The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel, but a very human little girl, she often “wept a little weep,” as Jo said, because she couldn’t take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if some one (not to hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn’t keep in tune when she was all alone. She sung like a little lark about her work, never was too tired to play for Marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, “I know I’ll get my music some time, if I’m good.”

  There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully, that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth8 stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.

  If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big, nor red, like poor “Petrea’s;”9 it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.

  “Little Raphael,”10 as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums, she covered her slate with animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered, and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort. Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, “When papa was rich we did so-and-so,” which was very touching; and her long words were considered “perfectly elegant” by the girls.

  Many of May Alcott’s colorful creations were born when she dipped a brush into this paint box. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association; photograph by James E. Coutré)

  Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing, however, rather quenched the vanities; she had to wear her cousin’s clothes. Now Florence’s mamma hadn’t a particle of taste, and Amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was good, well made, and little worn; but Amy’s artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.

  “My only comfort,” she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, “is, that mother don’t take tucks in my dresses whenever I’m naughty, as Maria Parks’ mother does. My dear, it’s really dreadful; for sometimes she is so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can’t come to school. When I think of this deggerredation, I feel that I can bear even my flat nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it.”

  Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction of opposites, Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than any one in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to each other, but both took one of the younger into their keeping, and watched over them in their own way; “playing mother” they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with the maternal instinct of little women.

  “Has anybody got anything to tell? It’s been such a dismal day I’m really dying for some amusement,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.

  “I had a queer time with aunt to-day, and, as I got the best of it, I’ll tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “I was reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like fury, till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy; and, before she began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.

  “ ‘I wish I could, and be done with it,’ ” said I, trying not to be saucy.

  “Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think them over while she just ‘lost’ herself for a moment. She never finds herself very soon; so the minute her cap began to bob, like a top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the ‘Vicar of Wakefield’11 out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him, and one on aunt. I’d just got to where they all tumbled into the water, when I forgot, and laughed out loud. Aunt woke up; and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me to read a bit, and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though she only said,—

  “ ‘I don’t understand what it’s all about; go back and begin it, child.’

  “Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could. Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly, ‘I’m afraid it tires you, ma’am; shan’t I stop now?’

  “She caught up her knitting which had dropped out of her hands, gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way,—

  “ ‘Finish the chapter, and don’t be impertinent, miss.’ ”

  “Did she own she liked it?” asked Meg.

  “Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar, that she didn’t hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall, because of the good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have, if she only chose. I don’t envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, I guess,” added Jo.

  “That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I’ve got something to tell. It isn’t funny, like Jo’s story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came home. At the Kings to-day I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying, and Mr. King talking very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed me, so I shouldn’t see how red their eyes were. I didn’t ask any questions, of course; but I felt so sorry for them, and was rather glad I hadn’t any wild brothers to do wicked things, and disgrace the family.”

  “I think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head, as if her experience of life had been a deep one. “Susie Perkins came to school to-day with a lovely red carnelian ring; I wanted it dreadfully, and wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr. Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies, my eye is upon you!’ coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over it, when all of a sudden his eye was on us, and he ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he did? He took her by the ear, the ear! just fancy how horrid! and led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding that slate so every one could see.”

  “Didn’t the girls shout at the picture?” asked Jo, who relished the scrape.

  “Laugh! not a one; they sat as still as mice, and Susie cried quarts, I know she did. I didn’t envy her then, for I felt that millions of carnelian rings wouldn’t have made me happy after that. I never, ne
ver should have got over such a agonizing mortification;” and Amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue, and the successful utterance of two long words in a breath.

  “I saw something that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at dinner, but I forgot,” said Beth, putting Jo’s topsy-turvy basket in order as she talked. “When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr. Laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn’t see me, for I kept behind a barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter, the fish-man. A poor woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn’t any dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day’s work. Mr. Cutter was in a hurry, and said ‘No,’ rather crossly; so she was going away, looking hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish with the crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She was so glad and surprised she took it right in her arms, and thanked him over and over. He told her to ‘go along and cook it,’ and she hurried off, so happy! wasn’t it nice of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence’s bed in heaven would be ‘aisy.’ ”

  When they had laughed at Beth’s story, they asked their mother for one; and, after a moment’s thought, she said soberly,—

  “As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to-day, at the rooms, I felt very anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do, but I kept on worrying, till an old man came in with an order for some things. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him, for he looked poor, and tired, and anxious.

  “ ‘Have you sons in the army?’ I asked, for the note he brought was not to me.

  “ ‘Yes, ma’am; I had four, but two were killed; one is a prisoner, and I’m going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital,’ he answered, quietly.

  “ ‘You have done a great deal for your country, sir,’ I said, feeling respect now, instead of pity.

  “ ‘Not a mite more than I ought, ma’am. I’d go myself, if I was any use; as I ain’t, I give my boys, and give ’em free.’

  “He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I’d given one man, and thought it too much, while he gave four, without grudging them; I had all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say ‘good-by’ to him, perhaps. I felt so rich, so happy, thinking of my blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me.”

  “Tell another story, mother; one with a moral to it, like this. I like to think about them afterwards, if they are real, and not too preachy,” said Jo, after a minute’s silence.

  Mrs. March smiled, and began at once; for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.

  “Once upon a time there were four girls, who had enough to eat, and drink, and wear; a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents, who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented.” (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) “These girls were anxious to be good, and made many excellent resolutions, but somehow they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, ‘If we only had this,’ or ‘if we could only do that,’ quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many pleasant things they actually could do; so they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.’ ” (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)

  “Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn’t keep shame and sorrow out of rich people’s houses; another that though she was poor, she was a great deal happier with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady, who couldn’t enjoy her comforts; a third, that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to have to go begging for it; and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased; and I believe they were never disappointed, or sorry that they took the old woman’s advice.”

  “Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a ‘spin,’ ” cried Meg.

  “I like that kind of sermon; it’s the sort father used to tell us,” said Beth, thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo’s cushion.

  An experienced seamstress, Alcott sewed for money and made uniforms for Union soldiers in the Civil War. Her sewing kit and pincushion are proudly displayed at Orchard House. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association; photograph by James E. Coutré)

  “I don’t complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more careful than ever now, for I’ve had warning from Susie’s downfall,” said Amy, morally.

  “We needed that lesson, and we won’t forget. If we do, you just say to us as Old Chloe did in Uncle Tom,—‘Tink ob yer marcies, chillen, tink ob yer marcies,’ ”12 added Jo, who could not for the life of her help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them.

  1. “a regular Old Man of the Sea to me.” Jo refers to the fifth voyage of Sinbad in The Thousand and One Nights, in which a strange old man fastens himself on the sailor’s shoulders. Refusing to dismount, the old man beats Sinbad and nearly strangles him. The Old Man of the Sea is thus a metaphor for a seemingly unshakable burden. Jo (and Alcott) might be thinking more specifically of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.’s 1858 poem “The Old Man of the Sea: A Nightmare Dream by Daylight,” which relates the traditional story to the cares and anxieties of modern daily life that can impose a moral paralysis and prevent us from living the kind, dutiful lives that we should. The poem begins:

  Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea?

  Have met with that dreadful old man?

  If you haven’t been caught, you will be, you will be;

  For catch you he must and he can.

  He doesn’t hold on by your throat, by your throat,

  As of old in the terrible tale;

  But he grapples you tight by the coat, by the coat,

  Till its buttons and button-holes fail.

  2. consisting of four spoilt children. At the age of nineteen, Anna Alcott worked as the governess of the children of George Minot. Though Minot has not been clearly identified, he may well have been the George Minot of Concord who was friends with both Emerson and Thoreau. Anna worked for the Minots at a time when, according to Louisa, the Alcotts were “poor as rats & apparently forgotten by every one but the Lord” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 65).

  3. inclined to croak. Here, to complain or to look away from the bright side.

  4. Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend. The poverty of the actual Alcotts did not arise from an injudicious loan. Bronson Alcott was morally opposed to what he saw as the greedy, predatory life of the marketplace and refused to consider performing most kinds of work on ethical grounds. Also, after the collapse of his utopian farm Fruitlands in early 1844, he suffered a breakdown that might have impaired his ability to work, even if he had chosen to.

  5. railroads and bridges with his big dictionaries. It was Bronson Alcott himself, not the made-up Uncle March, who let young Anna and Louisa build towers and other structures with the books in his library (Matteson, Eden’s Outcasts, p. 61).

  6. Belsham’s Essays. William Belsham (1752–1827) was an English political writer perhaps best remembered for coining the word “libertarian.” His Essays, Philosophical, Historical, and Literary, published in two volumes in 1789 and 1791, addressed top
ics ranging from Shakespeare to the British national debt to the immorality of the African slave trade.

  7. her life was a series of ups and downs. From childhood, Alcott struggled to control her fiery temper, which she considered her most troublesome fault. Her father wrote of her when she was quite young, “She follows her impulses, and these are often against the stream of her spirit’s joy. Passion rages within; and Strife enacteth itself without” (A. Bronson Alcott, “Observations on the Spiritual Nurture of My Children,” p. 239, bMS Am 1130.10(6), Houghton Library, Harvard University). Alcott wrote in her journal at age ten: “If I only kept all [the resolutions] I make, I should be the best girl in the world. But I don’t, and so am very bad.” Rereading the passage forty years later, she added, “Poor little sinner. She says the same at fifty” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 45).

  8. cricket on the hearth. Charles Dickens (1812–70) published his Christmas story The Cricket on the Hearth in 1845. It tells of a cricket that acts as a kind of lucky talisman for the honest but needy Peerybingle family.

  9. like poor “Petrea’s.” Petrea is a good-natured, generous girl in Swedish author Frederika Bremer’s The Home, or Family Cares and Family Joys (1839). Petrea is driven close to despair by the hugeness of her nose. Alcott read the book at Fruitlands when she was eleven. Both Anna and Louisa May Alcott, who had long loved Bremer’s works, were thrilled to meet her when Bremer called on Emerson in February 1850. However, Bremer so little resembled the two girls’ mental image of her that both sisters retreated to a closet and cried (Louisa May Alcott, Selected Letters, p. 185).

  10. “Little Raphael.” Amy is likened here to the great painter of the Italian renaissance, Raphael Sanzio (1483–1520). May Alcott was also called “Little Raphael” within her family (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 201).