The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie,9 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 ear-rings 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 the jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.10

  “While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt, and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Put your silver butterfly in the middle of that white barbe,11 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.

  “I’m afraid to go down, I feel so queer and stiff, and half-dressed,” said Meg to Sallie, as the bell rang, and Mrs. Moffat sent to ask the young ladies to appear at once.

  “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 sofas, and criticised the rest of the party, inquired who she was, with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them,—

  Still developing as an artist, May Alcott seems to have had particular trouble with this first-edition illustration of Meg at Vanity Fair.

  “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 ear-rings 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, for 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 about 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 spoilt her entirely; she’s nothing but a doll, to-night.”

  “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 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 don’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 practised 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 to-night. 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 nice, 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 don’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 supper-time, 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 to-morrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldn’t, Meg; your mother don’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, to-night; I’m ‘a doll,’ who does all sorts of crazy things. To-morrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers,’ and be desperately good again,” she answered, with an affected little laugh.

  “Wish to-morrow 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 à la mort,”12 replied Laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.

  This little bit of by-play 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 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 rigged 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.13

  “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.14 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 trust and hope 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.

  1. Meg Goes to Vanity Fair. In The Pilgrim’s Progress, the town of Vanity hosts a fair where every kind of merchandise is sold, including kingdoms, lusts, pleasures, whores, wives, husbands, children, bodies, and souls. Because they seek to buy only truth, Christian and his companion Faithful are arrested. Faithful is tried and tortured to death for his heresies against the wicked “faith” of the fair-goers.