Babbitt makes small talk with Sidney Finkelstein and Vergil Gunch until Paul Riesling arrives. Babbitt hastens away to greet him like a proud and admiring \"older brother\". In the dining room, Babbitt decides not to sit with his friends, because he wants Paul \"to himself\". Babbitt confesses to Paul that he sometimes feels dissatisfied with his otherwise complete, successful, and moral life. Paul reacts in strong agreement, describing his resentment for his controlling wife Zilla and suggesting that \"this sweet, clean, respectable, moral life isn't all it's cracked up to be\". He speculates that many of Zenith's most upstanding men are restless, miserable, and bored with their lives and wives. Though Babbitt counters Paul's claims with appeals to integrity and a work ethic, he begins to agree with Paul in a way that contracts \"all his defense of duty and Christian patience,\" producing a \"curious reckless joy\". In a fit of rebellion, Babbitt decides that he will scheme to make it possible for himself and Paul to go up to Maine for their annual Babbitt-Riesling trip a few days earlier than their families--for a real vacation", "analysis": "Babbitt's ineptitude, inner conflict, and constant hypocrisy are perhaps most evident in his alleged attempts to quit smoking. He stops smoking \"at least once a month\" by coming up with a new elaborate plan involving several steps and a very detailed schedule. He does most of what he sets out to do--except stop smoking. He consistently forgets that he has resolved to quit. He even buys himself an electric cigar lighter. This is more than mere hypocrisy. Lewis's biting sarcasm here indicates that Babbitt's behavior is a reflection upon his lack of inner resolve and his inability to determine what he wants and believes. Appropriately, his professional life is also devoid of integrity and meaning . Although he considers himself an honest and competent salesman, Lewis makes it clear through the plot and satire that he is, in fact, regularly unethical in his business dealings and that he does not know nearly \"everything about his own city and its environs,\" despite his claim that this is the \"duty and privilege of the realtor\" . He relies on newspapers and the Church to tell him what to think and believe. His drive toward conformity has completely obliterated his agency as an individual. Babbitt shows how easily persuaded he is during his conversation with Ted about getting his education by correspondence. Despite the fact that these advertisements, included in full, are the victims of brutal satiric ridicule, he is nearly convinced that with minimal effort and money, his son really can learn the art of \"Prosperity and Domination\" and can hold all the secrets of a masterful personality. In addition to the ways in which these ads undermine themselves with ludicrous rags-to-riches stories of expensive automobiles and unparalleled social status, Lewis offers an unexpected blow with the address listed on the posting: \"Shortcut Educational Pub. Co., Desk, WA, Sandpit, Iowa\" . These courses offer nothing more than a shortcut to nowhere, and Mrs. Babbitt is the only one sensible enough to notice that Ted must go to college in order to attain money and prestige. Far from the decision is any idea that an education is a good in itself as part of an individual's personal development. The Zenith Athletic Club is subject to a similar brand of satire. Lewis notes that it is \"not athletic and it isn't exactly a club\" . It also has a fireplace without a fire, musicianless musicians, and members who criticize other clubs but join a club the moment they are invited. Despite the focus on Babbitt's complacent conformity and inept hypocrisy, these chapters also hint at the rebellion that is floating through his consciousness. At lunch with Paul, he reveals that, though he feels guilty about it, he is significantly dissatisfied with his wife and family. He explains that he has fulfilled the requirements of the American Dream ), yet he feels that his life is empty. Paul explains that he, too, is dissatisfied and unhappy, and he suspects that plenty of the other upstanding gentlemen whom they know are in the same position. Their conversation is a reflection on how the merely external aspects of the American Dream, once achieved, leave the superficial person feeling restless, unhappy, and betrayed."}

BABBITT'S preparations for leaving the office to its feeble self during the hour and a half of his lunch-period were somewhat less elaborate than the plans for a general European war. He fretted to Miss McGoun, "What time you going to lunch? Well, make sure Miss Bannigan is in then. Explain to her that if Wiedenfeldt calls up, she's to tell him I'm already having the title traced. And oh, b' the way, remind me to-morrow to have Penniman trace it. Now if anybody comes in looking for a cheap house, remember we got to shove that Bangor Road place off onto somebody. If you need me, I'll be at the Athletic Club. And--uh--And--uh--I'll be back by two." He dusted the cigar-ashes off his vest. He placed a difficult unanswered letter on the pile of unfinished work, that he might not fail to attend to it that afternoon. (For three noons, now, he had placed the same letter on the unfinished pile.) He scrawled on a sheet of yellow backing-paper the memorandum: "See abt apt h drs," which gave him an agreeable feeling of having already seen about the apartment-house doors. He discovered that he was smoking another cigar. He threw it away, protesting, "Darn it, I thought you'd quit this darn smoking!" He courageously returned the cigar-box to the correspondence-file, locked it up, hid the key in a more difficult place, and raged, "Ought to take care of myself. And need more exercise--walk to the club, every single noon--just what I'll do--every noon--cut out this motoring all the time." The resolution made him feel exemplary. Immediately after it he decided that this noon it was too late to walk. It took but little more time to start his car and edge it into the traffic than it would have taken to walk the three and a half blocks to the club. II As he drove he glanced with the fondness of familiarity at the buildings. A stranger suddenly dropped into the business-center of Zenith could not have told whether he was in a city of Oregon or Georgia, Ohio or Maine, Oklahoma or Manitoba. But to Babbitt every inch was individual and stirring. As always he noted that the California Building across the way was three stories lower, therefore three stories less beautiful, than his own Reeves Building. As always when he passed the Parthenon Shoe Shine Parlor, a one-story hut which beside the granite and red-brick ponderousness of the old California Building resembled a bath-house under a cliff, he commented, "Gosh, ought to get my shoes shined this afternoon. Keep forgetting it." At the Simplex Office Furniture Shop, the National Cash Register Agency, he yearned for a dictaphone, for a typewriter which would add and multiply, as a poet yearns for quartos or a physician for radium. At the Nobby Men's Wear Shop he took his left hand off the steering-wheel to touch his scarf, and thought well of himself as one who bought expensive ties "and could pay cash for 'em, too, by golly;" and at the United Cigar Store, with its crimson and gold alertness, he reflected, "Wonder if I need some cigars--idiot--plumb forgot--going t' cut down my fool smoking." He looked at his bank, the Miners' and Drovers' National, and considered how clever and solid he was to bank with so marbled an establishment. His high moment came in the clash of traffic when he was halted at the corner beneath the lofty Second National Tower. His car was banked with four others in a line of steel restless as cavalry, while the cross town traffic, limousines and enormous moving-vans and insistent motor-cycles, poured by; on the farther corner, pneumatic riveters rang on the sun-plated skeleton of a new building; and out of this tornado flashed the inspiration of a familiar face, and a fellow Booster shouted, "H' are you, George!" Babbitt waved in neighborly affection, and slid on with the traffic as the policeman lifted his hand. He noted how quickly his car picked up. He felt superior and powerful, like a shuttle of polished steel darting in a vast machine. As always he ignored the next two blocks, decayed blocks not yet reclaimed from the grime and shabbiness of the Zenith of 1885. While he was passing the five-and-ten-cent store, the Dakota Lodging House, Concordia Hall with its lodge-rooms and the offices of fortune-tellers and chiropractors, he thought of how much money he made, and he boasted a little and worried a little and did old familiar sums: "Four hundred fifty plunks this morning from the Lyte deal. But taxes due. Let's see: I ought to pull out eight thousand net this year, and save fifteen hundred of that--no, not if I put up garage and--Let's see: six hundred and forty clear last month, and twelve times six-forty makes--makes--let see: six times twelve is seventy-two hundred and--Oh rats, anyway, I'll make eight thousand--gee now, that's not so bad; mighty few fellows pulling down eight thousand dollars a year--eight thousand good hard iron dollars--bet there isn't more than five per cent. of the people in the whole United States that make more than Uncle George does, by golly! Right up at the top of the heap! But--Way expenses are--Family wasting gasoline, and always dressed like millionaires, and sending that eighty a month to Mother--And all these stenographers and salesmen gouging me for every cent they can get--" The effect of his scientific budget-planning was that he felt at once triumphantly wealthy and perilously poor, and in the midst of these dissertations he stopped his car, rushed into a small news-and-miscellany shop, and bought the electric cigar-lighter which he had coveted for a week. He dodged his conscience by being jerky and noisy, and by shouting at the clerk, "Guess this will prett' near pay for itself in matches, eh?" It was a pretty thing, a nickeled cylinder with an almost silvery socket, to be attached to the dashboard of his car. It was not only, as the placard on the counter observed, "a dandy little refinement, lending the last touch of class to a gentleman's auto," but a priceless time-saver. By freeing him from halting the car to light a match, it would in a month or two easily save ten minutes. As he drove on he glanced at it. "Pretty nice. Always wanted one," he said wistfully. "The one thing a smoker needs, too." Then he remembered that he had given up smoking. "Darn it!" he mourned. "Oh well, I suppose I'll hit a cigar once in a while. And--Be a great convenience for other folks. Might make just the difference in getting chummy with some fellow that would put over a sale. And--Certainly looks nice there. Certainly is a mighty clever little jigger. Gives the last touch of refinement and class. I--By golly, I guess I can afford it if I want to! Not going to be the only member of this family that never has a single doggone luxury!" Thus, laden with treasure, after three and a half blocks of romantic adventure, he drove up to the club. III The Zenith Athletic Club is not athletic and it isn't exactly a club, but it is Zenith in perfection. It has an active and smoke-misted billiard room, it is represented by baseball and football teams, and in the pool and the gymnasium a tenth of the members sporadically try to reduce. But most of its three thousand members use it as a cafe in which to lunch, play cards, tell stories, meet customers, and entertain out-of town uncles at dinner. It is the largest club in the city, and its chief hatred is the conservative Union Club, which all sound members of the Athletic call "a rotten, snobbish, dull, expensive old hole--not one Good Mixer in the place--you couldn't hire me to join." Statistics show that no member of the Athletic has ever refused election to the Union, and of those who are elected, sixty-seven per cent. resign from the Athletic and are thereafter heard to say, in the drowsy sanctity of the Union lounge, "The Athletic would be a pretty good hotel, if it were more exclusive." The Athletic Club building is nine stories high, yellow brick with glassy roof-garden above and portico of huge limestone columns below. The lobby, with its thick pillars of porous Caen stone, its pointed vaulting, and a brown glazed-tile floor like well-baked bread-crust, is a combination of cathedral-crypt and rathskellar. The members rush into the lobby as though they were shopping and hadn't much time for it. Thus did Babbitt enter, and to the group standing by the cigar-counter he whooped, "How's the boys? How's the boys? Well, well, fine day!" Jovially they whooped back--Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, Sidney Finkelstein, the ladies'-ready-to-wear buyer for Parcher & Stein's department-store, and Professor Joseph K. Pumphrey, owner of the Riteway Business College and instructor in Public Speaking, Business English, Scenario Writing, and Commercial Law. Though Babbitt admired this savant, and appreciated Sidney Finkelstein as "a mighty smart buyer and a good liberal spender," it was to Vergil Gunch that he turned with enthusiasm. Mr. Gunch was president of the Boosters' Club, a weekly lunch-club, local chapter of a national organization which promoted sound business and friendliness among Regular Fellows. He was also no less an official than Esteemed Leading Knight in the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and it was rumored that at the next election he would be a candidate for Exalted Ruler. He was a jolly man, given to oratory and to chumminess with the arts. He called on the famous actors and vaudeville artists when they came to town, gave them cigars, addressed them by their first names, and--sometimes--succeeded in bringing them to the Boosters' lunches to give The Boys a Free Entertainment. He was a large man with hair en brosse, and he knew the latest jokes, but he played poker close to the chest. It was at his party that Babbitt had sucked in the virus of to-day's restlessness. Gunch shouted, "How's the old Bolsheviki? How do you feel, the morning after the night before?" "Oh, boy! Some head! That was a regular party you threw, Verg! Hope you haven't forgotten I took that last cute little jack-pot!" Babbitt bellowed. (He was three feet from Gunch.) "That's all right now! What I'll hand you next time, Georgie! Say, juh notice in the paper the way the New York Assembly stood up to the Reds?" "You bet I did. That was fine, eh? Nice day to-day." "Yes, it's one mighty fine spring day, but nights still cold." "Yeh, you're right they are! Had to have coupla blankets last night, out on the sleeping-porch. Say, Sid," Babbitt turned to Finkelstein, the buyer, "got something wanta ask you about. I went out and bought me an electric cigar-lighter for the car, this noon, and--" "Good hunch!" said Finkelstein, while even the learned Professor Pumphrey, a bulbous man with a pepper-and-salt cutaway and a pipe-organ voice, commented, "That makes a dandy accessory. Cigar-lighter gives tone to the dashboard." "Yep, finally decided I'd buy me one. Got the best on the market, the clerk said it was. Paid five bucks for it. Just wondering if I got stuck. What do they charge for 'em at the store, Sid?" Finkelstein asserted that five dollars was not too great a sum, not for a really high-class lighter which was suitably nickeled and provided with connections of the very best quality. "I always say--and believe me, I base it on a pretty fairly extensive mercantile experience--the best is the cheapest in the long run. Of course if a fellow wants to be a Jew about it, he can get cheap junk, but in the long RUN, the cheapest thing is--the best you can get! Now you take here just th' other day: I got a new top for my old boat and some upholstery, and I paid out a hundred and twenty-six fifty, and of course a lot of fellows would say that was too much--Lord, if the Old Folks--they live in one of these hick towns up-state and they simply can't get onto the way a city fellow's mind works, and then, of course, they're Jews, and they'd lie right down and die if they knew Sid had anted up a hundred and twenty-six bones. But I don't figure I was stuck, George, not a bit. Machine looks brand new now--not that it's so darned old, of course; had it less 'n three years, but I give it hard service; never drive less 'n a hundred miles on Sunday and, uh--Oh, I don't really think you got stuck, George. In the LONG run, the best is, you might say, it's unquestionably the cheapest." "That's right," said Vergil Gunch. "That's the way I look at it. If a fellow is keyed up to what you might call intensive living, the way you get it here in Zenith--all the hustle and mental activity that's going on with a bunch of live-wires like the Boosters and here in the Z.A.C., why, he's got to save his nerves by having the best." Babbitt nodded his head at every fifth word in the roaring rhythm; and by the conclusion, in Gunch's renowned humorous vein, he was enchanted: "Still, at that, George, don't know's you can afford it. I've heard your business has been kind of under the eye of the gov'ment since you stole the tail of Eathorne Park and sold it!" "Oh, you're a great little josher, Verg. But when it comes to kidding, how about this report that you stole the black marble steps off the post-office and sold 'em for high-grade coal!" In delight Babbitt patted Gunch's back, stroked his arm. "That's all right, but what I want to know is: who's the real-estate shark that bought that coal for his apartment-houses?" "I guess that'll hold you for a while, George!" said Finkelstein. "I'll tell you, though, boys, what I did hear: George's missus went into the gents' wear department at Parcher's to buy him some collars, and before she could give his neck-size the clerk slips her some thirteens. 'How juh know the size?' says Mrs. Babbitt, and the clerk says, 'Men that let their wives buy collars for 'em always wear thirteen, madam.' How's that! That's pretty good, eh? How's that, eh? I guess that'll about fix you, George!" "I--I--" Babbitt sought for amiable insults in answer. He stopped, stared at the door. Paul Riesling was coming in. Babbitt cried, "See you later, boys," and hastened across the lobby. He was, just then, neither the sulky child of the sleeping-porch, the domestic tyrant of the breakfast table, the crafty money-changer of the Lyte-Purdy conference, nor the blaring Good Fellow, the Josher and Regular Guy, of the Athletic Club. He was an older brother to Paul Riesling, swift to defend him, admiring him with a proud and credulous love passing the love of women. Paul and he shook hands solemnly; they smiled as shyly as though they had been parted three years, not three days--and they said: "How's the old horse-thief?" "All right, I guess. How're you, you poor shrimp?" "I'm first-rate, you second-hand hunk o' cheese." Reassured thus of their high fondness, Babbitt grunted, "You're a fine guy, you are! Ten minutes late!" Riesling snapped, "Well, you're lucky to have a chance to lunch with a gentleman!" They grinned and went into the Neronian washroom, where a line of men bent over the bowls inset along a prodigious slab of marble as in religious prostration before their own images in the massy mirror. Voices thick, satisfied, authoritative, hurtled along the marble walls, bounded from the ceiling of lavender-bordered milky tiles, while the lords of the city, the barons of insurance and law and fertilizers and motor tires, laid down the law for Zenith; announced that the day was warm-indeed, indisputably of spring; that wages were too high and the interest on mortgages too low; that Babe Ruth, the eminent player of baseball, was a noble man; and that "those two nuts at the Climax Vaudeville Theater this week certainly are a slick pair of actors." Babbitt, though ordinarily his voice was the surest and most episcopal of all, was silent. In the presence of the slight dark reticence of Paul Riesling, he was awkward, he desired to be quiet and firm and deft. The entrance lobby of the Athletic Club was Gothic, the washroom Roman Imperial, the lounge Spanish Mission, and the reading-room in Chinese Chippendale, but the gem of the club was the dining-room, the masterpiece of Ferdinand Reitman, Zenith's busiest architect. It was lofty and half-timbered, with Tudor leaded casements, an oriel, a somewhat musicianless musicians'-gallery, and tapestries believed to illustrate the granting of Magna Charta. The open beams had been hand-adzed at Jake Offutt's car-body works, the hinge; were of hand-wrought iron, the wainscot studded with handmade wooden pegs, and at one end of the room was a heraldic and hooded stone fireplace which the club's advertising-pamphlet asserted to be not only larger than any of the fireplaces in European castles but of a draught incomparably more scientific. It was also much cleaner, as no fire had ever been built in it. Half of the tables were mammoth slabs which seated twenty or thirty men. Babbitt usually sat at the one near the door, with a group including Gunch, Finkelstein, Professor Pumphrey, Howard Littlefield, his neighbor, T. Cholmondeley Frink, the poet and advertising-agent, and Orville Jones, whose laundry was in many ways the best in Zenith. They composed a club within the club, and merrily called themselves "The Roughnecks." To-day as he passed their table the Roughnecks greeted him, "Come on, sit in! You 'n' Paul too proud to feed with poor folks? Afraid somebody might stick you for a bottle of Bevo, George? Strikes me you swells are getting awful darn exclusive!" He thundered, "You bet! We can't afford to have our reps ruined by being seen with you tightwads!" and guided Paul to one of the small tables beneath the musicians'-gallery. He felt guilty. At the Zenith Athletic Club, privacy was very bad form. But he wanted Paul to himself. That morning he had advocated lighter lunches and now he ordered nothing but English mutton chop, radishes, peas, deep-dish apple pie, a bit of cheese, and a pot of coffee with cream, adding, as he did invariably, "And uh--Oh, and you might give me an order of French fried potatoes." When the chop came he vigorously peppered it and salted it. He always peppered and salted his meat, and vigorously, before tasting it. Paul and he took up the spring-like quality of the spring, the virtues of the electric cigar-lighter, and the action of the New York State Assembly. It was not till Babbitt was thick and disconsolate with mutton grease that he flung out: "I wound up a nice little deal with Conrad Lyte this morning that put five hundred good round plunks in my pocket. Pretty nice--pretty nice! And yet--I don't know what's the matter with me to-day. Maybe it's an attack of spring fever, or staying up too late at Verg Gunch's, or maybe it's just the winter's work piling up, but I've felt kind of down in the mouth all day long. Course I wouldn't beef about it to the fellows at the Roughnecks' Table there, but you--Ever feel that way, Paul? Kind of comes over me: here I've pretty much done all the things I ought to; supported my family, and got a good house and a six-cylinder car, and built up a nice little business, and I haven't any vices 'specially, except smoking--and I'm practically cutting that out, by the way. And I belong to the church, and play enough golf to keep in trim, and I only associate with good decent fellows. And yet, even so, I don't know that I'm entirely satisfied!" It was drawled out, broken by shouts from the neighboring tables, by mechanical love-making to the waitress, by stertorous grunts as the coffee filled him with dizziness and indigestion. He was apologetic and doubtful, and it was Paul, with his thin voice, who pierced the fog: "Good Lord, George, you don't suppose it's any novelty to me to find that we hustlers, that think we're so all-fired successful, aren't getting much out of it? You look as if you expected me to report you as seditious! You know what my own life's been." "I know, old man." "I ought to have been a fiddler, and I'm a pedler of tar-roofing! And Zilla--Oh, I don't want to squeal, but you know as well as I do about how inspiring a wife she is.... Typical instance last evening: We went to the movies. There was a big crowd waiting in the lobby, us at the tail-end. She began to push right through it with her 'Sir, how dare you?' manner--Honestly, sometimes when I look at her and see how she's always so made up and stinking of perfume and looking for trouble and kind of always yelping, 'I tell yuh I'm a lady, damn yuh!'--why, I want to kill her! Well, she keeps elbowing through the crowd, me after her, feeling good and ashamed, till she's almost up to the velvet rope and ready to be the next let in. But there was a little squirt of a man there--probably been waiting half an hour--I kind of admired the little cuss--and he turns on Zilla and says, perfectly polite, 'Madam, why are you trying to push past me?' And she simply--God, I was so ashamed!--she rips out at him, 'You're no gentleman,' and she drags me into it and hollers, 'Paul, this person insulted me!' and the poor skate he got ready to fight. "I made out I hadn't heard them--sure! same as you wouldn't hear a boiler-factory!--and I tried to look away--I can tell you exactly how every tile looks in the ceiling of that lobby; there's one with brown spots on it like the face of the devil--and all the time the people there--they were packed in like sardines--they kept making remarks about us, and Zilla went right on talking about the little chap, and screeching that 'folks like him oughtn't to be admitted in a place that's SUPPOSED to be for ladies and gentlemen,' and 'Paul, will you kindly call the manager, so I can report this dirty rat?' and--Oof! Maybe I wasn't glad when I could sneak inside and hide in the dark! "After twenty-four years of that kind of thing, you don't expect me to fall down and foam at the mouth when you hint that this sweet, clean, respectable, moral life isn't all it's cracked up to be, do you? I can't even talk about it, except to you, because anybody else would think I was yellow. Maybe I am. Don't care any longer.... Gosh, you've had to stand a lot of whining from me, first and last, Georgie!" "Rats, now, Paul, you've never really what you could call whined. Sometimes--I'm always blowing to Myra and the kids about what a whale of a realtor I am, and yet sometimes I get a sneaking idea I'm not such a Pierpont Morgan as I let on to be. But if I ever do help by jollying you along, old Paulski, I guess maybe Saint Pete may let me in after all!" "Yuh, you're an old blow-hard, Georgie, you cheerful cut-throat, but you've certainly kept me going." "Why don't you divorce Zilla?" "Why don't I! If I only could! If she'd just give me the chance! You couldn't hire her to divorce me, no, nor desert me. She's too fond of her three squares and a few pounds of nut-center chocolates in between. If she'd only be what they call unfaithful to me! George, I don't want to be too much of a stinker; back in college I'd 've thought a man who could say that ought to be shot at sunrise. But honestly, I'd be tickled to death if she'd really go making love with somebody. Fat chance! Of course she'll flirt with anything--you know how she holds hands and laughs--that laugh--that horrible brassy laugh--the way she yaps, 'You naughty man, you better be careful or my big husband will be after you!'--and the guy looking me over and thinking, 'Why, you cute little thing, you run away now or I'll spank you!' And she'll let him go just far enough so she gets some excitement out of it and then she'll begin to do the injured innocent and have a beautiful time wailing, 'I didn't think you were that kind of a person.' They talk about these demi-vierges in stories--" "These WHATS?" "--but the wise, hard, corseted, old married women like Zilla are worse than any bobbed-haired girl that ever went boldly out into this-here storm of life--and kept her umbrella slid up her sleeve! But rats, you know what Zilla is. How she nags--nags--nags. How she wants everything I can buy her, and a lot that I can't, and how absolutely unreasonable she is, and when I get sore and try to have it out with her she plays the Perfect Lady so well that even I get fooled and get all tangled up in a lot of 'Why did you say's' and 'I didn't mean's.' I'll tell you, Georgie: You know my tastes are pretty fairly simple--in the matter of food, at least. Course, as you're always complaining, I do like decent cigars--not those Flor de Cabagos you're smoking--" "That's all right now! That's a good two-for. By the way, Paul, did I tell you I decided to practically cut out smok--" "Yes you--At the same time, if I can't get what I like, why, I can do without it. I don't mind sitting down to burnt steak, with canned peaches and store cake for a thrilling little dessert afterwards, but I do draw the line at having to sympathize with Zilla because she's so rotten bad-tempered that the cook has quit, and she's been so busy sitting in a dirty lace negligee all afternoon, reading about some brave manly Western hero, that she hasn't had time to do any cooking. You're always talking about 'morals'--meaning monogamy, I suppose. You've been the rock of ages to me, all right, but you're essentially a simp. You--" "Where d' you get that 'simp,' little man? Let me tell you--" "--love to look earnest and inform the world that it's the 'duty of responsible business men to be strictly moral, as an example to the community.' In fact you're so earnest about morality, old Georgie, that I hate to think how essentially immoral you must be underneath. All right, you can--" "Wait, wait now! What's--" "--talk about morals all you want to, old thing, but believe me, if it hadn't been for you and an occasional evening playing the violin to Terrill O'Farrell's 'cello, and three or four darling girls that let me forget this beastly joke they call 'respectable life,' I'd 've killed myself years ago. "And business! The roofing business! Roofs for cowsheds! Oh, I don't mean I haven't had a lot of fun out of the Game; out of putting it over on the labor unions, and seeing a big check coming in, and the business increasing. But what's the use of it? You know, my business isn't distributing roofing--it's principally keeping my competitors from distributing roofing. Same with you. All we do is cut each other's throats and make the public pay for it!" "Look here now, Paul! You're pretty darn near talking socialism!" "Oh yes, of course I don't really exactly mean that--I s'pose. Course--competition--brings out the best--survival of the fittest--but--But I mean: Take all these fellows we know, the kind right here in the club now, that seem to be perfectly content with their home-life and their businesses, and that boost Zenith and the Chamber of Commerce and holler for a million population. I bet if you could cut into their heads you'd find that one-third of 'em are sure-enough satisfied with their wives and kids and friends and their offices; and one-third feel kind of restless but won't admit it; and one-third are miserable and know it. They hate the whole peppy, boosting, go-ahead game, and they're bored by their wives and think their families are fools--at least when they come to forty or forty-five they're bored--and they hate business, and they'd go--Why do you suppose there's so many 'mysterious' suicides? Why do you suppose so many Substantial Citizens jumped right into the war? Think it was all patriotism?" Babbitt snorted, "What do you expect? Think we were sent into the world to have a soft time and--what is it?--'float on flowery beds of ease'? Think Man was just made to be happy?" "Why not? Though I've never discovered anybody that knew what the deuce Man really was made for!" "Well we know--not just in the Bible alone, but it stands to reason--a man who doesn't buckle down and do his duty, even if it does bore him sometimes, is nothing but a--well, he's simply a weakling. Mollycoddle, in fact! And what do you advocate? Come down to cases! If a man is bored by his wife, do you seriously mean he has a right to chuck her and take a sneak, or even kill himself?" "Good Lord, I don't know what 'rights' a man has! And I don't know the solution of boredom. If I did, I'd be the one philosopher that had the cure for living. But I do know that about ten times as many people find their lives dull, and unnecessarily dull, as ever admit it; and I do believe that if we busted out and admitted it sometimes, instead of being nice and patient and loyal for sixty years, and then nice and patient and dead for the rest of eternity, why, maybe, possibly, we might make life more fun." They drifted into a maze of speculation. Babbitt was elephantishly uneasy. Paul was bold, but not quite sure about what he was being bold. Now and then Babbitt suddenly agreed with Paul in an admission which contradicted all his defense of duty and Christian patience, and at each admission he had a curious reckless joy. He said at last: "Look here, old Paul, you do a lot of talking about kicking things in the face, but you never kick. Why don't you?" "Nobody does. Habit too strong. But--Georgie, I've been thinking of one mild bat--oh, don't worry, old pillar of monogamy; it's highly proper. It seems to be settled now, isn't it--though of course Zilla keeps rooting for a nice expensive vacation in New York and Atlantic City, with the bright lights and the bootlegged cocktails and a bunch of lounge-lizards to dance with--but the Babbitts and the Rieslings are sure-enough going to Lake Sunasquam, aren't we? Why couldn't you and I make some excuse--say business in New York--and get up to Maine four or five days before they do, and just loaf by ourselves and smoke and cuss and be natural?" "Great! Great idea!" Babbitt admired. Not for fourteen years had he taken a holiday without his wife, and neither of them quite believed they could commit this audacity. Many members of the Athletic Club did go camping without their wives, but they were officially dedicated to fishing and hunting, whereas the sacred and unchangeable sports of Babbitt and Paul Riesling were golfing, motoring, and bridge. For either the fishermen or the golfers to have changed their habits would have been an infraction of their self-imposed discipline which would have shocked all right-thinking and regularized citizens. Babbitt blustered, "Why don't we just put our foot down and say, 'We're going on ahead of you, and that's all there is to it!' Nothing criminal in it. Simply say to Zilla--" "You don't say anything to Zilla simply. Why, Georgie, she's almost as much of a moralist as you are, and if I told her the truth she'd believe we were going to meet some dames in New York. And even Myra--she never nags you, the way Zilla does, but she'd worry. She'd say, 'Don't you WANT me to go to Maine with you? I shouldn't dream of going unless you wanted me;' and you'd give in to save her feelings. Oh, the devil! Let's have a shot at duck-pins." During the game of duck-pins, a juvenile form of bowling, Paul was silent. As they came down the steps of the club, not more than half an hour after the time at which Babbitt had sternly told Miss McGoun he would be back, Paul sighed, "Look here, old man, oughtn't to talked about Zilla way I did." "Rats, old man, it lets off steam." "Oh, I know! After spending all noon sneering at the conventional stuff, I'm conventional enough to be ashamed of saving my life by busting out with my fool troubles!" "Old Paul, your nerves are kind of on the bum. I'm going to take you away. I'm going to rig this thing. I'm going to have an important deal in New York and--and sure, of course!--I'll need you to advise me on the roof of the building! And the ole deal will fall through, and there'll be nothing for us but to go on ahead to Maine. I--Paul, when it comes right down to it, I don't care whether you bust loose or not. I do like having a rep for being one of the Bunch, but if you ever needed me I'd chuck it and come out for you every time! Not of course but what you're--course I don't mean you'd ever do anything that would put--that would put a decent position on the fritz but--See how I mean? I'm kind of a clumsy old codger, and I need your fine Eyetalian hand. We--Oh, hell, I can't stand here gassing all day! On the job! S' long! Don't take any wooden money, Paulibus! See you soon! S' long!"

Chapter V

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-iv-vi

As Babbitt makes his elaborate preparations to leave the office to go to lunch at the Zenith Athletic Club, he continues to make promises of self-improvement that he blatantly and continuously breaks. At least the promises make him "feel exemplary". As he drives, he takes pride in the familiar setting and in his role in it. On impulse, he stops to buy himself an expensive electric cigar-lighter for the car. At the club, Babbitt makes small talk with Sidney Finkelstein and Vergil Gunch until Paul Riesling arrives. Babbitt hastens away to greet him like a proud and admiring "older brother". In the dining room, Babbitt decides not to sit with his friends, because he wants Paul "to himself". Babbitt confesses to Paul that he sometimes feels dissatisfied with his otherwise complete, successful, and moral life. Paul reacts in strong agreement, describing his resentment for his controlling wife Zilla and suggesting that "this sweet, clean, respectable, moral life isn't all it's cracked up to be". He speculates that many of Zenith's most upstanding men are restless, miserable, and bored with their lives and wives. Though Babbitt counters Paul's claims with appeals to integrity and a work ethic, he begins to agree with Paul in a way that contracts "all his defense of duty and Christian patience," producing a "curious reckless joy". In a fit of rebellion, Babbitt decides that he will scheme to make it possible for himself and Paul to go up to Maine for their annual Babbitt-Riesling trip a few days earlier than their families--for a real vacation

Babbitt's ineptitude, inner conflict, and constant hypocrisy are perhaps most evident in his alleged attempts to quit smoking. He stops smoking "at least once a month" by coming up with a new elaborate plan involving several steps and a very detailed schedule. He does most of what he sets out to do--except stop smoking. He consistently forgets that he has resolved to quit. He even buys himself an electric cigar lighter. This is more than mere hypocrisy. Lewis's biting sarcasm here indicates that Babbitt's behavior is a reflection upon his lack of inner resolve and his inability to determine what he wants and believes. Appropriately, his professional life is also devoid of integrity and meaning . Although he considers himself an honest and competent salesman, Lewis makes it clear through the plot and satire that he is, in fact, regularly unethical in his business dealings and that he does not know nearly "everything about his own city and its environs," despite his claim that this is the "duty and privilege of the realtor" . He relies on newspapers and the Church to tell him what to think and believe. His drive toward conformity has completely obliterated his agency as an individual. Babbitt shows how easily persuaded he is during his conversation with Ted about getting his education by correspondence. Despite the fact that these advertisements, included in full, are the victims of brutal satiric ridicule, he is nearly convinced that with minimal effort and money, his son really can learn the art of "Prosperity and Domination" and can hold all the secrets of a masterful personality. In addition to the ways in which these ads undermine themselves with ludicrous rags-to-riches stories of expensive automobiles and unparalleled social status, Lewis offers an unexpected blow with the address listed on the posting: "Shortcut Educational Pub. Co., Desk, WA, Sandpit, Iowa" . These courses offer nothing more than a shortcut to nowhere, and Mrs. Babbitt is the only one sensible enough to notice that Ted must go to college in order to attain money and prestige. Far from the decision is any idea that an education is a good in itself as part of an individual's personal development. The Zenith Athletic Club is subject to a similar brand of satire. Lewis notes that it is "not athletic and it isn't exactly a club" . It also has a fireplace without a fire, musicianless musicians, and members who criticize other clubs but join a club the moment they are invited. Despite the focus on Babbitt's complacent conformity and inept hypocrisy, these chapters also hint at the rebellion that is floating through his consciousness. At lunch with Paul, he reveals that, though he feels guilty about it, he is significantly dissatisfied with his wife and family. He explains that he has fulfilled the requirements of the American Dream ), yet he feels that his life is empty. Paul explains that he, too, is dissatisfied and unhappy, and he suspects that plenty of the other upstanding gentlemen whom they know are in the same position. Their conversation is a reflection on how the merely external aspects of the American Dream, once achieved, leave the superficial person feeling restless, unhappy, and betrayed.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_1_part_3.txt

Babbitt.chapter vi

chapter vi

{"name": "Chapter VI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-iv-vi", "summary": "After showing a prospective client a tenement in the Linton district, Babbitt picks up Henry Thompson to find him a discounted Zeeco car from Noel Ryland, a fellow member of the Boosters' Club. Back at the office, he denies Stanley Graff a bonus. He perceives a mocking coldness from his employees as he leaves for the evening. At the dinner table, George Babbitt argues with his three children about what kind of car to buy, leaving him discouraged again and longing for his trip with Paul. Ted argues that traditional college will only teach him impractical knowledge and that he would be better served by taking correspondence courses designed to teach him the arts of public speaking, toast-making, story-telling, and manliness. Though George is nearly convinced by the many advertisements that Ted has collected, he finally decides that having a B. A. provides too many social advantages to ignore. In the sun parlor, George reflects that his engagement to Myra was unintentional. He always knew that he did not love her, but he never had the courage to disappoint her. Realizing that she has most likely been as dissatisfied as he has, and admitting that she has been a \"Good Wife\" , he offers her a brief gesture of affection by smoothing her hair", "analysis": "Babbitt's ineptitude, inner conflict, and constant hypocrisy are perhaps most evident in his alleged attempts to quit smoking. He stops smoking \"at least once a month\" by coming up with a new elaborate plan involving several steps and a very detailed schedule. He does most of what he sets out to do--except stop smoking. He consistently forgets that he has resolved to quit. He even buys himself an electric cigar lighter. This is more than mere hypocrisy. Lewis's biting sarcasm here indicates that Babbitt's behavior is a reflection upon his lack of inner resolve and his inability to determine what he wants and believes. Appropriately, his professional life is also devoid of integrity and meaning . Although he considers himself an honest and competent salesman, Lewis makes it clear through the plot and satire that he is, in fact, regularly unethical in his business dealings and that he does not know nearly \"everything about his own city and its environs,\" despite his claim that this is the \"duty and privilege of the realtor\" . He relies on newspapers and the Church to tell him what to think and believe. His drive toward conformity has completely obliterated his agency as an individual. Babbitt shows how easily persuaded he is during his conversation with Ted about getting his education by correspondence. Despite the fact that these advertisements, included in full, are the victims of brutal satiric ridicule, he is nearly convinced that with minimal effort and money, his son really can learn the art of \"Prosperity and Domination\" and can hold all the secrets of a masterful personality. In addition to the ways in which these ads undermine themselves with ludicrous rags-to-riches stories of expensive automobiles and unparalleled social status, Lewis offers an unexpected blow with the address listed on the posting: \"Shortcut Educational Pub. Co., Desk, WA, Sandpit, Iowa\" . These courses offer nothing more than a shortcut to nowhere, and Mrs. Babbitt is the only one sensible enough to notice that Ted must go to college in order to attain money and prestige. Far from the decision is any idea that an education is a good in itself as part of an individual's personal development. The Zenith Athletic Club is subject to a similar brand of satire. Lewis notes that it is \"not athletic and it isn't exactly a club\" . It also has a fireplace without a fire, musicianless musicians, and members who criticize other clubs but join a club the moment they are invited. Despite the focus on Babbitt's complacent conformity and inept hypocrisy, these chapters also hint at the rebellion that is floating through his consciousness. At lunch with Paul, he reveals that, though he feels guilty about it, he is significantly dissatisfied with his wife and family. He explains that he has fulfilled the requirements of the American Dream ), yet he feels that his life is empty. Paul explains that he, too, is dissatisfied and unhappy, and he suspects that plenty of the other upstanding gentlemen whom they know are in the same position. Their conversation is a reflection on how the merely external aspects of the American Dream, once achieved, leave the superficial person feeling restless, unhappy, and betrayed."}

I HE forgot Paul Riesling in an afternoon of not unagreeable details. After a return to his office, which seemed to have staggered on without him, he drove a "prospect" out to view a four-flat tenement in the Linton district. He was inspired by the customer's admiration of the new cigar-lighter. Thrice its novelty made him use it, and thrice he hurled half-smoked cigarettes from the car, protesting, "I GOT to quit smoking so blame much!" Their ample discussion of every detail of the cigar-lighter led them to speak of electric flat-irons and bed-warmers. Babbitt apologized for being so shabbily old-fashioned as still to use a hot-water bottle, and he announced that he would have the sleeping-porch wired at once. He had enormous and poetic admiration, though very little understanding, of all mechanical devices. They were his symbols of truth and beauty. Regarding each new intricate mechanism--metal lathe, two-jet carburetor, machine gun, oxyacetylene welder--he learned one good realistic-sounding phrase, and used it over and over, with a delightful feeling of being technical and initiated. The customer joined him in the worship of machinery, and they came buoyantly up to the tenement and began that examination of plastic slate roof, kalamein doors, and seven-eighths-inch blind-nailed flooring, began those diplomacies of hurt surprise and readiness to be persuaded to do something they had already decided to do, which would some day result in a sale. On the way back Babbitt picked up his partner and father-in-law, Henry T. Thompson, at his kitchen-cabinet works, and they drove through South Zenith, a high-colored, banging, exciting region: new factories of hollow tile with gigantic wire-glass windows, surly old red-brick factories stained with tar, high-perched water-tanks, big red trucks like locomotives, and, on a score of hectic side-tracks, far-wandering freight-cars from the New York Central and apple orchards, the Great Northern and wheat-plateaus, the Southern Pacific and orange groves. They talked to the secretary of the Zenith Foundry Company about an interesting artistic project--a cast-iron fence for Linden Lane Cemetery. They drove on to the Zeeco Motor Company and interviewed the sales-manager, Noel Ryland, about a discount on a Zeeco car for Thompson. Babbitt and Ryland were fellow-members of the Boosters' Club, and no Booster felt right if he bought anything from another Booster without receiving a discount. But Henry Thompson growled, "Oh, t' hell with 'em! I'm not going to crawl around mooching discounts, not from nobody." It was one of the differences between Thompson, the old-fashioned, lean Yankee, rugged, traditional, stage type of American business man, and Babbitt, the plump, smooth, efficient, up-to-the-minute and otherwise perfected modern. Whenever Thompson twanged, "Put your John Hancock on that line," Babbitt was as much amused by the antiquated provincialism as any proper Englishman by any American. He knew himself to be of a breeding altogether more esthetic and sensitive than Thompson's. He was a college graduate, he played golf, he often smoked cigarettes instead of cigars, and when he went to Chicago he took a room with a private bath. "The whole thing is," he explained to Paul Riesling, "these old codgers lack the subtlety that you got to have to-day." This advance in civilization could be carried too far, Babbitt perceived. Noel Ryland, sales-manager of the Zeeco, was a frivolous graduate of Princeton, while Babbitt was a sound and standard ware from that great department-store, the State University. Ryland wore spats, he wrote long letters about City Planning and Community Singing, and, though he was a Booster, he was known to carry in his pocket small volumes of poetry in a foreign language. All this was going too far. Henry Thompson was the extreme of insularity, and Noel Ryland the extreme of frothiness, while between them, supporting the state, defending the evangelical churches and domestic brightness and sound business, were Babbitt and his friends. With this just estimate of himself--and with the promise of a discount on Thompson's car--he returned to his office in triumph. But as he went through the corridor of the Reeves Building he sighed, "Poor old Paul! I got to--Oh, damn Noel Ryland! Damn Charley McKelvey! Just because they make more money than I do, they think they're so superior. I wouldn't be found dead in their stuffy old Union Club! I--Somehow, to-day, I don't feel like going back to work. Oh well--" II He answered telephone calls, he read the four o'clock mail, he signed his morning's letters, he talked to a tenant about repairs, he fought with Stanley Graff. Young Graff, the outside salesman, was always hinting that he deserved an increase of commission, and to-day he complained, "I think I ought to get a bonus if I put through the Heiler sale. I'm chasing around and working on it every single evening, almost." Babbitt frequently remarked to his wife that it was better to "con your office-help along and keep 'em happy 'stead of jumping on 'em and poking 'em up--get more work out of 'em that way," but this unexampled lack of appreciation hurt him, and he turned on Graff: "Look here, Stan; let's get this clear. You've got an idea somehow that it's you that do all the selling. Where d' you get that stuff? Where d' you think you'd be if it wasn't for our capital behind you, and our lists of properties, and all the prospects we find for you? All you got to do is follow up our tips and close the deal. The hall-porter could sell Babbitt-Thompson listings! You say you're engaged to a girl, but have to put in your evenings chasing after buyers. Well, why the devil shouldn't you? What do you want to do? Sit around holding her hand? Let me tell you, Stan, if your girl is worth her salt, she'll be glad to know you're out hustling, making some money to furnish the home-nest, instead of doing the lovey-dovey. The kind of fellow that kicks about working overtime, that wants to spend his evenings reading trashy novels or spooning and exchanging a lot of nonsense and foolishness with some girl, he ain't the kind of upstanding, energetic young man, with a future--and with Vision!--that we want here. How about it? What's your Ideal, anyway? Do you want to make money and be a responsible member of the community, or do you want to be a loafer, with no Inspiration or Pep?" Graff was not so amenable to Vision and Ideals as usual. "You bet I want to make money! That's why I want that bonus! Honest, Mr. Babbitt, I don't want to get fresh, but this Heiler house is a terror. Nobody'll fall for it. The flooring is rotten and the walls are full of cracks." "That's exactly what I mean! To a salesman with a love for his profession, it's hard problems like that that inspire him to do his best. Besides, Stan--Matter o' fact, Thompson and I are against bonuses, as a matter of principle. We like you, and we want to help you so you can get married, but we can't be unfair to the others on the staff. If we start giving you bonuses, don't you see we're going to hurt the feeling and be unjust to Penniman and Laylock? Right's right, and discrimination is unfair, and there ain't going to be any of it in this office! Don't get the idea, Stan, that because during the war salesmen were hard to hire, now, when there's a lot of men out of work, there aren't a slew of bright young fellows that would be glad to step in and enjoy your opportunities, and not act as if Thompson and I were his enemies and not do any work except for bonuses. How about it, heh? How about it?" "Oh--well--gee--of course--" sighed Graff, as he went out, crabwise. Babbitt did not often squabble with his employees. He liked to like the people about him; he was dismayed when they did not like him. It was only when they attacked the sacred purse that he was frightened into fury, but then, being a man given to oratory and high principles, he enjoyed the sound of his own vocabulary and the warmth of his own virtue. Today he had so passionately indulged in self-approval that he wondered whether he had been entirely just: "After all, Stan isn't a boy any more. Oughtn't to call him so hard. But rats, got to haul folks over the coals now and then for their own good. Unpleasant duty, but--I wonder if Stan is sore? What's he saying to McGoun out there?" So chill a wind of hatred blew from the outer office that the normal comfort of his evening home-going was ruined. He was distressed by losing that approval of his employees to which an executive is always slave. Ordinarily he left the office with a thousand enjoyable fussy directions to the effect that there would undoubtedly be important tasks to-morrow, and Miss McGoun and Miss Bannigan would do well to be there early, and for heaven's sake remind him to call up Conrad Lyte soon 's he came in. To-night he departed with feigned and apologetic liveliness. He was as afraid of his still-faced clerks--of the eyes focused on him, Miss McGoun staring with head lifted from her typing, Miss Bannigan looking over her ledger, Mat Penniman craning around at his desk in the dark alcove, Stanley Graff sullenly expressionless--as a parvenu before the bleak propriety of his butler. He hated to expose his back to their laughter, and in his effort to be casually merry he stammered and was raucously friendly and oozed wretchedly out of the door. But he forgot his misery when he saw from Smith Street the charms of Floral Heights; the roofs of red tile and green slate, the shining new sun-parlors, and the stainless walls. III He stopped to inform Howard Littlefield, his scholarly neighbor, that though the day had been springlike the evening might be cold. He went in to shout "Where are you?" at his wife, with no very definite desire to know where she was. He examined the lawn to see whether the furnace-man had raked it properly. With some satisfaction and a good deal of discussion of the matter with Mrs. Babbitt, Ted, and Howard Littlefield, he concluded that the furnace-man had not raked it properly. He cut two tufts of wild grass with his wife's largest dressmaking-scissors; he informed Ted that it was all nonsense having a furnace-man--"big husky fellow like you ought to do all the work around the house;" and privately he meditated that it was agreeable to have it known throughout the neighborhood that he was so prosperous that his son never worked around the house. He stood on the sleeping-porch and did his day's exercises: arms out sidewise for two minutes, up for two minutes, while he muttered, "Ought take more exercise; keep in shape;" then went in to see whether his collar needed changing before dinner. As usual it apparently did not. The Lettish-Croat maid, a powerful woman, beat the dinner-gong. The roast of beef, roasted potatoes, and string beans were excellent this evening and, after an adequate sketch of the day's progressive weather-states, his four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar fee, his lunch with Paul Riesling, and the proven merits of the new cigar-lighter, he was moved to a benign, "Sort o' thinking about buyin, a new car. Don't believe we'll get one till next year, but still we might." Verona, the older daughter, cried, "Oh, Dad, if you do, why don't you get a sedan? That would be perfectly slick! A closed car is so much more comfy than an open one." "Well now, I don't know about that. I kind of like an open car. You get more fresh air that way." "Oh, shoot, that's just because you never tried a sedan. Let's get one. It's got a lot more class," said Ted. "A closed car does keep the clothes nicer," from Mrs. Babbitt; "You don't get your hair blown all to pieces," from Verona; "It's a lot sportier," from Ted; and from Tinka, the youngest, "Oh, let's have a sedan! Mary Ellen's father has got one." Ted wound up, "Oh, everybody's got a closed car now, except us!" Babbitt faced them: "I guess you got nothing very terrible to complain about! Anyway, I don't keep a car just to enable you children to look like millionaires! And I like an open car, so you can put the top down on summer evenings and go out for a drive and get some good fresh air. Besides--A closed car costs more money." "Aw, gee whiz, if the Doppelbraus can afford a closed car, I guess we can!" prodded Ted. "Humph! I make eight thousand a year to his seven! But I don't blow it all in and waste it and throw it around, the way he does! Don't believe in this business of going and spending a whole lot of money to show off and--" They went, with ardor and some thoroughness, into the matters of streamline bodies, hill-climbing power, wire wheels, chrome steel, ignition systems, and body colors. It was much more than a study of transportation. It was an aspiration for knightly rank. In the city of Zenith, in the barbarous twentieth century, a family's motor indicated its social rank as precisely as the grades of the peerage determined the rank of an English family--indeed, more precisely, considering the opinion of old county families upon newly created brewery barons and woolen-mill viscounts. The details of precedence were never officially determined. There was no court to decide whether the second son of a Pierce Arrow limousine should go in to dinner before the first son of a Buick roadster, but of their respective social importance there was no doubt; and where Babbitt as a boy had aspired to the presidency, his son Ted aspired to a Packard twin-six and an established position in the motored gentry. The favor which Babbitt had won from his family by speaking of a new car evaporated as they realized that he didn't intend to buy one this year. Ted lamented, "Oh, punk! The old boat looks as if it'd had fleas and been scratching its varnish off." Mrs. Babbitt said abstractedly, "Snoway talkcher father." Babbitt raged, "If you're too much of a high-class gentleman, and you belong to the bon ton and so on, why, you needn't take the car out this evening." Ted explained, "I didn't mean--" and dinner dragged on with normal domestic delight to the inevitable point at which Babbitt protested, "Come, come now, we can't sit here all evening. Give the girl a chance to clear away the table." He was fretting, "What a family! I don't know how we all get to scrapping this way. Like to go off some place and be able to hear myself think.... Paul ... Maine ... Wear old pants, and loaf, and cuss." He said cautiously to his wife, "I've been in correspondence with a man in New York--wants me to see him about a real-estate trade--may not come off till summer. Hope it doesn't break just when we and the Rieslings get ready to go to Maine. Be a shame if we couldn't make the trip there together. Well, no use worrying now." Verona escaped, immediately after dinner, with no discussion save an automatic "Why don't you ever stay home?" from Babbitt. In the living-room, in a corner of the davenport, Ted settled down to his Home Study; plain geometry, Cicero, and the agonizing metaphors of Comus. "I don't see why they give us this old-fashioned junk by Milton and Shakespeare and Wordsworth and all these has-beens," he protested. "Oh, I guess I could stand it to see a show by Shakespeare, if they had swell scenery and put on a lot of dog, but to sit down in cold blood and READ 'em--These teachers--how do they get that way?" Mrs. Babbitt, darning socks, speculated, "Yes, I wonder why. Of course I don't want to fly in the face of the professors and everybody, but I do think there's things in Shakespeare--not that I read him much, but when I was young the girls used to show me passages that weren't, really, they weren't at all nice." Babbitt looked up irritably from the comic strips in the Evening Advocate. They composed his favorite literature and art, these illustrated chronicles in which Mr. Mutt hit Mr. Jeff with a rotten egg, and Mother corrected Father's vulgarisms by means of a rolling-pin. With the solemn face of a devotee, breathing heavily through his open mouth, he plodded nightly through every picture, and during the rite he detested interruptions. Furthermore, he felt that on the subject of Shakespeare he wasn't really an authority. Neither the Advocate-Times, the Evening Advocate, nor the Bulletin of the Zenith Chamber of Commerce had ever had an editorial on the matter, and until one of them had spoken he found it hard to form an original opinion. But even at risk of floundering in strange bogs, he could not keep out of an open controversy. "I'll tell you why you have to study Shakespeare and those. It's because they're required for college entrance, and that's all there is to it! Personally, I don't see myself why they stuck 'em into an up-to-date high-school system like we have in this state. Be a good deal better if you took Business English, and learned how to write an ad, or letters that would pull. But there it is, and there's no talk, argument, or discussion about it! Trouble with you, Ted, is you always want to do something different! If you're going to law-school--and you are!--I never had a chance to, but I'll see that you do--why, you'll want to lay in all the English and Latin you can get." "Oh punk. I don't see what's the use of law-school--or even finishing high school. I don't want to go to college 'specially. Honest, there's lot of fellows that have graduated from colleges that don't begin to make as much money as fellows that went to work early. Old Shimmy Peters, that teaches Latin in the High, he's a what-is-it from Columbia and he sits up all night reading a lot of greasy books and he's always spieling about the 'value of languages,' and the poor soak doesn't make but eighteen hundred a year, and no traveling salesman would think of working for that. I know what I'd like to do. I'd like to be an aviator, or own a corking big garage, or else--a fellow was telling me about it yesterday--I'd like to be one of these fellows that the Standard Oil Company sends out to China, and you live in a compound and don't have to do any work, and you get to see the world and pagodas and the ocean and everything! And then I could take up correspondence-courses. That's the real stuff! You don't have to recite to some frosty-faced old dame that's trying to show off to the principal, and you can study any subject you want to. Just listen to these! I clipped out the ads of some swell courses." He snatched from the back of his geometry half a hundred advertisements of those home-study courses which the energy and foresight of American commerce have contributed to the science of education. The first displayed the portrait of a young man with a pure brow, an iron jaw, silk socks, and hair like patent leather. Standing with one hand in his trousers-pocket and the other extended with chiding forefinger, he was bewitching an audience of men with gray beards, paunches, bald heads, and every other sign of wisdom and prosperity. Above the picture was an inspiring educational symbol--no antiquated lamp or torch or owl of Minerva, but a row of dollar signs. The text ran: $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ $ POWER AND PROSPERITY IN PUBLIC SPEAKING A Yarn Told at the Club Who do you think I ran into the other evening at the De Luxe Restaurant? Why, old Freddy Durkee, that used to be a dead or-alive shipping clerk in my old place--Mr. Mouse-Man we used to laughingly call the dear fellow. One time he was so timid he was plumb scared of the Super, and never got credit for the dandy work he did. Him at the De Luxe! And if he wasn't ordering a tony feed with all the "fixings" from celery to nuts! And instead of being embarrassed by the waiters, like he used to be at the little dump where we lunched in Old Lang Syne, he was bossing them around like he was a millionaire! I cautiously asked him what he was doing. Freddy laughed and said, "Say, old chum, I guess you're wondering what's come over me. You'll be glad to know I'm now Assistant Super at the old shop, and right on the High Road to Prosperity and Domination, and I look forward with confidence to a twelve-cylinder car, and the wife is making things hum in the best society and the kiddies getting a first-class education." ------------------------ WHAT WE TEACH YOU How to address your lodge. How to give toasts. How to tell dialect stories. How to propose to a lady. How to entertain banquets. How to make convincing selling-talks. How to build big vocabulary. How to create a strong personality. How to become a rational, powerful and original thinker. How to be a MASTER MAN! -------------------------------- ------------------------ PROF. W. F. PEET author of the Shortcut Course in Public-Speaking, is easily the foremost figure in practical literature, psychology & oratory. A graduate of some of our leading universities, lecturer, extensive traveler, author of books, poetry, etc., a man with the unique PERSONALITY OF THE MASTER MINDS, he is ready to give YOU all the secrets of his culture and hammering Force, in a few easy lessons that will not interfere with other occupations. -------------------------------- "Here's how it happened. I ran across an ad of a course that claimed to teach people how to talk easily and on their feet, how to answer complaints, how to lay a proposition before the Boss, how to hit a bank for a loan, how to hold a big audience spellbound with wit, humor, anecdote, inspiration, etc. It was compiled by the Master Orator, Prof. Waldo F. Peet. I was skeptical, too, but I wrote (JUST ON A POSTCARD, with name and address) to the publisher for the lessons--sent On Trial, money back if you are not absolutely satisfied. There were eight simple lessons in plain language anybody could understand, and I studied them just a few hours a night, then started practising on the wife. Soon found I could talk right up to the Super and get due credit for all the good work I did. They began to appreciate me and advance me fast, and say, old doggo, what do you think they're paying me now? $6,500 per year! And say, I find I can keep a big audience fascinated, speaking on any topic. As a friend, old boy, I advise you to send for circular (no obligation) and valuable free Art Picture to:-- SHORTCUT EDUCATIONAL PUB. CO. Desk WA Sandpit, Iowa. ARE YOU A 100 PERCENTER OR A 10 PERCENTER?" Babbitt was again without a canon which would enable him to speak with authority. Nothing in motoring or real estate had indicated what a Solid Citizen and Regular Fellow ought to think about culture by mail. He began with hesitation: "Well--sounds as if it covered the ground. It certainly is a fine thing to be able to orate. I've sometimes thought I had a little talent that way myself, and I know darn well that one reason why a fourflushing old back-number like Chan Mott can get away with it in real estate is just because he can make a good talk, even when he hasn't got a doggone thing to say! And it certainly is pretty cute the way they get out all these courses on various topics and subjects nowadays. I'll tell you, though: No need to blow in a lot of good money on this stuff when you can get a first-rate course in eloquence and English and all that right in your own school--and one of the biggest school buildings in the entire country!" "That's so," said Mrs. Babbitt comfortably, while Ted complained: "Yuh, but Dad, they just teach a lot of old junk that isn't any practical use--except the manual training and typewriting and basketball and dancing--and in these correspondence-courses, gee, you can get all kinds of stuff that would come in handy. Say, listen to this one: 'CAN YOU PLAY A MAN'S PART? 'If you are walking with your mother, sister or best girl and some one passes a slighting remark or uses improper language, won't you be ashamed if you can't take her part? Well, can you? 'We teach boxing and self-defense by mail. Many pupils have written saying that after a few lessons they've outboxed bigger and heavier opponents. The lessons start with simple movements practised before your mirror--holding out your hand for a coin, the breast-stroke in swimming, etc. Before you realize it you are striking scientifically, ducking, guarding and feinting, just as if you had a real opponent before you.'" "Oh, baby, maybe I wouldn't like that!" Ted chanted. "I'll tell the world! Gosh, I'd like to take one fellow I know in school that's always shooting off his mouth, and catch him alone--" "Nonsense! The idea! Most useless thing I ever heard of!" Babbitt fulminated. "Well, just suppose I was walking with Mama or Rone, and somebody passed a slighting remark or used improper language. What would I do?" "Why, you'd probably bust the record for the hundred-yard dash!" "I WOULD not! I'd stand right up to any mucker that passed a slighting remark on MY sister and I'd show him--" "Look here, young Dempsey! If I ever catch you fighting I'll whale the everlasting daylights out of you--and I'll do it without practising holding out my hand for a coin before the mirror, too!" "Why, Ted dear," Mrs. Babbitt said placidly, "it's not at all nice, your talking of fighting this way!" "Well, gosh almighty, that's a fine way to appreciate--And then suppose I was walking with YOU, Ma, and somebody passed a slighting remark--" "Nobody's going to pass no slighting remarks on nobody," Babbitt observed, "not if they stay home and study their geometry and mind their own affairs instead of hanging around a lot of poolrooms and soda-fountains and places where nobody's got any business to be!" "But gooooooosh, Dad, if they DID!" Mrs. Babbitt chirped, "Well, if they did, I wouldn't do them the honor of paying any attention to them! Besides, they never do. You always hear about these women that get followed and insulted and all, but I don't believe a word of it, or it's their own fault, the way some women look at a person. I certainly never 've been insulted by--" "Aw shoot. Mother, just suppose you WERE sometime! Just SUPPOSE! Can't you suppose something? Can't you imagine things?" "Certainly I can imagine things! The idea!" "Certainly your mother can imagine things--and suppose things! Think you're the only member of this household that's got an imagination?" Babbitt demanded. "But what's the use of a lot of supposing? Supposing never gets you anywhere. No sense supposing when there's a lot of real facts to take into considera--" "Look here, Dad. Suppose--I mean, just--just suppose you were in your office and some rival real-estate man--" "Realtor!" "--some realtor that you hated came in--" "I don't hate any realtor." "But suppose you DID!" "I don't intend to suppose anything of the kind! There's plenty of fellows in my profession that stoop and hate their competitors, but if you were a little older and understood business, instead of always going to the movies and running around with a lot of fool girls with their dresses up to their knees and powdered and painted and rouged and God knows what all as if they were chorus-girls, then you'd know--and you'd suppose--that if there's any one thing that I stand for in the real-estate circles of Zenith, it is that we ought to always speak of each other only in the friendliest terms and institute a spirit of brotherhood and cooperation, and so I certainly can't suppose and I can't imagine my hating any realtor, not even that dirty, fourflushing society sneak, Cecil Rountree!" "But--" "And there's no If, And or But about it! But if I WERE going to lambaste somebody, I wouldn't require any fancy ducks or swimming-strokes before a mirror, or any of these doodads and flipflops! Suppose you were out some place and a fellow called you vile names. Think you'd want to box and jump around like a dancing-master? You'd just lay him out cold (at least I certainly hope any son of mine would!) and then you'd dust off your hands and go on about your business, and that's all there is to it, and you aren't going to have any boxing-lessons by mail, either!" "Well but--Yes--I just wanted to show how many different kinds of correspondence-courses there are, instead of all the camembert they teach us in the High." "But I thought they taught boxing in the school gymnasium." "That's different. They stick you up there and some big stiff amuses himself pounding the stuffin's out of you before you have a chance to learn. Hunka! Not any! But anyway--Listen to some of these others." The advertisements were truly philanthropic. One of them bore the rousing headline: "Money! Money!! Money!!!" The second announced that "Mr. P. R., formerly making only eighteen a week in a barber shop, writes to us that since taking our course he is now pulling down $5,000 as an Osteo-vitalic Physician;" and the third that "Miss J. L., recently a wrapper in a store, is now getting Ten Real Dollars a day teaching our Hindu System of Vibratory Breathing and Mental Control." Ted had collected fifty or sixty announcements, from annual reference-books, from Sunday School periodicals, fiction-magazines, and journals of discussion. One benefactor implored, "Don't be a Wallflower--Be More Popular and Make More Money--YOU Can Ukulele or Sing Yourself into Society! By the secret principles of a Newly Discovered System of Music Teaching, any one--man, lady or child--can, without tiresome exercises, special training or long drawn out study, and without waste of time, money or energy, learn to play by note, piano, banjo, cornet, clarinet, saxophone, violin or drum, and learn sight-singing." The next, under the wistful appeal "Finger Print Detectives Wanted--Big Incomes!" confided: "YOU red-blooded men and women--this is the PROFESSION you have been looking for. There's MONEY in it, BIG money, and that rapid change of scene, that entrancing and compelling interest and fascination, which your active mind and adventurous spirit crave. Think of being the chief figure and directing factor in solving strange mysteries and baffling crimes. This wonderful profession brings you into contact with influential men on the basis of equality, and often calls upon you to travel everywhere, maybe to distant lands--all expenses paid. NO SPECIAL EDUCATION REQUIRED." "Oh, boy! I guess that wins the fire-brick necklace! Wouldn't it be swell to travel everywhere and nab some famous crook!" whooped Ted. "Well, I don't think much of that. Doggone likely to get hurt. Still, that music-study stunt might be pretty fair, though. There's no reason why, if efficiency-experts put their minds to it the way they have to routing products in a factory, they couldn't figure out some scheme so a person wouldn't have to monkey with all this practising and exercises that you get in music." Babbitt was impressed, and he had a delightful parental feeling that they two, the men of the family, understood each other. He listened to the notices of mail-box universities which taught Short-story Writing and Improving the Memory, Motion-picture-acting and Developing the Soul-power, Banking and Spanish, Chiropody and Photography, Electrical Engineering and Window-trimming, Poultry-raising and Chemistry. "Well--well--" Babbitt sought for adequate expression of his admiration. "I'm a son of a gun! I knew this correspondence-school business had become a mighty profitable game--makes suburban real-estate look like two cents!--but I didn't realize it'd got to be such a reg'lar key-industry! Must rank right up with groceries and movies. Always figured somebody'd come along with the brains to not leave education to a lot of bookworms and impractical theorists but make a big thing out of it. Yes, I can see how a lot of these courses might interest you. I must ask the fellows at the Athletic if they ever realized--But same time, Ted, you know how advertisers, I means some advertisers, exaggerate. I don't know as they'd be able to jam you through these courses as fast as they claim they can." "Oh sure, Dad; of course." Ted had the immense and joyful maturity of a boy who is respectfully listened to by his elders. Babbitt concentrated on him with grateful affection: "I can see what an influence these courses might have on the whole educational works. Course I'd never admit it publicly--fellow like myself, a State U. graduate, it's only decent and patriotic for him to blow his horn and boost the Alma Mater--but smatter of fact, there's a whole lot of valuable time lost even at the U., studying poetry and French and subjects that never brought in anybody a cent. I don't know but what maybe these correspondence-courses might prove to be one of the most important American inventions. "Trouble with a lot of folks is: they're so blame material; they don't see the spiritual and mental side of American supremacy; they think that inventions like the telephone and the areoplane and wireless--no, that was a Wop invention, but anyway: they think these mechanical improvements are all that we stand for; whereas to a real thinker, he sees that spiritual and, uh, dominating movements like Efficiency, and Rotarianism, and Prohibition, and Democracy are what compose our deepest and truest wealth. And maybe this new principle in education-at-home may be another--may be another factor. I tell you, Ted, we've got to have Vision--" "I think those correspondence-courses are terrible!" The philosophers gasped. It was Mrs. Babbitt who had made this discord in their spiritual harmony, and one of Mrs. Babbitt's virtues was that, except during dinner-parties, when she was transformed into a raging hostess, she took care of the house and didn't bother the males by thinking. She went on firmly: "It sounds awful to me, the way they coax those poor young folks to think they're learning something, and nobody 'round to help them and--You two learn so quick, but me, I always was slow. But just the same--" Babbitt attended to her: "Nonsense! Get just as much, studying at home. You don't think a fellow learns any more because he blows in his father's hard-earned money and sits around in Morris chairs in a swell Harvard dormitory with pictures and shields and table-covers and those doodads, do you? I tell you, I'm a college man--I KNOW! There is one objection you might make though. I certainly do protest against any effort to get a lot of fellows out of barber shops and factories into the professions. They're too crowded already, and what'll we do for workmen if all those fellows go and get educated?" Ted was leaning back, smoking a cigarette without reproof. He was, for the moment, sharing the high thin air of Babbitt's speculation as though he were Paul Riesling or even Dr. Howard Littlefield. He hinted: "Well, what do you think then, Dad? Wouldn't it be a good idea if I could go off to China or some peppy place, and study engineering or something by mail?" "No, and I'll tell you why, son. I've found out it's a mighty nice thing to be able to say you're a B.A. Some client that doesn't know what you are and thinks you're just a plug business man, he gets to shooting off his mouth about economics or literature or foreign trade conditions, and you just ease in something like, 'When I was in college--course I got my B.A. in sociology and all that junk--' Oh, it puts an awful crimp in their style! But there wouldn't be any class to saying 'I got the degree of Stamp-licker from the Bezuzus Mail-order University!' You see--My dad was a pretty good old coot, but he never had much style to him, and I had to work darn hard to earn my way through college. Well, it's been worth it, to be able to associate with the finest gentlemen in Zenith, at the clubs and so on, and I wouldn't want you to drop out of the gentlemen class--the class that are just as red-blooded as the Common People but still have power and personality. It would kind of hurt me if you did that, old man!" "I know, Dad! Sure! All right. I'll stick to it. Say! Gosh! Gee whiz! I forgot all about those kids I was going to take to the chorus rehearsal. I'll have to duck!" "But you haven't done all your home-work." "Do it first thing in the morning." "Well--" Six times in the past sixty days Babbitt had stormed, "You will not 'do it first thing in the morning'! You'll do it right now!" but to-night he said, "Well, better hustle," and his smile was the rare shy radiance he kept for Paul Riesling. IV "Ted's a good boy," he said to Mrs. Babbitt. "Oh, he is!" "Who's these girls he's going to pick up? Are they nice decent girls?" "I don't know. Oh dear, Ted never tells me anything any more. I don't understand what's come over the children of this generation. I used to have to tell Papa and Mama everything, but seems like the children to-day have just slipped away from all control." "I hope they're decent girls. Course Ted's no longer a kid, and I wouldn't want him to, uh, get mixed up and everything." "George: I wonder if you oughtn't to take him aside and tell him about--Things!" She blushed and lowered her eyes. "Well, I don't know. Way I figure it, Myra, no sense suggesting a lot of Things to a boy's mind. Think up enough devilment by himself. But I wonder--It's kind of a hard question. Wonder what Littlefield thinks about it?" "Course Papa agrees with you. He says all this--Instruction is--He says 'tisn't decent." "Oh, he does, does he! Well, let me tell you that whatever Henry T. Thompson thinks--about morals, I mean, though course you can't beat the old duffer--" "Why, what a way to talk of Papa!" "--simply can't beat him at getting in on the ground floor of a deal, but let me tell you whenever he springs any ideas about higher things and education, then I know I think just the opposite. You may not regard me as any great brain-shark, but believe me, I'm a regular college president, compared with Henry T.! Yes sir, by golly, I'm going to take Ted aside and tell him why I lead a strictly moral life." "Oh, will you? When?" "When? When? What's the use of trying to pin me down to When and Why and Where and How and When? That's the trouble with women, that's why they don't make high-class executives; they haven't any sense of diplomacy. When the proper opportunity and occasion arises so it just comes in natural, why then I'll have a friendly little talk with him and--and--Was that Tinka hollering up-stairs? She ought to been asleep, long ago." He prowled through the living-room, and stood in the sun-parlor, that glass-walled room of wicker chairs and swinging couch in which they loafed on Sunday afternoons. Outside only the lights of Doppelbrau's house and the dim presence of Babbitt's favorite elm broke the softness of April night. "Good visit with the boy. Getting over feeling cranky, way I did this morning. And restless. Though, by golly, I will have a few days alone with Paul in Maine! . . . That devil Zilla! . . . But . . . Ted's all right. Whole family all right. And good business. Not many fellows make four hundred and fifty bucks, practically half of a thousand dollars easy as I did to-day! Maybe when we all get to rowing it's just as much my fault as it is theirs. Oughtn't to get grouchy like I do. But--Wish I'd been a pioneer, same as my grand-dad. But then, wouldn't have a house like this. I--Oh, gosh, I DON'T KNOW!" He thought moodily of Paul Riesling, of their youth together, of the girls they had known. When Babbitt had graduated from the State University, twenty-four years ago, he had intended to be a lawyer. He had been a ponderous debater in college; he felt that he was an orator; he saw himself becoming governor of the state. While he read law he worked as a real-estate salesman. He saved money, lived in a boarding-house, supped on poached egg on hash. The lively Paul Riesling (who was certainly going off to Europe to study violin, next month or next year) was his refuge till Paul was bespelled by Zilla Colbeck, who laughed and danced and drew men after her plump and gaily wagging finger. Babbitt's evenings were barren then, and he found comfort only in Paul's second cousin, Myra Thompson, a sleek and gentle girl who showed her capacity by agreeing with the ardent young Babbitt that of course he was going to be governor some day. Where Zilla mocked him as a country boy, Myra said indignantly that he was ever so much solider than the young dandies who had been born in the great city of Zenith--an ancient settlement in 1897, one hundred and five years old, with two hundred thousand population, the queen and wonder of all the state and, to the Catawba boy, George Babbitt, so vast and thunderous and luxurious that he was flattered to know a girl ennobled by birth in Zenith. Of love there was no talk between them. He knew that if he was to study law he could not marry for years; and Myra was distinctly a Nice Girl--one didn't kiss her, one didn't "think about her that way at all" unless one was going to marry her. But she was a dependable companion. She was always ready to go skating, walking; always content to hear his discourses on the great things he was going to do, the distressed poor whom he would defend against the Unjust Rich, the speeches he would make at Banquets, the inexactitudes of popular thought which he would correct. One evening when he was weary and soft-minded, he saw that she had been weeping. She had been left out of a party given by Zilla. Somehow her head was on his shoulder and he was kissing away the tears--and she raised her head to say trustingly, "Now that we're engaged, shall we be married soon or shall we wait?" Engaged? It was his first hint of it. His affection for this brown tender woman thing went cold and fearful, but he could not hurt her, could not abuse her trust. He mumbled something about waiting, and escaped. He walked for an hour, trying to find a way of telling her that it was a mistake. Often, in the month after, he got near to telling her, but it was pleasant to have a girl in his arms, and less and less could he insult her by blurting that he didn't love her. He himself had no doubt. The evening before his marriage was an agony, and the morning wild with the desire to flee. She made him what is known as a Good Wife. She was loyal, industrious, and at rare times merry. She passed from a feeble disgust at their closer relations into what promised to be ardent affection, but it drooped into bored routine. Yet she existed only for him and for the children, and she was as sorry, as worried as himself, when he gave up the law and trudged on in a rut of listing real estate. "Poor kid, she hasn't had much better time than I have," Babbitt reflected, standing in the dark sun-parlor. "But--I wish I could 've had a whirl at law and politics. Seen what I could do. Well--Maybe I've made more money as it is." He returned to the living-room but before he settled down he smoothed his wife's hair, and she glanced up, happy and somewhat surprised.

Chapter VI

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-iv-vi

After showing a prospective client a tenement in the Linton district, Babbitt picks up Henry Thompson to find him a discounted Zeeco car from Noel Ryland, a fellow member of the Boosters' Club. Back at the office, he denies Stanley Graff a bonus. He perceives a mocking coldness from his employees as he leaves for the evening. At the dinner table, George Babbitt argues with his three children about what kind of car to buy, leaving him discouraged again and longing for his trip with Paul. Ted argues that traditional college will only teach him impractical knowledge and that he would be better served by taking correspondence courses designed to teach him the arts of public speaking, toast-making, story-telling, and manliness. Though George is nearly convinced by the many advertisements that Ted has collected, he finally decides that having a B. A. provides too many social advantages to ignore. In the sun parlor, George reflects that his engagement to Myra was unintentional. He always knew that he did not love her, but he never had the courage to disappoint her. Realizing that she has most likely been as dissatisfied as he has, and admitting that she has been a "Good Wife" , he offers her a brief gesture of affection by smoothing her hair

Babbitt's ineptitude, inner conflict, and constant hypocrisy are perhaps most evident in his alleged attempts to quit smoking. He stops smoking "at least once a month" by coming up with a new elaborate plan involving several steps and a very detailed schedule. He does most of what he sets out to do--except stop smoking. He consistently forgets that he has resolved to quit. He even buys himself an electric cigar lighter. This is more than mere hypocrisy. Lewis's biting sarcasm here indicates that Babbitt's behavior is a reflection upon his lack of inner resolve and his inability to determine what he wants and believes. Appropriately, his professional life is also devoid of integrity and meaning . Although he considers himself an honest and competent salesman, Lewis makes it clear through the plot and satire that he is, in fact, regularly unethical in his business dealings and that he does not know nearly "everything about his own city and its environs," despite his claim that this is the "duty and privilege of the realtor" . He relies on newspapers and the Church to tell him what to think and believe. His drive toward conformity has completely obliterated his agency as an individual. Babbitt shows how easily persuaded he is during his conversation with Ted about getting his education by correspondence. Despite the fact that these advertisements, included in full, are the victims of brutal satiric ridicule, he is nearly convinced that with minimal effort and money, his son really can learn the art of "Prosperity and Domination" and can hold all the secrets of a masterful personality. In addition to the ways in which these ads undermine themselves with ludicrous rags-to-riches stories of expensive automobiles and unparalleled social status, Lewis offers an unexpected blow with the address listed on the posting: "Shortcut Educational Pub. Co., Desk, WA, Sandpit, Iowa" . These courses offer nothing more than a shortcut to nowhere, and Mrs. Babbitt is the only one sensible enough to notice that Ted must go to college in order to attain money and prestige. Far from the decision is any idea that an education is a good in itself as part of an individual's personal development. The Zenith Athletic Club is subject to a similar brand of satire. Lewis notes that it is "not athletic and it isn't exactly a club" . It also has a fireplace without a fire, musicianless musicians, and members who criticize other clubs but join a club the moment they are invited. Despite the focus on Babbitt's complacent conformity and inept hypocrisy, these chapters also hint at the rebellion that is floating through his consciousness. At lunch with Paul, he reveals that, though he feels guilty about it, he is significantly dissatisfied with his wife and family. He explains that he has fulfilled the requirements of the American Dream ), yet he feels that his life is empty. Paul explains that he, too, is dissatisfied and unhappy, and he suspects that plenty of the other upstanding gentlemen whom they know are in the same position. Their conversation is a reflection on how the merely external aspects of the American Dream, once achieved, leave the superficial person feeling restless, unhappy, and betrayed.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_2_part_1.txt

Babbitt.chapter vii

chapter vii

{"name": "Chapter VII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x", "summary": "After commenting to Myra that it was a \"funny kind of a day\" , Babbitt decides to go to bed. He shaves while taking a bath, playing childishly with his bath things. After completing his \"elaborate and unchanging\" rites of bedtime preparation, he falls into \"a blessed state of oblivion\". At that moment in Zenith, as George falls asleep on the porch, a vast array of illegal, immoral, or simply very serious things are occurring. Mike Monday, a prize-fighter turned scam-artist evangelist, is concluding an address attempting to defend his reputation and insult his opponents. Simultaneously, Seneca Doane, a lawyer, argues with histologist Dr. Kurt Yavitch over the merits and drawbacks of standardization of lifestyle and thought in Zenith. At this moment, George Babbitt dreams of his beloved fairy child", "analysis": "In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing \"poison booze\" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he \" in it on principle,\" but he does not \"propose to have anybody telling \" what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his \"poemulations,\" yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as \"TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!\" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?"}

I HE solemnly finished the last copy of the American Magazine, while his wife sighed, laid away her darning, and looked enviously at the lingerie designs in a women's magazine. The room was very still. It was a room which observed the best Floral Heights standards. The gray walls were divided into artificial paneling by strips of white-enameled pine. From the Babbitts' former house had come two much-carved rocking-chairs, but the other chairs were new, very deep and restful, upholstered in blue and gold-striped velvet. A blue velvet davenport faced the fireplace, and behind it was a cherrywood table and a tall piano-lamp with a shade of golden silk. (Two out of every three houses in Floral Heights had before the fireplace a davenport, a mahogany table real or imitation, and a piano-lamp or a reading-lamp with a shade of yellow or rose silk.) On the table was a runner of gold-threaded Chinese fabric, four magazines, a silver box containing cigarette-crumbs, and three "gift-books"--large, expensive editions of fairy-tales illustrated by English artists and as yet unread by any Babbitt save Tinka. In a corner by the front windows was a large cabinet Victrola. (Eight out of every nine Floral Heights houses had a cabinet phonograph.) Among the pictures, hung in the exact center of each gray panel, were a red and black imitation English hunting-print, an anemic imitation boudoir-print with a French caption of whose morality Babbitt had always been rather suspicious, and a "hand-colored" photograph of a Colonial room--rag rug, maiden spinning, cat demure before a white fireplace. (Nineteen out of every twenty houses in Floral Heights had either a hunting-print, a Madame Feit la Toilette print, a colored photograph of a New England house, a photograph of a Rocky Mountain, or all four.) It was a room as superior in comfort to the "parlor" of Babbitt's boyhood as his motor was superior to his father's buggy. Though there was nothing in the room that was interesting, there was nothing that was offensive. It was as neat, and as negative, as a block of artificial ice. The fireplace was unsoftened by downy ashes or by sooty brick; the brass fire-irons were of immaculate polish; and the grenadier andirons were like samples in a shop, desolate, unwanted, lifeless things of commerce. Against the wall was a piano, with another piano-lamp, but no one used it save Tinka. The hard briskness of the phonograph contented them; their store of jazz records made them feel wealthy and cultured; and all they knew of creating music was the nice adjustment of a bamboo needle. The books on the table were unspotted and laid in rigid parallels; not one corner of the carpet-rug was curled; and nowhere was there a hockey-stick, a torn picture-book, an old cap, or a gregarious and disorganizing dog. II At home, Babbitt never read with absorption. He was concentrated enough at the office but here he crossed his legs and fidgeted. When his story was interesting he read the best, that is the funniest, paragraphs to his wife; when it did not hold him he coughed, scratched his ankles and his right ear, thrust his left thumb into his vest pocket, jingled his silver, whirled the cigar-cutter and the keys on one end of his watch chain, yawned, rubbed his nose, and found errands to do. He went upstairs to put on his slippers--his elegant slippers of seal-brown, shaped like medieval shoes. He brought up an apple from the barrel which stood by the trunk-closet in the basement. "An apple a day keeps the doctor away," he enlightened Mrs. Babbitt, for quite the first time in fourteen hours. "That's so." "An apple is Nature's best regulator." "Yes, it--" "Trouble with women is, they never have sense enough to form regular habits." "Well, I--" "Always nibbling and eating between meals." "George!" She looked up from her reading. "Did you have a light lunch to-day, like you were going to? I did!" This malicious and unprovoked attack astounded him. "Well, maybe it wasn't as light as--Went to lunch with Paul and didn't have much chance to diet. Oh, you needn't to grin like a chessy cat! If it wasn't for me watching out and keeping an eye on our diet--I'm the only member of this family that appreciates the value of oatmeal for breakfast. I--" She stooped over her story while he piously sliced and gulped down the apple, discoursing: "One thing I've done: cut down my smoking. "Had kind of a run-in with Graff in the office. He's getting too darn fresh. I'll stand for a good deal, but once in a while I got to assert my authority, and I jumped him. 'Stan,' I said--Well, I told him just exactly where he got off. "Funny kind of a day. Makes you feel restless. "Wellllllllll, uh--" That sleepiest sound in the world, the terminal yawn. Mrs. Babbitt yawned with it, and looked grateful as he droned, "How about going to bed, eh? Don't suppose Rone and Ted will be in till all hours. Yep, funny kind of a day; not terribly warm but yet--Gosh, I'd like--Some day I'm going to take a long motor trip." "Yes, we'd enjoy that," she yawned. He looked away from her as he realized that he did not wish to have her go with him. As he locked doors and tried windows and set the heat regulator so that the furnace-drafts would open automatically in the morning, he sighed a little, heavy with a lonely feeling which perplexed and frightened him. So absent-minded was he that he could not remember which window-catches he had inspected, and through the darkness, fumbling at unseen perilous chairs, he crept back to try them all over again. His feet were loud on the steps as he clumped upstairs at the end of this great and treacherous day of veiled rebellions. III Before breakfast he always reverted to up-state village boyhood, and shrank from the complex urban demands of shaving, bathing, deciding whether the current shirt was clean enough for another day. Whenever he stayed home in the evening he went to bed early, and thriftily got ahead in those dismal duties. It was his luxurious custom to shave while sitting snugly in a tubful of hot water. He may be viewed to-night as a plump, smooth, pink, baldish, podgy goodman, robbed of the importance of spectacles, squatting in breast-high water, scraping his lather-smeared cheeks with a safety-razor like a tiny lawn-mower, and with melancholy dignity clawing through the water to recover a slippery and active piece of soap. He was lulled to dreaming by the caressing warmth. The light fell on the inner surface of the tub in a pattern of delicate wrinkled lines which slipped with a green sparkle over the curving porcelain as the clear water trembled. Babbitt lazily watched it; noted that along the silhouette of his legs against the radiance on the bottom of the tub, the shadows of the air-bubbles clinging to the hairs were reproduced as strange jungle mosses. He patted the water, and the reflected light capsized and leaped and volleyed. He was content and childish. He played. He shaved a swath down the calf of one plump leg. The drain-pipe was dripping, a dulcet and lively song: drippety drip drip dribble, drippety drip drip drip. He was enchanted by it. He looked at the solid tub, the beautiful nickel taps, the tiled walls of the room, and felt virtuous in the possession of this splendor. He roused himself and spoke gruffly to his bath-things. "Come here! You've done enough fooling!" he reproved the treacherous soap, and defied the scratchy nail-brush with "Oh, you would, would you!" He soaped himself, and rinsed himself, and austerely rubbed himself; he noted a hole in the Turkish towel, and meditatively thrust a finger through it, and marched back to the bedroom, a grave and unbending citizen. There was a moment of gorgeous abandon, a flash of melodrama such as he found in traffic-driving, when he laid out a clean collar, discovered that it was frayed in front, and tore it up with a magnificent yeeeeeing sound. Most important of all was the preparation of his bed and the sleeping-porch. It is not known whether he enjoyed his sleeping-porch because of the fresh air or because it was the standard thing to have a sleeping-porch. Just as he was an Elk, a Booster, and a member of the Chamber of Commerce, just as the priests of the Presbyterian Church determined his every religious belief and the senators who controlled the Republican Party decided in little smoky rooms in Washington what he should think about disarmament, tariff, and Germany, so did the large national advertisers fix the surface of his life, fix what he believed to be his individuality. These standard advertised wares--toothpastes, socks, tires, cameras, instantaneous hot-water heaters--were his symbols and proofs of excellence; at first the signs, then the substitutes, for joy and passion and wisdom. But none of these advertised tokens of financial and social success was more significant than a sleeping-porch with a sun-parlor below. The rites of preparing for bed were elaborate and unchanging. The blankets had to be tucked in at the foot of his cot. (Also, the reason why the maid hadn't tucked in the blankets had to be discussed with Mrs. Babbitt.) The rag rug was adjusted so that his bare feet would strike it when he arose in the morning. The alarm clock was wound. The hot-water bottle was filled and placed precisely two feet from the bottom of the cot. These tremendous undertakings yielded to his determination; one by one they were announced to Mrs. Babbitt and smashed through to accomplishment. At last his brow cleared, and in his "Gnight!" rang virile power. But there was yet need of courage. As he sank into sleep, just at the first exquisite relaxation, the Doppelbrau car came home. He bounced into wakefulness, lamenting, "Why the devil can't some people never get to bed at a reasonable hour?" So familiar was he with the process of putting up his own car that he awaited each step like an able executioner condemned to his own rack. The car insultingly cheerful on the driveway. The car door opened and banged shut, then the garage door slid open, grating on the sill, and the car door again. The motor raced for the climb up into the garage and raced once more, explosively, before it was shut off. A final opening and slamming of the car door. Silence then, a horrible silence filled with waiting, till the leisurely Mr. Doppelbrau had examined the state of his tires and had at last shut the garage door. Instantly, for Babbitt, a blessed state of oblivion. IV At that moment In the city of Zenith, Horace Updike was making love to Lucile McKelvey in her mauve drawing-room on Royal Ridge, after their return from a lecture by an eminent English novelist. Updike was Zenith's professional bachelor; a slim-waisted man of forty-six with an effeminate voice and taste in flowers, cretonnes, and flappers. Mrs. McKelvey was red-haired, creamy, discontented, exquisite, rude, and honest. Updike tried his invariable first maneuver--touching her nervous wrist. "Don't be an idiot!" she said. "Do you mind awfully?" "No! That's what I mind!" He changed to conversation. He was famous at conversation. He spoke reasonably of psychoanalysis, Long Island polo, and the Ming platter he had found in Vancouver. She promised to meet him in Deauville, the coming summer, "though," she sighed, "it's becoming too dreadfully banal; nothing but Americans and frowsy English baronesses." And at that moment in Zenith, a cocaine-runner and a prostitute were drinking cocktails in Healey Hanson's saloon on Front Street. Since national prohibition was now in force, and since Zenith was notoriously law-abiding, they were compelled to keep the cocktails innocent by drinking them out of tea-cups. The lady threw her cup at the cocaine-runner's head. He worked his revolver out of the pocket in his sleeve, and casually murdered her. At that moment in Zenith, two men sat in a laboratory. For thirty-seven hours now they had been working on a report of their investigations of synthetic rubber. At that moment in Zenith, there was a conference of four union officials as to whether the twelve thousand coal-miners within a hundred miles of the city should strike. Of these men one resembled a testy and prosperous grocer, one a Yankee carpenter, one a soda-clerk, and one a Russian Jewish actor. The Russian Jew quoted Kautsky, Gene Debs, and Abraham Lincoln. At that moment a G. A. R. veteran was dying. He had come from the Civil War straight to a farm which, though it was officially within the city-limits of Zenith, was primitive as the backwoods. He had never ridden in a motor car, never seen a bath-tub, never read any book save the Bible, McGuffey's readers, and religious tracts; and he believed that the earth is flat, that the English are the Lost Ten Tribes of Israel, and that the United States is a democracy. At that moment the steel and cement town which composed the factory of the Pullmore Tractor Company of Zenith was running on night shift to fill an order of tractors for the Polish army. It hummed like a million bees, glared through its wide windows like a volcano. Along the high wire fences, searchlights played on cinder-lined yards, switch-tracks, and armed guards on patrol. At that moment Mike Monday was finishing a meeting. Mr. Monday, the distinguished evangelist, the best-known Protestant pontiff in America, had once been a prize-fighter. Satan had not dealt justly with him. As a prize-fighter he gained nothing but his crooked nose, his celebrated vocabulary, and his stage-presence. The service of the Lord had been more profitable. He was about to retire with a fortune. It had been well earned, for, to quote his last report, "Rev. Mr. Monday, the Prophet with a Punch, has shown that he is the world's greatest salesman of salvation, and that by efficient organization the overhead of spiritual regeneration may be kept down to an unprecedented rock-bottom basis. He has converted over two hundred thousand lost and priceless souls at an average cost of less than ten dollars a head." Of the larger cities of the land, only Zenith had hesitated to submit its vices to Mike Monday and his expert reclamation corps. The more enterprising organizations of the city had voted to invite him--Mr. George F. Babbitt had once praised him in a speech at the Boosters' Club. But there was opposition from certain Episcopalian and Congregationalist ministers, those renegades whom Mr. Monday so finely called "a bunch of gospel-pushers with dish-water instead of blood, a gang of squealers that need more dust on the knees of their pants and more hair on their skinny old chests." This opposition had been crushed when the secretary of the Chamber of Commerce had reported to a committee of manufacturers that in every city where he had appeared, Mr. Monday had turned the minds of workmen from wages and hours to higher things, and thus averted strikes. He was immediately invited. An expense fund of forty thousand dollars had been underwritten; out on the County Fair Grounds a Mike Monday Tabernacle had been erected, to seat fifteen thousand people. In it the prophet was at this moment concluding his message: "There's a lot of smart college professors and tea-guzzling slobs in this burg that say I'm a roughneck and a never-wuzzer and my knowledge of history is not-yet. Oh, there's a gang of woolly-whiskered book-lice that think they know more than Almighty God, and prefer a lot of Hun science and smutty German criticism to the straight and simple Word of God. Oh, there's a swell bunch of Lizzie boys and lemon-suckers and pie-faces and infidels and beer-bloated scribblers that love to fire off their filthy mouths and yip that Mike Monday is vulgar and full of mush. Those pups are saying now that I hog the gospel-show, that I'm in it for the coin. Well, now listen, folks! I'm going to give those birds a chance! They can stand right up here and tell me to my face that I'm a galoot and a liar and a hick! Only if they do--if they do!--don't faint with surprise if some of those rum-dumm liars get one good swift poke from Mike, with all the kick of God's Flaming Righteousness behind the wallop! Well, come on, folks! Who says it? Who says Mike Monday is a fourflush and a yahoo? Huh? Don't I see anybody standing up? Well, there you are! Now I guess the folks in this man's town will quit listening to all this kyoodling from behind the fence; I guess you'll quit listening to the guys that pan and roast and kick and beef, and vomit out filthy atheism; and all of you 'll come in, with every grain of pep and reverence you got, and boost all together for Jesus Christ and his everlasting mercy and tenderness!" At that moment Seneca Doane, the radical lawyer, and Dr. Kurt Yavitch, the histologist (whose report on the destruction of epithelial cells under radium had made the name of Zenith known in Munich, Prague, and Rome), were talking in Doane's library. "Zenith's a city with gigantic power--gigantic buildings, gigantic machines, gigantic transportation," meditated Doane. "I hate your city. It has standardized all the beauty out of life. It is one big railroad station--with all the people taking tickets for the best cemeteries," Dr. Yavitch said placidly. Doane roused. "I'm hanged if it is! You make me sick, Kurt, with your perpetual whine about 'standardization.' Don't you suppose any other nation is 'standardized?' Is anything more standardized than England, with every house that can afford it having the same muffins at the same tea-hour, and every retired general going to exactly the same evensong at the same gray stone church with a square tower, and every golfing prig in Harris tweeds saying 'Right you are!' to every other prosperous ass? Yet I love England. And for standardization--just look at the sidewalk cafes in France and the love-making in Italy! "Standardization is excellent, per se. When I buy an Ingersoll watch or a Ford, I get a better tool for less money, and I know precisely what I'm getting, and that leaves me more time and energy to be individual in. And--I remember once in London I saw a picture of an American suburb, in a toothpaste ad on the back of the Saturday Evening Post--an elm-lined snowy street of these new houses, Georgian some of 'em, or with low raking roofs and--The kind of street you'd find here in Zenith, say in Floral Heights. Open. Trees. Grass. And I was homesick! There's no other country in the world that has such pleasant houses. And I don't care if they ARE standardized. It's a corking standard! "No, what I fight in Zenith is standardization of thought, and, of course, the traditions of competition. The real villains of the piece are the clean, kind, industrious Family Men who use every known brand of trickery and cruelty to insure the prosperity of their cubs. The worst thing about these fellows is that they're so good and, in their work at least, so intelligent. You can't hate them properly, and yet their standardized minds are the enemy. "Then this boosting--Sneakingly I have a notion that Zenith is a better place to live in than Manchester or Glasgow or Lyons or Berlin or Turin--" "It is not, and I have lift in most of them," murmured Dr. Yavitch. "Well, matter of taste. Personally, I prefer a city with a future so unknown that it excites my imagination. But what I particularly want--" "You," said Dr. Yavitch, "are a middle-road liberal, and you haven't the slightest idea what you want. I, being a revolutionist, know exactly what I want--and what I want now is a drink." VI At that moment in Zenith, Jake Offutt, the politician, and Henry T. Thompson were in conference. Offutt suggested, "The thing to do is to get your fool son-in-law, Babbitt, to put it over. He's one of these patriotic guys. When he grabs a piece of property for the gang, he makes it look like we were dyin' of love for the dear peepul, and I do love to buy respectability--reasonable. Wonder how long we can keep it up, Hank? We're safe as long as the good little boys like George Babbitt and all the nice respectable labor-leaders think you and me are rugged patriots. There's swell pickings for an honest politician here, Hank: a whole city working to provide cigars and fried chicken and dry martinis for us, and rallying to our banner with indignation, oh, fierce indignation, whenever some squealer like this fellow Seneca Doane comes along! Honest, Hank, a smart codger like me ought to be ashamed of himself if he didn't milk cattle like them, when they come around mooing for it! But the Traction gang can't get away with grand larceny like it used to. I wonder when--Hank, I wish we could fix some way to run this fellow Seneca Doane out of town. It's him or us!" At that moment in Zenith, three hundred and forty or fifty thousand Ordinary People were asleep, a vast unpenetrated shadow. In the slum beyond the railroad tracks, a young man who for six months had sought work turned on the gas and killed himself and his wife. At that moment Lloyd Mallam, the poet, owner of the Hafiz Book Shop, was finishing a rondeau to show how diverting was life amid the feuds of medieval Florence, but how dull it was in so obvious a place as Zenith. And at that moment George F. Babbitt turned ponderously in bed--the last turn, signifying that he'd had enough of this worried business of falling asleep and was about it in earnest. Instantly he was in the magic dream. He was somewhere among unknown people who laughed at him. He slipped away, ran down the paths of a midnight garden, and at the gate the fairy child was waiting. Her dear and tranquil hand caressed his cheek. He was gallant and wise and well-beloved; warm ivory were her arms; and beyond perilous moors the brave sea glittered.

Chapter VII

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x

After commenting to Myra that it was a "funny kind of a day" , Babbitt decides to go to bed. He shaves while taking a bath, playing childishly with his bath things. After completing his "elaborate and unchanging" rites of bedtime preparation, he falls into "a blessed state of oblivion". At that moment in Zenith, as George falls asleep on the porch, a vast array of illegal, immoral, or simply very serious things are occurring. Mike Monday, a prize-fighter turned scam-artist evangelist, is concluding an address attempting to defend his reputation and insult his opponents. Simultaneously, Seneca Doane, a lawyer, argues with histologist Dr. Kurt Yavitch over the merits and drawbacks of standardization of lifestyle and thought in Zenith. At this moment, George Babbitt dreams of his beloved fairy child

In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing "poison booze" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he " in it on principle," but he does not "propose to have anybody telling " what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his "poemulations," yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as "TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/8.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_2_part_2.txt

Babbitt.chapter viii

chapter viii

{"name": "Chapter VIII", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x", "summary": "The Babbitts decide to host a \"highbrow\" dinner , and George's discouragement with the effort and toil of planning the party is overcome by his excitement for procuring gin for cocktails during Prohibition. He drives to a saloon in the seedy Old Town, where he meets with Healey Hanson and pays for unexpectedly expensive gin. He is so exhilarated by the immoral act that he nearly forgets to fulfill Myra's request to pick up the ice cream. During the party preparation, Babbitt drinks a cocktail and becomes giddily intoxicated, but he is filled with gloom again by the time the guests arrive. The guests include Howard Littlefield, Vergil Gunch, Eddie Swanson, Orville Jones, T. Cholmondeley Frink, and their wives. While drinking cocktails and eating dinner, the men discuss Prohibition and the benefits of modern city life. Under the influence of the gin, Frink confesses that he is discouraged because he cannot write his Zeeco car company ads as well as others do", "analysis": "In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing \"poison booze\" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he \" in it on principle,\" but he does not \"propose to have anybody telling \" what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his \"poemulations,\" yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as \"TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!\" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?"}

I THE great events of Babbitt's spring were the secret buying of real-estate options in Linton for certain street-traction officials, before the public announcement that the Linton Avenue Car Line would be extended, and a dinner which was, as he rejoiced to his wife, not only "a regular society spread but a real sure-enough highbrow affair, with some of the keenest intellects and the brightest bunch of little women in town." It was so absorbing an occasion that he almost forgot his desire to run off to Maine with Paul Riesling. Though he had been born in the village of Catawba, Babbitt had risen to that metropolitan social plane on which hosts have as many as four people at dinner without planning it for more than an evening or two. But a dinner of twelve, with flowers from the florist's and all the cut-glass out, staggered even the Babbitts. For two weeks they studied, debated, and arbitrated the list of guests. Babbitt marveled, "Of course we're up-to-date ourselves, but still, think of us entertaining a famous poet like Chum Frink, a fellow that on nothing but a poem or so every day and just writing a few advertisements pulls down fifteen thousand berries a year!" "Yes, and Howard Littlefield. Do you know, the other evening Eunice told me her papa speaks three languages!" said Mrs. Babbitt. "Huh! That's nothing! So do I--American, baseball, and poker!" "I don't think it's nice to be funny about a matter like that. Think how wonderful it must be to speak three languages, and so useful and--And with people like that, I don't see why we invite the Orville Joneses." "Well now, Orville is a mighty up-and-coming fellow!" "Yes, I know, but--A laundry!" "I'll admit a laundry hasn't got the class of poetry or real estate, but just the same, Orvy is mighty deep. Ever start him spieling about gardening? Say, that fellow can tell you the name of every kind of tree, and some of their Greek and Latin names too! Besides, we owe the Joneses a dinner. Besides, gosh, we got to have some boob for audience, when a bunch of hot-air artists like Frink and Littlefield get going." "Well, dear--I meant to speak of this--I do think that as host you ought to sit back and listen, and let your guests have a chance to talk once in a while!" "Oh, you do, do you! Sure! I talk all the time! And I'm just a business man--oh sure!--I'm no Ph.D. like Littlefield, and no poet, and I haven't anything to spring! Well, let me tell you, just the other day your darn Chum Frink comes up to me at the club begging to know what I thought about the Springfield school-bond issue. And who told him? I did! You bet your life I told him! Little me! I certainly did! He came up and asked me, and I told him all about it! You bet! And he was darn glad to listen to me and--Duty as a host! I guess I know my duty as a host and let me tell you--" In fact, the Orville Joneses were invited. II On the morning of the dinner, Mrs. Babbitt was restive. "Now, George, I want you to be sure and be home early tonight. Remember, you have to dress." "Uh-huh. I see by the Advocate that the Presbyterian General Assembly has voted to quit the Interchurch World Movement. That--" "George! Did you hear what I said? You must be home in time to dress to-night." "Dress? Hell! I'm dressed now! Think I'm going down to the office in my B.V.D.'s?" "I will not have you talking indecently before the children! And you do have to put on your dinner-jacket!" "I guess you mean my Tux. I tell you, of all the doggone nonsensical nuisances that was ever invented--" Three minutes later, after Babbitt had wailed, "Well, I don't know whether I'm going to dress or NOT" in a manner which showed that he was going to dress, the discussion moved on. "Now, George, you mustn't forget to call in at Vecchia's on the way home and get the ice cream. Their delivery-wagon is broken down, and I don't want to trust them to send it by--" "All right! You told me that before breakfast!" "Well, I don't want you to forget. I'll be working my head off all day long, training the girl that's to help with the dinner--" "All nonsense, anyway, hiring an extra girl for the feed. Matilda could perfectly well--" "--and I have to go out and buy the flowers, and fix them, and set the table, and order the salted almonds, and look at the chickens, and arrange for the children to have their supper upstairs and--And I simply must depend on you to go to Vecchia's for the ice cream." "All riiiiiight! Gosh, I'm going to get it!" "All you have to do is to go in and say you want the ice cream that Mrs. Babbitt ordered yesterday by 'phone, and it will be all ready for you." At ten-thirty she telephoned to him not to forget the ice cream from Vecchia's. He was surprised and blasted then by a thought. He wondered whether Floral Heights dinners were worth the hideous toil involved. But he repented the sacrilege in the excitement of buying the materials for cocktails. Now this was the manner of obtaining alcohol under the reign of righteousness and prohibition: He drove from the severe rectangular streets of the modern business center into the tangled byways of Old Town--jagged blocks filled with sooty warehouses and lofts; on into The Arbor, once a pleasant orchard but now a morass of lodging-houses, tenements, and brothels. Exquisite shivers chilled his spine and stomach, and he looked at every policeman with intense innocence, as one who loved the law, and admired the Force, and longed to stop and play with them. He parked his car a block from Healey Hanson's saloon, worrying, "Well, rats, if anybody did see me, they'd think I was here on business." He entered a place curiously like the saloons of ante-prohibition days, with a long greasy bar with sawdust in front and streaky mirror behind, a pine table at which a dirty old man dreamed over a glass of something which resembled whisky, and with two men at the bar, drinking something which resembled beer, and giving that impression of forming a large crowd which two men always give in a saloon. The bartender, a tall pale Swede with a diamond in his lilac scarf, stared at Babbitt as he stalked plumply up to the bar and whispered, "I'd, uh--Friend of Hanson's sent me here. Like to get some gin." The bartender gazed down on him in the manner of an outraged bishop. "I guess you got the wrong place, my friend. We sell nothing but soft drinks here." He cleaned the bar with a rag which would itself have done with a little cleaning, and glared across his mechanically moving elbow. The old dreamer at the table petitioned the bartender, "Say, Oscar, listen." Oscar did not listen. "Aw, say, Oscar, listen, will yuh? Say, lis-sen!" The decayed and drowsy voice of the loafer, the agreeable stink of beer-dregs, threw a spell of inanition over Babbitt. The bartender moved grimly toward the crowd of two men. Babbitt followed him as delicately as a cat, and wheedled, "Say, Oscar, I want to speak to Mr. Hanson." "Whajuh wanta see him for?" "I just want to talk to him. Here's my card." It was a beautiful card, an engraved card, a card in the blackest black and the sharpest red, announcing that Mr. George F. Babbitt was Estates, Insurance, Rents. The bartender held it as though it weighed ten pounds, and read it as though it were a hundred words long. He did not bend from his episcopal dignity, but he growled, "I'll see if he's around." From the back room he brought an immensely old young man, a quiet sharp-eyed man, in tan silk shirt, checked vest hanging open, and burning brown trousers--Mr. Healey Hanson. Mr. Hanson said only "Yuh?" but his implacable and contemptuous eyes queried Babbitt's soul, and he seemed not at all impressed by the new dark-gray suit for which (as he had admitted to every acquaintance at the Athletic Club) Babbitt had paid a hundred and twenty-five dollars. "Glad meet you, Mr. Hanson. Say, uh--I'm George Babbitt of the Babbitt-Thompson Realty Company. I'm a great friend of Jake Offutt's." "Well, what of it?" "Say, uh, I'm going to have a party, and Jake told me you'd be able to fix me up with a little gin." In alarm, in obsequiousness, as Hanson's eyes grew more bored, "You telephone to Jake about me, if you want to." Hanson answered by jerking his head to indicate the entrance to the back room, and strolled away. Babbitt melodramatically crept into an apartment containing four round tables, eleven chairs, a brewery calendar, and a smell. He waited. Thrice he saw Healey Hanson saunter through, humming, hands in pockets, ignoring him. By this time Babbitt had modified his valiant morning vow, "I won't pay one cent over seven dollars a quart" to "I might pay ten." On Hanson's next weary entrance he besought "Could you fix that up?" Hanson scowled, and grated, "Just a minute--Pete's sake--just a min-ute!" In growing meekness Babbitt went on waiting till Hanson casually reappeared with a quart of gin--what is euphemistically known as a quart--in his disdainful long white hands. "Twelve bucks," he snapped. "Say, uh, but say, cap'n, Jake thought you'd be able to fix me up for eight or nine a bottle." "Nup. Twelve. This is the real stuff, smuggled from Canada. This is none o' your neutral spirits with a drop of juniper extract," the honest merchant said virtuously. "Twelve bones--if you want it. Course y' understand I'm just doing this anyway as a friend of Jake's." "Sure! Sure! I understand!" Babbitt gratefully held out twelve dollars. He felt honored by contact with greatness as Hanson yawned, stuffed the bills, uncounted, into his radiant vest, and swaggered away. He had a number of titillations out of concealing the gin-bottle under his coat and out of hiding it in his desk. All afternoon he snorted and chuckled and gurgled over his ability to "give the Boys a real shot in the arm to-night." He was, in fact, so exhilarated that he was within a block of his house before he remembered that there was a certain matter, mentioned by his wife, of fetching ice cream from Vecchia's. He explained, "Well, darn it--" and drove back. Vecchia was not a caterer, he was The Caterer of Zenith. Most coming-out parties were held in the white and gold ballroom of the Maison Vecchia; at all nice teas the guests recognized the five kinds of Vecchia sandwiches and the seven kinds of Vecchia cakes; and all really smart dinners ended, as on a resolving chord, in Vecchia Neapolitan ice cream in one of the three reliable molds--the melon mold, the round mold like a layer cake, and the long brick. Vecchia's shop had pale blue woodwork, tracery of plaster roses, attendants in frilled aprons, and glass shelves of "kisses" with all the refinement that inheres in whites of eggs. Babbitt felt heavy and thick amid this professional daintiness, and as he waited for the ice cream he decided, with hot prickles at the back of his neck, that a girl customer was giggling at him. He went home in a touchy temper. The first thing he heard was his wife's agitated: "George! DID you remember to go to Vecchia's and get the ice cream?" "Say! Look here! Do I ever forget to do things?" "Yes! Often!" "Well now, it's darn seldom I do, and it certainly makes me tired, after going into a pink-tea joint like Vecchia's and having to stand around looking at a lot of half-naked young girls, all rouged up like they were sixty and eating a lot of stuff that simply ruins their stomachs--" "Oh, it's too bad about you! I've noticed how you hate to look at pretty girls!" With a jar Babbitt realized that his wife was too busy to be impressed by that moral indignation with which males rule the world, and he went humbly up-stairs to dress. He had an impression of a glorified dining-room, of cut-glass, candles, polished wood, lace, silver, roses. With the awed swelling of the heart suitable to so grave a business as giving a dinner, he slew the temptation to wear his plaited dress-shirt for a fourth time, took out an entirely fresh one, tightened his black bow, and rubbed his patent-leather pumps with a handkerchief. He glanced with pleasure at his garnet and silver studs. He smoothed and patted his ankles, transformed by silk socks from the sturdy shanks of George Babbitt to the elegant limbs of what is called a Clubman. He stood before the pier-glass, viewing his trim dinner-coat, his beautiful triple-braided trousers; and murmured in lyric beatitude, "By golly, I don't look so bad. I certainly don't look like Catawba. If the hicks back home could see me in this rig, they'd have a fit!" He moved majestically down to mix the cocktails. As he chipped ice, as he squeezed oranges, as he collected vast stores of bottles, glasses, and spoons at the sink in the pantry, he felt as authoritative as the bartender at Healey Hanson's saloon. True, Mrs. Babbitt said he was under foot, and Matilda and the maid hired for the evening brushed by him, elbowed him, shrieked "Pleasopn door," as they tottered through with trays, but in this high moment he ignored them. Besides the new bottle of gin, his cellar consisted of one half-bottle of Bourbon whisky, a quarter of a bottle of Italian vermouth, and approximately one hundred drops of orange bitters. He did not possess a cocktail-shaker. A shaker was proof of dissipation, the symbol of a Drinker, and Babbitt disliked being known as a Drinker even more than he liked a Drink. He mixed by pouring from an ancient gravy-boat into a handleless pitcher; he poured with a noble dignity, holding his alembics high beneath the powerful Mazda globe, his face hot, his shirt-front a glaring white, the copper sink a scoured red-gold. He tasted the sacred essence. "Now, by golly, if that isn't pretty near one fine old cocktail! Kind of a Bronx, and yet like a Manhattan. Ummmmmm! Hey, Myra, want a little nip before the folks come?" Bustling into the dining-room, moving each glass a quarter of an inch, rushing back with resolution implacable on her face her gray and silver-lace party frock protected by a denim towel, Mrs. Babbitt glared at him, and rebuked him, "Certainly not!" "Well," in a loose, jocose manner, "I think the old man will!" The cocktail filled him with a whirling exhilaration behind which he was aware of devastating desires--to rush places in fast motors, to kiss girls, to sing, to be witty. He sought to regain his lost dignity by announcing to Matilda: "I'm going to stick this pitcher of cocktails in the refrigerator. Be sure you don't upset any of 'em." "Yeh." "Well, be sure now. Don't go putting anything on this top shelf." "Yeh." "Well, be--" He was dizzy. His voice was thin and distant. "Whee!" With enormous impressiveness he commanded, "Well, be sure now," and minced into the safety of the living-room. He wondered whether he could persuade "as slow a bunch as Myra and the Littlefields to go some place aft' dinner and raise Cain and maybe dig up smore booze." He perceived that he had gifts of profligacy which had been neglected. By the time the guests had come, including the inevitable late couple for whom the others waited with painful amiability, a great gray emptiness had replaced the purple swirling in Babbitt's head, and he had to force the tumultuous greetings suitable to a host on Floral Heights. The guests were Howard Littlefield, the doctor of philosophy who furnished publicity and comforting economics to the Street Traction Company; Vergil Gunch, the coal-dealer, equally powerful in the Elks and in the Boosters' Club; Eddie Swanson the agent for the Javelin Motor Car, who lived across the street; and Orville Jones, owner of the Lily White Laundry, which justly announced itself "the biggest, busiest, bulliest cleanerie shoppe in Zenith." But, naturally, the most distinguished of all was T. Cholmondeley Frink, who was not only the author of "Poemulations," which, syndicated daily in sixty-seven leading newspapers, gave him one of the largest audiences of any poet in the world, but also an optimistic lecturer and the creator of "Ads that Add." Despite the searching philosophy and high morality of his verses, they were humorous and easily understood by any child of twelve; and it added a neat air of pleasantry to them that they were set not as verse but as prose. Mr. Frink was known from Coast to Coast as "Chum." With them were six wives, more or less--it was hard to tell, so early in the evening, as at first glance they all looked alike, and as they all said, "Oh, ISN'T this nice!" in the same tone of determined liveliness. To the eye, the men were less similar: Littlefield, a hedge-scholar, tall and horse-faced; Chum Frink, a trifle of a man with soft and mouse-like hair, advertising his profession as poet by a silk cord on his eye-glasses; Vergil Gunch, broad, with coarse black hair en brosse; Eddie Swanson, a bald and bouncing young man who showed his taste for elegance by an evening waistcoat of figured black silk with glass buttons; Orville Jones, a steady-looking, stubby, not very memorable person, with a hemp-colored toothbrush mustache. Yet they were all so well fed and clean, they all shouted "'Evenin', Georgie!" with such robustness, that they seemed to be cousins, and the strange thing is that the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed; while the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patterns appeared. The drinking of the cocktails was as canonical a rite as the mixing. The company waited, uneasily, hopefully, agreeing in a strained manner that the weather had been rather warm and slightly cold, but still Babbitt said nothing about drinks. They became despondent. But when the late couple (the Swansons) had arrived, Babbitt hinted, "Well, folks, do you think you could stand breaking the law a little?" They looked at Chum Frink, the recognized lord of language. Frink pulled at his eye-glass cord as at a bell-rope, he cleared his throat and said that which was the custom: "I'll tell you, George: I'm a law-abiding man, but they do say Verg Gunch is a regular yegg, and of course he's bigger 'n I am, and I just can't figure out what I'd do if he tried to force me into anything criminal!" Gunch was roaring, "Well, I'll take a chance--" when Frink held up his hand and went on, "So if Verg and you insist, Georgie, I'll park my car on the wrong side of the street, because I take it for granted that's the crime you're hinting at!" There was a great deal of laughter. Mrs. Jones asserted, "Mr. Frink is simply too killing! You'd think he was so innocent!" Babbitt clamored, "How did you guess it, Chum? Well, you-all just wait a moment while I go out and get the--keys to your cars!" Through a froth of merriment he brought the shining promise, the mighty tray of glasses with the cloudy yellow cocktails in the glass pitcher in the center. The men babbled, "Oh, gosh, have a look!" and "This gets me right where I live!" and "Let me at it!" But Chum Frink, a traveled man and not unused to woes, was stricken by the thought that the potion might be merely fruit-juice with a little neutral spirits. He looked timorous as Babbitt, a moist and ecstatic almoner, held out a glass, but as he tasted it he piped, "Oh, man, let me dream on! It ain't true, but don't waken me! Jus' lemme slumber!" Two hours before, Frink had completed a newspaper lyric beginning: "I sat alone and groused and thunk, and scratched my head and sighed and wunk, and groaned, There still are boobs, alack, who'd like the old-time gin-mill back; that den that makes a sage a loon, the vile and smelly old saloon! I'll never miss their poison booze, whilst I the bubbling spring can use, that leaves my head at merry morn as clear as any babe new-born!" Babbitt drank with the others; his moment's depression was gone; he perceived that these were the best fellows in the world; he wanted to give them a thousand cocktails. "Think you could stand another?" he cried. The wives refused, with giggles, but the men, speaking in a wide, elaborate, enjoyable manner, gloated, "Well, sooner than have you get sore at me, Georgie--" "You got a little dividend coming," said Babbitt to each of them, and each intoned, "Squeeze it, Georgie, squeeze it!" When, beyond hope, the pitcher was empty, they stood and talked about prohibition. The men leaned back on their heels, put their hands in their trousers-pockets, and proclaimed their views with the booming profundity of a prosperous male repeating a thoroughly hackneyed statement about a matter of which he knows nothing whatever. "Now, I'll tell you," said Vergil Gunch; "way I figure it is this, and I can speak by the book, because I've talked to a lot of doctors and fellows that ought to know, and the way I see it is that it's a good thing to get rid of the saloon, but they ought to let a fellow have beer and light wines." Howard Littlefield observed, "What isn't generally realized is that it's a dangerous prop'sition to invade the rights of personal liberty. Now, take this for instance: The King of--Bavaria? I think it was Bavaria--yes, Bavaria, it was--in 1862, March, 1862, he issued a proclamation against public grazing of live-stock. The peasantry had stood for overtaxation without the slightest complaint, but when this proclamation came out, they rebelled. Or it may have been Saxony. But it just goes to show the dangers of invading the rights of personal liberty." "That's it--no one got a right to invade personal liberty," said Orville Jones. "Just the same, you don't want to forget prohibition is a mighty good thing for the working-classes. Keeps 'em from wasting their money and lowering their productiveness," said Vergil Gunch. "Yes, that's so. But the trouble is the manner of enforcement," insisted Howard Littlefield. "Congress didn't understand the right system. Now, if I'd been running the thing, I'd have arranged it so that the drinker himself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftless workman--kept him from drinking--and yet not 've interfered with the rights--with the personal liberty--of fellows like ourselves." They bobbed their heads, looked admiringly at one another, and stated, "That's so, that would be the stunt." "The thing that worries me is that a lot of these guys will take to cocaine," sighed Eddie Swanson. They bobbed more violently, and groaned, "That's so, there is a danger of that." Chum Frink chanted, "Oh, say, I got hold of a swell new receipt for home-made beer the other day. You take--" Gunch interrupted, "Wait! Let me tell you mine!" Littlefield snorted, "Beer! Rats! Thing to do is to ferment cider!" Jones insisted, "I've got the receipt that does the business!" Swanson begged, "Oh, say, lemme tell you the story--" But Frink went on resolutely, "You take and save the shells from peas, and pour six gallons of water on a bushel of shells and boil the mixture till--" Mrs. Babbitt turned toward them with yearning sweetness; Frink hastened to finish even his best beer-recipe; and she said gaily, "Dinner is served." There was a good deal of friendly argument among the men as to which should go in last, and while they were crossing the hall from the living-room to the dining-room Vergil Gunch made them laugh by thundering, "If I can't sit next to Myra Babbitt and hold her hand under the table, I won't play--I'm goin' home." In the dining-room they stood embarrassed while Mrs. Babbitt fluttered, "Now, let me see--Oh, I was going to have some nice hand-painted place-cards for you but--Oh, let me see; Mr. Frink, you sit there." The dinner was in the best style of women's-magazine art, whereby the salad was served in hollowed apples, and everything but the invincible fried chicken resembled something else. Ordinarily the men found it hard to talk to the women; flirtation was an art unknown on Floral Heights, and the realms of offices and of kitchens had no alliances. But under the inspiration of the cocktails, conversation was violent. Each of the men still had a number of important things to say about prohibition, and now that each had a loyal listener in his dinner-partner he burst out: "I found a place where I can get all the hootch I want at eight a quart--" "Did you read about this fellow that went and paid a thousand dollars for ten cases of red-eye that proved to be nothing but water? Seems this fellow was standing on the corner and fellow comes up to him--" "They say there's a whole raft of stuff being smuggled across at Detroit--" "What I always say is--what a lot of folks don't realize about prohibition--" "And then you get all this awful poison stuff--wood alcohol and everything--" "Course I believe in it on principle, but I don't propose to have anybody telling me what I got to think and do. No American 'll ever stand for that!" But they all felt that it was rather in bad taste for Orville Jones--and he not recognized as one of the wits of the occasion anyway--to say, "In fact, the whole thing about prohibition is this: it isn't the initial cost, it's the humidity." Not till the one required topic had been dealt with did the conversation become general. It was often and admiringly said of Vergil Gunch, "Gee, that fellow can get away with murder! Why, he can pull a Raw One in mixed company and all the ladies 'll laugh their heads off, but me, gosh, if I crack anything that's just the least bit off color I get the razz for fair!" Now Gunch delighted them by crying to Mrs. Eddie Swanson, youngest of the women, "Louetta! I managed to pinch Eddie's doorkey out of his pocket, and what say you and me sneak across the street when the folks aren't looking? Got something," with a gorgeous leer, "awful important to tell you!" The women wriggled, and Babbitt was stirred to like naughtiness. "Say, folks, I wished I dared show you a book I borrowed from Doc Patten!" "Now, George! The idea!" Mrs. Babbitt warned him. "This book--racy isn't the word! It's some kind of an anthropological report about--about Customs, in the South Seas, and what it doesn't SAY! It's a book you can't buy. Verg, I'll lend it to you." "Me first!" insisted Eddie Swanson. "Sounds spicy!" Orville Jones announced, "Say, I heard a Good One the other day about a coupla Swedes and their wives," and, in the best Jewish accent, he resolutely carried the Good One to a slightly disinfected ending. Gunch capped it. But the cocktails waned, the seekers dropped back into cautious reality. Chum Frink had recently been on a lecture-tour among the small towns, and he chuckled, "Awful good to get back to civilization! I certainly been seeing some hick towns! I mean--Course the folks there are the best on earth, but, gee whiz, those Main Street burgs are slow, and you fellows can't hardly appreciate what it means to be here with a bunch of live ones!" "You bet!" exulted Orville Jones. "They're the best folks on earth, those small-town folks, but, oh, mama! what conversation! Why, say, they can't talk about anything but the weather and the ne-oo Ford, by heckalorum!" "That's right. They all talk about just the same things," said Eddie Swanson. "Don't they, though! They just say the same things over and over," said Vergil Gunch. "Yes, it's really remarkable. They seem to lack all power of looking at things impersonally. They simply go over and over the same talk about Fords and the weather and so on." said Howard Littlefield. "Still, at that, you can't blame 'em. They haven't got any intellectual stimulus such as you get up here in the city," said Chum Frink. "Gosh, that's right," said Babbitt. "I don't want you highbrows to get stuck on yourselves but I must say it keeps a fellow right up on his toes to sit in with a poet and with Howard, the guy that put the con in economics! But these small-town boobs, with nobody but each other to talk to, no wonder they get so sloppy and uncultured in their speech, and so balled-up in their thinking!" Orville Jones commented, "And, then take our other advantages--the movies, frinstance. These Yapville sports think they're all-get-out if they have one change of bill a week, where here in the city you got your choice of a dozen diff'rent movies any evening you want to name!" "Sure, and the inspiration we get from rubbing up against high-class hustlers every day and getting jam full of ginger," said Eddie Swanson. "Same time," said Babbitt, "no sense excusing these rube burgs too easy. Fellow's own fault if he doesn't show the initiative to up and beat it to the city, like we done--did. And, just speaking in confidence among friends, they're jealous as the devil of a city man. Every time I go up to Catawba I have to go around apologizing to the fellows I was brought up with because I've more or less succeeded and they haven't. And if you talk natural to 'em, way we do here, and show finesse and what you might call a broad point of view, why, they think you're putting on side. There's my own half-brother Martin--runs the little ole general store my Dad used to keep. Say, I'll bet he don't know there is such a thing as a Tux--as a dinner-jacket. If he was to come in here now, he'd think we were a bunch of--of--Why, gosh, I swear, he wouldn't know what to think! Yes, sir, they're jealous!" Chum Frink agreed, "That's so. But what I mind is their lack of culture and appreciation of the Beautiful--if you'll excuse me for being highbrow. Now, I like to give a high-class lecture, and read some of my best poetry--not the newspaper stuff but the magazine things. But say, when I get out in the tall grass, there's nothing will take but a lot of cheesy old stories and slang and junk that if any of us were to indulge in it here, he'd get the gate so fast it would make his head swim." Vergil Gunch summed it up: "Fact is, we're mighty lucky to be living among a bunch of city-folks, that recognize artistic things and business-punch equally. We'd feel pretty glum if we got stuck in some Main Street burg and tried to wise up the old codgers to the kind of life we're used to here. But, by golly, there's this you got to say for 'em: Every small American town is trying to get population and modern ideals. And darn if a lot of 'em don't put it across! Somebody starts panning a rube crossroads, telling how he was there in 1900 and it consisted of one muddy street, count 'em, one, and nine hundred human clams. Well, you go back there in 1920, and you find pavements and a swell little hotel and a first-class ladies' ready-to-wear shop--real perfection, in fact! You don't want to just look at what these small towns are, you want to look at what they're aiming to become, and they all got an ambition that in the long run is going to make 'em the finest spots on earth--they all want to be just like Zenith!" III However intimate they might be with T. Cholmondeley Frink as a neighbor, as a borrower of lawn-mowers and monkey-wrenches, they knew that he was also a Famous Poet and a distinguished advertising-agent; that behind his easiness were sultry literary mysteries which they could not penetrate. But to-night, in the gin-evolved confidence, he admitted them to the arcanum: "I've got a literary problem that's worrying me to death. I'm doing a series of ads for the Zeeco Car and I want to make each of 'em a real little gem--reg'lar stylistic stuff. I'm all for this theory that perfection is the stunt, or nothing at all, and these are as tough things as I ever tackled. You might think it'd be harder to do my poems--all these Heart Topics: home and fireside and happiness--but they're cinches. You can't go wrong on 'em; you know what sentiments any decent go-ahead fellow must have if he plays the game, and you stick right to 'em. But the poetry of industrialism, now there's a literary line where you got to open up new territory. Do you know the fellow who's really THE American genius? The fellow who you don't know his name and I don't either, but his work ought to be preserved so's future generations can judge our American thought and originality to-day? Why, the fellow that writes the Prince Albert Tobacco ads! Just listen to this: It's P.A. that jams such joy in jimmy pipes. Say--bet you've often bent-an-ear to that spill-of-speech about hopping from five to f-i-f-t-y p-e-r by "stepping on her a bit!" Guess that's going some, all right--BUT just among ourselves, you better start a rapidwhiz system to keep tabs as to how fast you'll buzz from low smoke spirits to TIP-TOP-HIGH--once you line up behind a jimmy pipe that's all aglow with that peach-of-a-pal, Prince Albert. Prince Albert is john-on-the-job--always joy'usly more-ISH in flavor; always delightfully cool and fragrant! For a fact, you never hooked such double-decked, copper-riveted, two-fisted smoke enjoyment! Go to a pipe--speed-o-quick like you light on a good thing! Why--packed with Prince Albert you can play a joy'us jimmy straight across the boards! AND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!" "Now that," caroled the motor agent, Eddie Swanson, "that's what I call he-literature! That Prince Albert fellow--though, gosh, there can't be just one fellow that writes 'em; must be a big board of classy ink-slingers in conference, but anyway: now, him, he doesn't write for long-haired pikers, he writes for Regular Guys, he writes for ME, and I tip my benny to him! The only thing is: I wonder if it sells the goods? Course, like all these poets, this Prince Albert fellow lets his idea run away with him. It makes elegant reading, but it don't say nothing. I'd never go out and buy Prince Albert Tobacco after reading it, because it doesn't tell me anything about the stuff. It's just a bunch of fluff." Frink faced him: "Oh, you're crazy! Have I got to sell you the idea of Style? Anyway that's the kind of stuff I'd like to do for the Zeeco. But I simply can't. So I decided to stick to the straight poetic, and I took a shot at a highbrow ad for the Zeeco. How do you like this: The long white trail is calling--calling--and it's over the hills and far away for every man or woman that has red blood in his veins and on his lips the ancient song of the buccaneers. It's away with dull drudging, and a fig for care. Speed--glorious Speed--it's more than just a moment's exhilaration--it's Life for you and me! This great new truth the makers of the Zeeco Car have considered as much as price and style. It's fleet as the antelope, smooth as the glide of a swallow, yet powerful as the charge of a bull-elephant. Class breathes in every line. Listen, brother! You'll never know what the high art of hiking is till you TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST--THE ZEECO!" "Yes," Frink mused, "that's got an elegant color to it, if I do say so, but it ain't got the originality of 'spill-of-speech!'" The whole company sighed with sympathy and admiration.

Chapter VIII

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x

The Babbitts decide to host a "highbrow" dinner , and George's discouragement with the effort and toil of planning the party is overcome by his excitement for procuring gin for cocktails during Prohibition. He drives to a saloon in the seedy Old Town, where he meets with Healey Hanson and pays for unexpectedly expensive gin. He is so exhilarated by the immoral act that he nearly forgets to fulfill Myra's request to pick up the ice cream. During the party preparation, Babbitt drinks a cocktail and becomes giddily intoxicated, but he is filled with gloom again by the time the guests arrive. The guests include Howard Littlefield, Vergil Gunch, Eddie Swanson, Orville Jones, T. Cholmondeley Frink, and their wives. While drinking cocktails and eating dinner, the men discuss Prohibition and the benefits of modern city life. Under the influence of the gin, Frink confesses that he is discouraged because he cannot write his Zeeco car company ads as well as others do

In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing "poison booze" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he " in it on principle," but he does not "propose to have anybody telling " what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his "poemulations," yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as "TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_2_part_3.txt

Babbitt.chapter ix

chapter ix

{"name": "Chapter IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x", "summary": "George suddenly becomes entirely bored. He wants to \"get away from--everything\". The ladies convince their husbands to engage in a sAance, and the group attempts to contact Dante. Nevertheless, Babbitt is \"dismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends\" , and he is uncharacteristically happy when the guests leave. As George and Myra discuss the party, it becomes apparent to Myra that he did not enjoy it. The topic of the Maine trip arises, and George erupts into an uncontrolled fit of anxiety when Myra suggests going early with him. She is suddenly very understanding and pliable. George takes the sudden freedom she grants him to go early with Paul", "analysis": "In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing \"poison booze\" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he \" in it on principle,\" but he does not \"propose to have anybody telling \" what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his \"poemulations,\" yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as \"TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!\" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?"}

I BABBITT was fond of his friends, he loved the importance of being host and shouting, "Certainly, you're going to have smore chicken--the idea!" and he appreciated the genius of T. Cholmondeley Frink, but the vigor of the cocktails was gone, and the more he ate the less joyful he felt. Then the amity of the dinner was destroyed by the nagging of the Swansons. In Floral Heights and the other prosperous sections of Zenith, especially in the "young married set," there were many women who had nothing to do. Though they had few servants, yet with gas stoves, electric ranges and dish-washers and vacuum cleaners, and tiled kitchen walls, their houses were so convenient that they had little housework, and much of their food came from bakeries and delicatessens. They had but two, one, or no children; and despite the myth that the Great War had made work respectable, their husbands objected to their "wasting time and getting a lot of crank ideas" in unpaid social work, and still more to their causing a rumor, by earning money, that they were not adequately supported. They worked perhaps two hours a day, and the rest of the time they ate chocolates, went to the motion-pictures, went window-shopping, went in gossiping twos and threes to card-parties, read magazines, thought timorously of the lovers who never appeared, and accumulated a splendid restlessness which they got rid of by nagging their husbands. The husbands nagged back. Of these naggers the Swansons were perfect specimens. Throughout the dinner Eddie Swanson had been complaining, publicly, about his wife's new frock. It was, he submitted, too short, too low, too immodestly thin, and much too expensive. He appealed to Babbitt: "Honest, George, what do you think of that rag Louetta went and bought? Don't you think it's the limit?" "What's eating you, Eddie? I call it a swell little dress." "Oh, it is, Mr. Swanson. It's a sweet frock," Mrs. Babbitt protested. "There now, do you see, smarty! You're such an authority on clothes!" Louetta raged, while the guests ruminated and peeped at her shoulders. "That's all right now," said Swanson. "I'm authority enough so I know it was a waste of money, and it makes me tired to see you not wearing out a whole closetful of clothes you got already. I've expressed my idea about this before, and you know good and well you didn't pay the least bit of attention. I have to camp on your trail to get you to do anything--" There was much more of it, and they all assisted, all but Babbitt. Everything about him was dim except his stomach, and that was a bright scarlet disturbance. "Had too much grub; oughtn't to eat this stuff," he groaned--while he went on eating, while he gulped down a chill and glutinous slice of the ice-cream brick, and cocoanut cake as oozy as shaving-cream. He felt as though he had been stuffed with clay; his body was bursting, his throat was bursting, his brain was hot mud; and only with agony did he continue to smile and shout as became a host on Floral Heights. He would, except for his guests, have fled outdoors and walked off the intoxication of food, but in the haze which filled the room they sat forever, talking, talking, while he agonized, "Darn fool to be eating all this--not 'nother mouthful," and discovered that he was again tasting the sickly welter of melted ice cream on his plate. There was no magic in his friends; he was not uplifted when Howard Littlefield produced from his treasure-house of scholarship the information that the chemical symbol for raw rubber is C10H16, which turns into isoprene, or 2C5H8. Suddenly, without precedent, Babbitt was not merely bored but admitting that he was bored. It was ecstasy to escape from the table, from the torture of a straight chair, and loll on the davenport in the living-room. The others, from their fitful unconvincing talk, their expressions of being slowly and painfully smothered, seemed to be suffering from the toil of social life and the horror of good food as much as himself. All of them accepted with relief the suggestion of bridge. Babbitt recovered from the feeling of being boiled. He won at bridge. He was again able to endure Vergil Gunch's inexorable heartiness. But he pictured loafing with Paul Riesling beside a lake in Maine. It was as overpowering and imaginative as homesickness. He had never seen Maine, yet he beheld the shrouded mountains, the tranquil lake of evening. "That boy Paul's worth all these ballyhooing highbrows put together," he muttered; and, "I'd like to get away from--everything." Even Louetta Swanson did not rouse him. Mrs. Swanson was pretty and pliant. Babbitt was not an analyst of women, except as to their tastes in Furnished Houses to Rent. He divided them into Real Ladies, Working Women, Old Cranks, and Fly Chickens. He mooned over their charms but he was of opinion that all of them (save the women of his own family) were "different" and "mysterious." Yet he had known by instinct that Louetta Swanson could be approached. Her eyes and lips were moist. Her face tapered from a broad forehead to a pointed chin, her mouth was thin but strong and avid, and between her brows were two outcurving and passionate wrinkles. She was thirty, perhaps, or younger. Gossip had never touched her, but every man naturally and instantly rose to flirtatiousness when he spoke to her, and every woman watched her with stilled blankness. Between games, sitting on the davenport, Babbitt spoke to her with the requisite gallantry, that sonorous Floral Heights gallantry which is not flirtation but a terrified flight from it: "You're looking like a new soda-fountain to night, Louetta." "Am I?" "Ole Eddie kind of on the rampage." "Yes. I get so sick of it." "Well, when you get tired of hubby, you can run off with Uncle George." "If I ran away--Oh, well--" "Anybody ever tell you your hands are awful pretty?" She looked down at them, she pulled the lace of her sleeves over them, but otherwise she did not heed him. She was lost in unexpressed imaginings. Babbitt was too languid this evening to pursue his duty of being a captivating (though strictly moral) male. He ambled back to the bridge-tables. He was not much thrilled when Mrs. Frink, a small twittering woman, proposed that they "try and do some spiritualism and table-tipping--you know Chum can make the spirits come--honest, he just scares me!" The ladies of the party had not emerged all evening, but now, as the sex given to things of the spirit while the men warred against base things material, they took command and cried, "Oh, let's!" In the dimness the men were rather solemn and foolish, but the goodwives quivered and adored as they sat about the table. They laughed, "Now, you be good or I'll tell!" when the men took their hands in the circle. Babbitt tingled with a slight return of interest in life as Louetta Swanson's hand closed on his with quiet firmness. All of them hunched over, intent. They startled as some one drew a strained breath. In the dusty light from the hall they looked unreal, they felt disembodied. Mrs. Gunch squeaked, and they jumped with unnatural jocularity, but at Frink's hiss they sank into subdued awe. Suddenly, incredibly, they heard a knocking. They stared at Frink's half-revealed hands and found them lying still. They wriggled, and pretended not to be impressed. Frink spoke with gravity: "Is some one there?" A thud. "Is one knock to be the sign for 'yes'?" A thud. "And two for 'no'?" A thud. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, shall we ask the guide to put us into communication with the spirit of some great one passed over?" Frink mumbled. Mrs Orville Jones begged, "Oh, let's talk to Dante! We studied him at the Reading Circle. You know who he was, Orvy." "Certainly I know who he was! The Wop poet. Where do you think I was raised?" from her insulted husband. "Sure--the fellow that took the Cook's Tour to Hell. I've never waded through his po'try, but we learned about him in the U.," said Babbitt. "Page Mr. Dannnnnty!" intoned Eddie Swanson. "You ought to get him easy, Mr. Frink, you and he being fellow-poets," said Louetta Swanson. "Fellow-poets, rats! Where d' you get that stuff?" protested Vergil Gunch. "I suppose Dante showed a lot of speed for an old-timer--not that I've actually read him, of course--but to come right down to hard facts, he wouldn't stand one-two-three if he had to buckle down to practical literature and turn out a poem for the newspaper-syndicate every day, like Chum does!" "That's so," from Eddie Swanson. "Those old birds could take their time. Judas Priest, I could write poetry myself if I had a whole year for it, and just wrote about that old-fashioned junk like Dante wrote about." Frink demanded, "Hush, now! I'll call him. . . O, Laughing Eyes, emerge forth into the, uh, the ultimates and bring hither the spirit of Dante, that we mortals may list to his words of wisdom." "You forgot to give um the address: 1658 Brimstone Avenue, Fiery Heights, Hell," Gunch chuckled, but the others felt that this was irreligious. And besides--"probably it was just Chum making the knocks, but still, if there did happen to be something to all this, be exciting to talk to an old fellow belonging to--way back in early times--" A thud. The spirit of Dante had come to the parlor of George F. Babbitt. He was, it seemed, quite ready to answer their questions. He was "glad to be with them, this evening." Frink spelled out the messages by running through the alphabet till the spirit interpreter knocked at the right letter. Littlefield asked, in a learned tone, "Do you like it in the Paradiso, Messire?" "We are very happy on the higher plane, Signor. We are glad that you are studying this great truth of spiritualism," Dante replied. The circle moved with an awed creaking of stays and shirt-fronts. "Suppose--suppose there were something to this?" Babbitt had a different worry. "Suppose Chum Frink was really one of these spiritualists! Chum had, for a literary fellow, always seemed to be a Regular Guy; he belonged to the Chatham Road Presbyterian Church and went to the Boosters' lunches and liked cigars and motors and racy stories. But suppose that secretly--After all, you never could tell about these darn highbrows; and to be an out-and-out spiritualist would be almost like being a socialist!" No one could long be serious in the presence of Vergil Gunch. "Ask Dant' how Jack Shakespeare and old Verg'--the guy they named after me--are gettin' along, and don't they wish they could get into the movie game!" he blared, and instantly all was mirth. Mrs. Jones shrieked, and Eddie Swanson desired to know whether Dante didn't catch cold with nothing on but his wreath. The pleased Dante made humble answer. But Babbitt--the curst discontent was torturing him again, and heavily, in the impersonal darkness, he pondered, "I don't--We're all so flip and think we're so smart. There'd be--A fellow like Dante--I wish I'd read some of his pieces. I don't suppose I ever will, now." He had, without explanation, the impression of a slaggy cliff and on it, in silhouette against menacing clouds, a lone and austere figure. He was dismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends. He grasped Louetta Swanson's hand, and found the comfort of human warmth. Habit came, a veteran warrior; and he shook himself. "What the deuce is the matter with me, this evening?" He patted Louetta's hand, to indicate that he hadn't meant anything improper by squeezing it, and demanded of Frink, "Say, see if you can get old Dant' to spiel us some of his poetry. Talk up to him. Tell him, 'Buena giorna, senor, com sa va, wie geht's? Keskersaykersa a little pome, senor?'" II The lights were switched on; the women sat on the fronts of their chairs in that determined suspense whereby a wife indicates that as soon as the present speaker has finished, she is going to remark brightly to her husband, "Well, dear, I think per-HAPS it's about time for us to be saying good-night." For once Babbitt did not break out in blustering efforts to keep the party going. He had--there was something he wished to think out--But the psychical research had started them off again. ("Why didn't they go home! Why didn't they go home!") Though he was impressed by the profundity of the statement, he was only half-enthusiastic when Howard Littlefield lectured, "The United States is the only nation in which the government is a Moral Ideal and not just a social arrangement." ("True--true--weren't they EVER going home?") He was usually delighted to have an "inside view" of the momentous world of motors but to-night he scarcely listened to Eddie Swanson's revelation: "If you want to go above the Javelin class, the Zeeco is a mighty good buy. Couple weeks ago, and mind you, this was a fair, square test, they took a Zeeco stock touring-car and they slid up the Tonawanda hill on high, and fellow told me--" ("Zeeco good boat but--Were they planning to stay all night?") They really were going, with a flutter of "We did have the best time!" Most aggressively friendly of all was Babbitt, yet as he burbled he was reflecting, "I got through it, but for a while there I didn't hardly think I'd last out." He prepared to taste that most delicate pleasure of the host: making fun of his guests in the relaxation of midnight. As the door closed he yawned voluptuously, chest out, shoulders wriggling, and turned cynically to his wife. She was beaming. "Oh, it was nice, wasn't it! I know they enjoyed every minute of it. Don't you think so?" He couldn't do it. He couldn't mock. It would have been like sneering at a happy child. He lied ponderously: "You bet! Best party this year, by a long shot." "Wasn't the dinner good! And honestly I thought the fried chicken was delicious!" "You bet! Fried to the Queen's taste. Best fried chicken I've tasted for a coon's age." "Didn't Matilda fry it beautifully! And don't you think the soup was simply delicious?" "It certainly was! It was corking! Best soup I've tasted since Heck was a pup!" But his voice was seeping away. They stood in the hall, under the electric light in its square box-like shade of red glass bound with nickel. She stared at him. "Why, George, you don't sound--you sound as if you hadn't really enjoyed it." "Sure I did! Course I did!" "George! What is it?" "Oh, I'm kind of tired, I guess. Been pounding pretty hard at the office. Need to get away and rest up a little." "Well, we're going to Maine in just a few weeks now, dear." "Yuh--" Then he was pouring it out nakedly, robbed of reticence. "Myra: I think it'd be a good thing for me to get up there early." "But you have this man you have to meet in New York about business." "What man? Oh, sure. Him. Oh, that's all off. But I want to hit Maine early--get in a little fishing, catch me a big trout, by golly!" A nervous, artificial laugh. "Well, why don't we do it? Verona and Matilda can run the house between them, and you and I can go any time, if you think we can afford it." "But that's--I've been feeling so jumpy lately, I thought maybe it might be a good thing if I kind of got off by myself and sweat it out of me." "George! Don't you WANT me to go along?" She was too wretchedly in earnest to be tragic, or gloriously insulted, or anything save dumpy and defenseless and flushed to the red steaminess of a boiled beet. "Of course I do! I just meant--" Remembering that Paul Riesling had predicted this, he was as desperate as she. "I mean, sometimes it's a good thing for an old grouch like me to go off and get it out of his system." He tried to sound paternal. "Then when you and the kids arrive--I figured maybe I might skip up to Maine just a few days ahead of you--I'd be ready for a real bat, see how I mean?" He coaxed her with large booming sounds, with affable smiles, like a popular preacher blessing an Easter congregation, like a humorous lecturer completing his stint of eloquence, like all perpetrators of masculine wiles. She stared at him, the joy of festival drained from her face. "Do I bother you when we go on vacations? Don't I add anything to your fun?" He broke. Suddenly, dreadfully, he was hysterical, he was a yelping baby. "Yes, yes, yes! Hell, yes! But can't you understand I'm shot to pieces? I'm all in! I got to take care of myself! I tell you, I got to--I'm sick of everything and everybody! I got to--" It was she who was mature and protective now. "Why, of course! You shall run off by yourself! Why don't you get Paul to go along, and you boys just fish and have a good time?" She patted his shoulder--reaching up to it--while he shook with palsied helplessness, and in that moment was not merely by habit fond of her but clung to her strength. She cried cheerily, "Now up-stairs you go, and pop into bed. We'll fix it all up. I'll see to the doors. Now skip!" For many minutes, for many hours, for a bleak eternity, he lay awake, shivering, reduced to primitive terror, comprehending that he had won freedom, and wondering what he could do with anything so unknown and so embarrassing as freedom.

Chapter IX

https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x

George suddenly becomes entirely bored. He wants to "get away from--everything". The ladies convince their husbands to engage in a sAance, and the group attempts to contact Dante. Nevertheless, Babbitt is "dismayed by a sudden contempt for his surest friends" , and he is uncharacteristically happy when the guests leave. As George and Myra discuss the party, it becomes apparent to Myra that he did not enjoy it. The topic of the Maine trip arises, and George erupts into an uncontrolled fit of anxiety when Myra suggests going early with him. She is suddenly very understanding and pliable. George takes the sudden freedom she grants him to go early with Paul

In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing "poison booze" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he " in it on principle," but he does not "propose to have anybody telling " what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his "poemulations," yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as "TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/1156-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/Babbitt/section_2_part_4.txt

Babbitt.chapter x

chapter x

{"name": "Chapter X", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180423144610/http://www.gradesaver.com/babbitt/study-guide/summary-chapters-vii-x", "summary": "George and Myra visit Paul and Zilla Riesling at their apartment in the Revelstoke Arms with the intent of convincing Zilla to permit Paul to leave early for Maine. When the Rieslings start to argue and Zilla criticizes Paul, Babbitt comes ardently and ferociously to his friend's defense, chastising Zilla for her \"damn nonsense\" , calling her a fool, and telling her that people speak ill of her behind her back. Zilla reverts to tears and dramatic self-abasement, yet she eventually grants Paul the freedom to go without her. Afterwards, Myra scolds George for being so cruel. On the train to Maine, George and Paul sit and talk with four men who all seem to share the same opinions about Prohibition, hotels, and the rising cost of clothing. Though Paul does not get along very well with these men, George feels \"expansive and virile\" in their presence. They stay awake talking late into the night, and when George finally goes to bed, he is \"very happy\"", "analysis": "In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing \"poison booze\" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he \" in it on principle,\" but he does not \"propose to have anybody telling \" what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his \"poemulations,\" yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as \"TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!\" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?"}

No apartment-house in Zenith had more resolutely experimented in condensation than the Revelstoke Arms, in which Paul and Zilla Riesling had a flat. By sliding the beds into low closets the bedrooms were converted into living-rooms. The kitchens were cupboards each containing an electric range, a copper sink, a glass refrigerator, and, very intermittently, a Balkan maid. Everything about the Arms was excessively modern, and everything was compressed--except the garages. The Babbitts were calling on the Rieslings at the Arms. It was a speculative venture to call on the Rieslings; interesting and sometimes disconcerting. Zilla was an active, strident, full-blown, high-bosomed blonde. When she condescended to be good-humored she was nervously amusing. Her comments on people were saltily satiric and penetrative of accepted hypocrisies. "That's so!" you said, and looked sheepish. She danced wildly, and called on the world to be merry, but in the midst of it she would turn indignant. She was always becoming indignant. Life was a plot against her and she exposed it furiously. She was affable to-night. She merely hinted that Orville Jones wore a toupe, that Mrs. T. Cholmondeley Frink's singing resembled a Ford going into high, and that the Hon. Otis Deeble, mayor of Zenith and candidate for Congress, was a flatulent fool (which was quite true). The Babbitts and Rieslings sat doubtfully on stone-hard brocade chairs in the small living-room of the flat, with its mantel unprovided with a fireplace, and its strip of heavy gilt fabric upon a glaring new player-piano, till Mrs. Riesling shrieked, "Come on! Let's put some pep in it! Get out your fiddle, Paul, and I'll try to make Georgie dance decently." The Babbitts were in earnest. They were plotting for the escape to Maine. But when Mrs. Babbitt hinted with plump smilingness, "Does Paul get as tired after the winter's work as Georgie does?" then Zilla remembered an injury; and when Zilla Riesling remembered an injury the world stopped till something had been done about it. "Does he get tired? No, he doesn't get tired, he just goes crazy, that's all! You think Paul is so reasonable, oh, yes, and he loves to make out he's a little lamb, but he's stubborn as a mule. Oh, if you had to live with him--! You'd find out how sweet he is! He just pretends to be meek so he can have his own way. And me, I get the credit for being a terrible old crank, but if I didn't blow up once in a while and get something started, we'd die of dry-rot. He never wants to go any place and--Why, last evening, just because the car was out of order--and that was his fault, too, because he ought to have taken it to the service-station and had the battery looked at--and he didn't want to go down to the movies on the trolley. But we went, and then there was one of those impudent conductors, and Paul wouldn't do a thing. "I was standing on the platform waiting for the people to let me into the car, and this beast, this conductor, hollered at me, 'Come on, you, move up!' Why, I've never had anybody speak to me that way in all my life! I was so astonished I just turned to him and said--I thought there must be some mistake, and so I said to him, perfectly pleasant, 'Were you speaking to me?' and he went on and bellowed at me, 'Yes, I was! You're keeping the whole car from starting!' he said, and then I saw he was one of these dirty ill-bred hogs that kindness is wasted on, and so I stopped and looked right at him, and I said, 'I--beg--your--pardon, I am not doing anything of the kind,' I said, 'it's the people ahead of me, who won't move up,' I said, 'and furthermore, let me tell you, young man, that you're a low-down, foul-mouthed, impertinent skunk,' I said, 'and you're no gentleman! I certainly intend to report you, and we'll see,' I said, 'whether a lady is to be insulted by any drunken bum that chooses to put on a ragged uniform, and I'd thank you,' I said, 'to keep your filthy abuse to yourself.' And then I waited for Paul to show he was half a man and come to my defense, and he just stood there and pretended he hadn't heard a word, and so I said to him, 'Well,' I said--" "Oh, cut it, cut it, Zill!" Paul groaned. "We all know I'm a mollycoddle, and you're a tender bud, and let's let it go at that." "Let it go?" Zilla's face was wrinkled like the Medusa, her voice was a dagger of corroded brass. She was full of the joy of righteousness and bad temper. She was a crusader and, like every crusader, she exulted in the opportunity to be vicious in the name of virtue. "Let it go? If people knew how many things I've let go--" "Oh, quit being such a bully." "Yes, a fine figure you'd cut if I didn't bully you! You'd lie abed till noon and play your idiotic fiddle till midnight! You're born lazy, and you're born shiftless, and you're born cowardly, Paul Riesling--" "Oh, now, don't say that, Zilla; you don't mean a word of it!" protested Mrs. Babbitt. "I will say that, and I mean every single last word of it!" "Oh, now, Zilla, the idea!" Mrs. Babbitt was maternal and fussy. She was no older than Zilla, but she seemed so--at first. She was placid and puffy and mature, where Zilla, at forty-five, was so bleached and tight-corseted that you knew only that she was older than she looked. "The idea of talking to poor Paul like that!" "Poor Paul is right! We'd both be poor, we'd be in the poorhouse, if I didn't jazz him up!" "Why, now, Zilla, Georgie and I were just saying how hard Paul's been working all year, and we were thinking it would be lovely if the Boys could run off by themselves. I've been coaxing George to go up to Maine ahead of the rest of us, and get the tired out of his system before we come, and I think it would be lovely if Paul could manage to get away and join him." At this exposure of his plot to escape, Paul was startled out of impassivity. He rubbed his fingers. His hands twitched. Zilla bayed, "Yes! You're lucky! You can let George go, and not have to watch him. Fat old Georgie! Never peeps at another woman! Hasn't got the spunk!" "The hell I haven't!" Babbitt was fervently defending his priceless immorality when Paul interrupted him--and Paul looked dangerous. He rose quickly; he said gently to Zilla: "I suppose you imply I have a lot of sweethearts." "Yes, I do!" "Well, then, my dear, since you ask for it--There hasn't been a time in the last ten years when I haven't found some nice little girl to comfort me, and as long as you continue your amiability I shall probably continue to deceive you. It isn't hard. You're so stupid." Zilla gibbered; she howled; words could not be distinguished in her slaver of abuse. Then the bland George F. Babbitt was transformed. If Paul was dangerous, if Zilla was a snake-locked fury, if the neat emotions suitable to the Revelstoke Arms had been slashed into raw hatreds, it was Babbitt who was the most formidable. He leaped up. He seemed very large. He seized Zilla's shoulder. The cautions of the broker were wiped from his face, and his voice was cruel: "I've had enough of all this damn nonsense! I've known you for twenty-five years, Zil, and I never knew you to miss a chance to take your disappointments out on Paul. You're not wicked. You're worse. You're a fool. And let me tell you that Paul is the finest boy God ever made. Every decent person is sick and tired of your taking advantage of being a woman and springing every mean innuendo you can think of. Who the hell are you that a person like Paul should have to ask your PERMISSION to go with me? You act like you were a combination of Queen Victoria and Cleopatra. You fool, can't you see how people snicker at you, and sneer at you?" Zilla was sobbing, "I've never--I've never--nobody ever talked to me like this in all my life!" "No, but that's the way they talk behind your back! Always! They say you're a scolding old woman. Old, by God!" That cowardly attack broke her. Her eyes were blank. She wept. But Babbitt glared stolidly. He felt that he was the all-powerful official in charge; that Paul and Mrs. Babbitt looked on him with awe; that he alone could handle this case. Zilla writhed. She begged, "Oh, they don't!" "They certainly do!" "I've been a bad woman! I'm terribly sorry! I'll kill myself! I'll do anything. Oh, I'll--What do you want?" She abased herself completely. Also, she enjoyed it. To the connoisseur of scenes, nothing is more enjoyable than a thorough, melodramatic, egoistic humility. "I want you to let Paul beat it off to Maine with me," Babbitt demanded. "How can I help his going? You've just said I was an idiot and nobody paid any attention to me." "Oh, you can help it, all right, all right! What you got to do is to cut out hinting that the minute he gets out of your sight, he'll go chasing after some petticoat. Matter fact, that's the way you start the boy off wrong. You ought to have more sense--" "Oh, I will, honestly, I will, George. I know I was bad. Oh, forgive me, all of you, forgive me--" She enjoyed it. So did Babbitt. He condemned magnificently and forgave piously, and as he went parading out with his wife he was grandly explanatory to her: "Kind of a shame to bully Zilla, but course it was the only way to handle her. Gosh, I certainly did have her crawling!" She said calmly, "Yes. You were horrid. You were showing off. You were having a lovely time thinking what a great fine person you were!" "Well, by golly! Can you beat it! Of course I might of expected you to not stand by me! I might of expected you'd stick up for your own sex!" "Yes. Poor Zilla, she's so unhappy. She takes it out on Paul. She hasn't a single thing to do, in that little flat. And she broods too much. And she used to be so pretty and gay, and she resents losing it. And you were just as nasty and mean as you could be. I'm not a bit proud of you--or of Paul, boasting about his horrid love-affairs!" He was sulkily silent; he maintained his bad temper at a high level of outraged nobility all the four blocks home. At the door he left her, in self-approving haughtiness, and tramped the lawn. With a shock it was revealed to him: "Gosh, I wonder if she was right--if she was partly right?" Overwork must have flayed him to abnormal sensitiveness; it was one of the few times in his life when he had queried his eternal excellence; and he perceived the summer night, smelled the wet grass. Then: "I don't care! I've pulled it off. We're going to have our spree. And for Paul, I'd do anything." II They were buying their Maine tackle at Ijams Brothers', the Sporting Goods Mart, with the help of Willis Ijams, fellow member of the Boosters' Club. Babbitt was completely mad. He trumpeted and danced. He muttered to Paul, "Say, this is pretty good, eh? To be buying the stuff, eh? And good old Willis Ijams himself coming down on the floor to wait on us! Say, if those fellows that are getting their kit for the North Lakes knew we were going clear up to Maine, they'd have a fit, eh? . . . Well, come on, Brother Ijams--Willis, I mean. Here's your chance! We're a couple of easy marks! Whee! Let me at it! I'm going to buy out the store!" He gloated on fly-rods and gorgeous rubber hip-boots, on tents with celluloid windows and folding chairs and ice-boxes. He simple-heartedly wanted to buy all of them. It was the Paul whom he was always vaguely protecting who kept him from his drunken desires. But even Paul lightened when Willis Ijams, a salesman with poetry and diplomacy, discussed flies. "Now, of course, you boys know." he said, "the great scrap is between dry flies and wet flies. Personally, I'm for dry flies. More sporting." "That's so. Lots more sporting," fulminated Babbitt, who knew very little about flies either wet or dry. "Now if you'll take my advice, Georgie, you'll stock up well on these pale evening dims, and silver sedges, and red ants. Oh, boy, there's a fly, that red ant!" "You bet! That's what it is--a fly!" rejoiced Babbitt. "Yes, sir, that red ant," said Ijams, "is a real honest-to-God FLY!" "Oh, I guess ole Mr. Trout won't come a-hustling when I drop one of those red ants on the water!" asserted Babbitt, and his thick wrists made a rapturous motion of casting. "Yes, and the landlocked salmon will take it, too," said Ijams, who had never seen a landlocked salmon. "Salmon! Trout! Say, Paul, can you see Uncle George with his khaki pants on haulin' 'em in, some morning 'bout seven? Whee!" III They were on the New York express, incredibly bound for Maine, incredibly without their families. They were free, in a man's world, in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman. Outside the car window was a glaze of darkness stippled with the gold of infrequent mysterious lights. Babbitt was immensely conscious, in the sway and authoritative clatter of the train, of going, of going on. Leaning toward Paul he grunted, "Gosh, pretty nice to be hiking, eh?" The small room, with its walls of ocher-colored steel, was filled mostly with the sort of men he classified as the Best Fellows You'll Ever Meet--Real Good Mixers. There were four of them on the long seat; a fat man with a shrewd fat face, a knife-edged man in a green velour hat, a very young young man with an imitation amber cigarette-holder, and Babbitt. Facing them, on two movable leather chairs, were Paul and a lanky, old-fashioned man, very cunning, with wrinkles bracketing his mouth. They all read newspapers or trade journals, boot-and-shoe journals, crockery journals, and waited for the joys of conversation. It was the very young man, now making his first journey by Pullman, who began it. "Say, gee, I had a wild old time in Zenith!" he gloried. "Say, if a fellow knows the ropes there he can have as wild a time as he can in New York!" "Yuh, I bet you simply raised the old Ned. I figured you were a bad man when I saw you get on the train!" chuckled the fat one. The others delightedly laid down their papers. "Well, that's all right now! I guess I seen some things in the Arbor you never seen!" complained the boy. "Oh, I'll bet you did! I bet you lapped up the malted milk like a reg'lar little devil!" Then, the boy having served as introduction, they ignored him and charged into real talk. Only Paul, sitting by himself, reading at a serial story in a newspaper, failed to join them and all but Babbitt regarded him as a snob, an eccentric, a person of no spirit. Which of them said which has never been determined, and does not matter, since they all had the same ideas and expressed them always with the same ponderous and brassy assurance. If it was not Babbitt who was delivering any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellor who did deliver it. "At that, though," announced the first "they're selling quite some booze in Zenith. Guess they are everywhere. I don't know how you fellows feel about prohibition, but the way it strikes me is that it's a mighty beneficial thing for the poor zob that hasn't got any will-power but for fellows like us, it's an infringement of personal liberty." "That's a fact. Congress has got no right to interfere with a fellow's personal liberty," contended the second. A man came in from the car, but as all the seats were full he stood up while he smoked his cigarette. He was an Outsider; he was not one of the Old Families of the smoking-compartment. They looked upon him bleakly and, after trying to appear at ease by examining his chin in the mirror, he gave it up and went out in silence. "Just been making a trip through the South. Business conditions not very good down there," said one of the council. "Is that a fact! Not very good, eh?" "No, didn't strike me they were up to normal." "Not up to normal, eh?" "No, I wouldn't hardly say they were." The whole council nodded sagely and decided, "Yump, not hardly up to snuff." "Well, business conditions ain't what they ought to be out West, neither, not by a long shot." "That's a fact. And I guess the hotel business feels it. That's one good thing, though: these hotels that've been charging five bucks a day--yes, and maybe six--seven!--for a rotten room are going to be darn glad to get four, and maybe give you a little service." "That's a fact. Say, uh, speaknubout hotels, I hit the St. Francis at San Francisco for the first time, the other day, and, say, it certainly is a first-class place." "You're right, brother! The St. Francis is a swell place--absolutely A1." "That's a fact. I'm right with you. It's a first-class place." "Yuh, but say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Rippleton, in Chicago? I don't want to knock--I believe in boosting wherever you can--but say, of all the rotten dumps that pass 'emselves off as first-class hotels, that's the worst. I'm going to get those guys, one of these days, and I told 'em so. You know how I am--well, maybe you don't know, but I'm accustomed to first-class accommodations, and I'm perfectly willing to pay a reasonable price. I got into Chicago late the other night, and the Rippleton's near the station--I'd never been there before, but I says to the taxi-driver--I always believe in taking a taxi when you get in late; may cost a little more money, but, gosh, it's worth it when you got to be up early next morning and out selling a lot of crabs--and I said to him, 'Oh, just drive me over to the Rippleton.' "Well, we got there, and I breezed up to the desk and said to the clerk, 'Well, brother, got a nice room with bath for Cousin Bill?' Saaaay! You'd 'a' thought I'd sold him a second, or asked him to work on Yom Kippur! He hands me the cold-boiled stare and yaps, 'I dunno, friend, I'll see,' and he ducks behind the rigamajig they keep track of the rooms on. Well, I guess he called up the Credit Association and the American Security League to see if I was all right--he certainly took long enough--or maybe he just went to sleep; but finally he comes out and looks at me like it hurts him, and croaks, 'I think I can let you have a room with bath.' 'Well, that's awful nice of you--sorry to trouble you--how much 'll it set me back?' I says, real sweet. 'It'll cost you seven bucks a day, friend,' he says. "Well, it was late, and anyway, it went down on my expense-account--gosh, if I'd been paying it instead of the firm, I'd 'a' tramped the streets all night before I'd 'a' let any hick tavern stick me seven great big round dollars, believe me! So I lets it go at that. Well, the clerk wakes a nice young bell hop--fine lad--not a day over seventy-nine years old--fought at the Battle of Gettysburg and doesn't know it's over yet--thought I was one of the Confederates, I guess, from the way he looked at me--and Rip van Winkle took me up to something--I found out afterwards they called it a room, but first I thought there'd been some mistake--I thought they were putting me in the Salvation Army collection-box! At seven per each and every diem! Gosh!" "Yuh, I've heard the Rippleton was pretty cheesy. Now, when I go to Chicago I always stay at the Blackstone or the La Salle--first-class places." "Say, any of you fellows ever stay at the Birchdale at Terre Haute? How is it?" "Oh, the Birchdale is a first-class hotel." (Twelve minutes of conference on the state of hotels in South Bend, Flint, Dayton, Tulsa, Wichita, Fort Worth, Winona, Erie, Fargo, and Moose Jaw.) "Speaknubout prices," the man in the velour hat observed, fingering the elk-tooth on his heavy watch-chain, "I'd like to know where they get this stuff about clothes coming down. Now, you take this suit I got on." He pinched his trousers-leg. "Four years ago I paid forty-two fifty for it, and it was real sure-'nough value. Well, here the other day I went into a store back home and asked to see a suit, and the fellow yanks out some hand-me-downs that, honest, I wouldn't put on a hired man. Just out of curiosity I asks him, 'What you charging for that junk?' 'Junk,' he says, 'what d' you mean junk? That's a swell piece of goods, all wool--' Like hell! It was nice vegetable wool, right off the Ole Plantation! 'It's all wool,' he says, 'and we get sixty-seven ninety for it.' 'Oh, you do, do you!' I says. 'Not from me you don't,' I says, and I walks right out on him. You bet! I says to the wife, 'Well,' I said, 'as long as your strength holds out and you can go on putting a few more patches on papa's pants, we'll just pass up buying clothes."' "That's right, brother. And just look at collars, frinstance--" "Hey! Wait!" the fat man protested. "What's the matter with collars? I'm selling collars! D' you realize the cost of labor on collars is still two hundred and seven per cent. above--" They voted that if their old friend the fat man sold collars, then the price of collars was exactly what it should be; but all other clothing was tragically too expensive. They admired and loved one another now. They went profoundly into the science of business, and indicated that the purpose of manufacturing a plow or a brick was so that it might be sold. To them, the Romantic Hero was no longer the knight, the wandering poet, the cowpuncher, the aviator, nor the brave young district attorney, but the great sales-manager, who had an Analysis of Merchandizing Problems on his glass-topped desk, whose title of nobility was "Go-getter," and who devoted himself and all his young samurai to the cosmic purpose of Selling--not of selling anything in particular, for or to anybody in particular, but pure Selling. The shop-talk roused Paul Riesling. Though he was a player of violins and an interestingly unhappy husband, he was also a very able salesman of tar-roofing. He listened to the fat man's remarks on "the value of house-organs and bulletins as a method of jazzing-up the Boys out on the road;" and he himself offered one or two excellent thoughts on the use of two-cent stamps on circulars. Then he committed an offense against the holy law of the Clan of Good Fellows. He became highbrow. They were entering a city. On the outskirts they passed a steel-mill which flared in scarlet and orange flame that licked at the cadaverous stacks, at the iron-sheathed walls and sullen converters. "My Lord, look at that--beautiful!" said Paul. "You bet it's beautiful, friend. That's the Shelling-Horton Steel Plant, and they tell me old John Shelling made a good three million bones out of munitions during the war!" the man with the velour hat said reverently. "I didn't mean--I mean it's lovely the way the light pulls that picturesque yard, all littered with junk, right out of the darkness," said Paul. They stared at him, while Babbitt crowed, "Paul there has certainly got one great little eye for picturesque places and quaint sights and all that stuff. 'D of been an author or something if he hadn't gone into the roofing line." Paul looked annoyed. (Babbitt sometimes wondered if Paul appreciated his loyal boosting.) The man in the velour hat grunted, "Well, personally, I think Shelling-Horton keep their works awful dirty. Bum routing. But I don't suppose there's any law against calling 'em 'picturesque' if it gets you that way!" Paul sulkily returned to his newspaper and the conversation logically moved on to trains. "What time do we get into Pittsburg?" asked Babbitt. "Pittsburg? I think we get in at--no, that was last year's schedule--wait a minute--let's see--got a time-table right here." "I wonder if we're on time?" "Yuh, sure, we must be just about on time." "No, we aren't--we were seven minutes late, last station." "Were we? Straight? Why, gosh, I thought we were right on time." "No, we're about seven minutes late." "Yuh, that's right; seven minutes late." The porter entered--a negro in white jacket with brass buttons. "How late are we, George?" growled the fat man. "'Deed, I don't know, sir. I think we're about on time," said the porter, folding towels and deftly tossing them up on the rack above the washbowls. The council stared at him gloomily and when he was gone they wailed: "I don't know what's come over these niggers, nowadays. They never give you a civil answer." "That's a fact. They're getting so they don't have a single bit of respect for you. The old-fashioned coon was a fine old cuss--he knew his place--but these young dinges don't want to be porters or cotton-pickers. Oh, no! They got to be lawyers and professors and Lord knows what all! I tell you, it's becoming a pretty serious problem. We ought to get together and show the black man, yes, and the yellow man, his place. Now, I haven't got one particle of race-prejudice. I'm the first to be glad when a nigger succeeds--so long as he stays where he belongs and doesn't try to usurp the rightful authority and business ability of the white man." "That's the i.! And another thing we got to do," said the man with the velour hat (whose name was Koplinsky), "is to keep these damn foreigners out of the country. Thank the Lord, we're putting a limit on immigration. These Dagoes and Hunkies have got to learn that this is a white man's country, and they ain't wanted here. When we've assimilated the foreigners we got here now and learned 'em the principles of Americanism and turned 'em into regular folks, why then maybe we'll let in a few more." "You bet. That's a fact," they observed, and passed on to lighter topics. They rapidly reviewed motor-car prices, tire-mileage, oil-stocks, fishing, and the prospects for the wheat-crop in Dakota. But the fat man was impatient at this waste of time. He was a veteran traveler and free of illusions. Already he had asserted that he was "an old he-one." He leaned forward, gathered in their attention by his expression of sly humor, and grumbled, "Oh, hell, boys, let's cut out the formality and get down to the stories!" They became very lively and intimate. Paul and the boy vanished. The others slid forward on the long seat, unbuttoned their vests, thrust their feet up on the chairs, pulled the stately brass cuspidors nearer, and ran the green window-shade down on its little trolley, to shut them in from the uncomfortable strangeness of night. After each bark of laughter they cried, "Say, jever hear the one about--" Babbitt was expansive and virile. When the train stopped at an important station, the four men walked up and down the cement platform, under the vast smoky train-shed roof, like a stormy sky, under the elevated footways, beside crates of ducks and sides of beef, in the mystery of an unknown city. They strolled abreast, old friends and well content. At the long-drawn "Alllll aboarrrrrd"--like a mountain call at dusk--they hastened back into the smoking-compartment, and till two of the morning continued the droll tales, their eyes damp with cigar-smoke and laughter. When they parted they shook hands, and chuckled, "Well, sir, it's been a great session. Sorry to bust it up. Mighty glad to met you." Babbitt lay awake in the close hot tomb of his Pullman berth, shaking with remembrance of the fat man's limerick about the lady who wished to be wild. He raised the shade; he lay with a puffy arm tucked between his head and the skimpy pillow, looking out on the sliding silhouettes of trees, and village lamps like exclamation-points. He was very happy.

Chapter X

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George and Myra visit Paul and Zilla Riesling at their apartment in the Revelstoke Arms with the intent of convincing Zilla to permit Paul to leave early for Maine. When the Rieslings start to argue and Zilla criticizes Paul, Babbitt comes ardently and ferociously to his friend's defense, chastising Zilla for her "damn nonsense" , calling her a fool, and telling her that people speak ill of her behind her back. Zilla reverts to tears and dramatic self-abasement, yet she eventually grants Paul the freedom to go without her. Afterwards, Myra scolds George for being so cruel. On the train to Maine, George and Paul sit and talk with four men who all seem to share the same opinions about Prohibition, hotels, and the rising cost of clothing. Though Paul does not get along very well with these men, George feels "expansive and virile" in their presence. They stay awake talking late into the night, and when George finally goes to bed, he is "very happy"

In a horizontal scan of Zenith in a single moment , Lewis juxtaposes the excitement, variety, and potential of city life with Babbitt's dull and mundane routine. Acts of significance are occurring everywhere around him , yet he is oblivious to his own potential to make active choices. His most daring and vivid experiences occur in his dreams, where there are no consequences for his actions. At this moment, he is cowardly and incapable of taking advantage of any of the potentialities, since he has fallen into the decision not to choose. Lewis has compared him to an infant during his evening bath, and here Babbitt's implied incompetence and lack of independence are depicted by contrast with others. During Babbitt's dinner party, the characters exhibit one of the great hypocrisies of the Prohibition era. In private, these respected gentlemen uphold the virtues of Prohibition, presenting a moralistic and obedient stance on the matter, but in private they indulge in liquor whenever they have the opportunity. Babbitt is thrilled by his trip to illegally purchase the gin, and he is drunk before his guests arrive. Two hours before sinking into a cocktail-induced revelry, Chum Frink had written a newspaper lyric denouncing "poison booze" and advocating clear-headed sobriety. Orville Jones explains that he " in it on principle," but he does not "propose to have anybody telling " what to think or do . They all agree that Prohibition is appropriate for keeping the working class in line, but that the middle class should have the right to drink. The alcohol trade was thriving during the 1920s when it was supposed to be illegal, and with this small scene, Lewis illustrates the hypocrisy of a country and a decade through that of a small party and an evening. This section also reflects upon the mass media and its apparent ability to obliterate real art. Chum Frink is admired for and successful with his "poemulations," yet Lewis offhandedly remarks that they are simple enough to be understood by most children and that they are not, in fact, actual poems. Even the advertisement that Frink reads as an example of artistic genius is rendered ridiculous by lines as bad as "TRY LIFE'S ZIPPINGEST ZEST - THE ZEECO!" . Technological advances and the spread of mass media seem to strip the artistry from art, making it impersonal, unskillful, and without intellectual or moral integrity. When Babbitt's restlessness and boredom reaches a climax, the only possibility that seems to fill him with any hope for enjoyment is his trip to Maine with Paul--an escape--though there is a social value in going with Paul. In fact, Babbitt's relationship with Paul is unique for Babbitt, in that it is the only one that provides any real pleasure for Babbitt. In the face of Zilla Riesling's criticism of her husband, Babbitt finds himself violently defending his friend's honor and subjecting Zilla to cruel verbal abuse. In fact, this is the first time that Babbitt has expressed deep and uncontrolled feeling. He cares for his friendship so deeply and is so desperate for time alone with a friend in the woods that he loses control; his sense of propriety is overwhelmed by his protective instincts. This trip to Maine not only represents an escape from Zenith and from the people who demand things of him, but it is also a chance for what we might today call 'male bonding,' which Babbitt hopes to find restorative. But is this escape to nature going to be that of a tourist--or something more meaningful, like that of Thoreau as expressed in Walden?