The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  11. “ ‘Vicar of Wakefield.’ ” Alcott read Oliver Goldsmith’s novel The Vicar of Wakefield (1766) at age ten while the Alcotts lived at Fruitlands. The novel concerns the adventures of a country minister, Dr. Primrose, and his family, who, like the Marches, are virtuously poor. The episode to which Jo alludes takes place in Chapter Three, when Mr. Burchell rescues the vicar’s daughter, Sophia, from drowning.

  12. “ ‘Tink ob yer marcies, chillen, tink ob yer marcies.’ ” Jo exaggerates the dialect and misattributes a quotation from Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It is Tom, not Chloe, who advises, “Let’s think on our marcies!” after his master, Mr. Shelby, has sold him to a slave trader. Chloe, in fact, sees “no marcy in’t” and bitterly protests her husband’s betrayal (Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, p. 117).

  CHAPTER V.

  Being Neighborly.

  “WHAT in the world are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg, one snowy afternoon, as her sister came clumping 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,”1 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.2 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 lately seen, 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 don’t know what’s good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. He needs a lot 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?”

  Laurie opened the window and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven,—

  “Better, thank you. I’ve had a horrid 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 me,” 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.”3

  With that, Jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her. Laurie was in a little 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;4 she makes it very nice, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting. I knew you’d shout 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.5

  “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 stood 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,—

  Jo (Hepburn) and Laurie (Douglass Montgomery) square off in a lobby card for Little Women (1933). (Photofest)

  “How kind you are! Yes, that’s what it wanted. Now please take the big chair, and let me d
o 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 brown 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 don’t look it; 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 ain’t 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 don’t mind much what happens outside. Mr. Brooke, my tutor, don’t stay here, you know, and I have no one to go round with me, so I just stop at home and get on as I can.”

  As a boy, John Bridge Pratt (1833–70) lived with his family at the Utopian community known as Brook Farm. He married Anna Alcott in 1860 and was the inspiration for John Brooke in Little Women. (Louisa May Alcott Association)

  “That’s bad; you ought to make a dive, and go visiting everywhere you are asked; then you’ll have lots 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 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,6 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.

  “Oh! that does me lots 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,7 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 depths 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 g
ood 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.”

  “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.”