The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  “ ‘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 is 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 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.”

  In the 1933 film, Jo (Katharine Hepburn) surrenders her “one beauty.” (Photofest)

  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.

  A lock of Alcott’s hair from the collections at Orchard House. Upon losing her hair because of the illness she developed as an army nurse, Alcott wrote, “A wig outside is better than a loss of wits inside.” (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association)

  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 smilingly, 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 coverlid8 here, setting 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 heart! there is always light behind the clouds.”

  1. “That’s the reason I was born in it.” Alcott was, indeed, a November baby. Both she and her father were born on November 29—he in 1799, she in 1832. In her journal, she called November “the dullest month in the year” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 75). November 1862, the month that corresponds to this time in Little Women, was the month when Alcott turned thirty and thus became eligible to serve as a nurse in the Union’s Army of the Potomac. She applied for a position immediately.

  2. “a blaze of splendor and elegance.” Alcott’s earliest novel, The Inheritance, which was not published until the late 1990s, offers up a similar plot. The newly wealthy heroine, however, forgives those who have offended her instead of scorning them.

  3. “Blank Hospital, Washington.” The Alcotts received a similar telegram on January 14, 1863. Louisa, who had been serving as a nurse for a month at the Union Hotel Hospital in Georgetown, had contracted typhoid pneumonia and was dangerously ill. Bronson Alcott took the next available train in an effort to save her. After being brought home to Concord, Louisa was delirious for three weeks and nearly died. The hospital matron who sent the telegram, Hannah Ropes, died of the same disease that nearly claimed Alcott.

  4. all her abundant hair was cut short. The sale of Jo’s hair is Alcott’s cleverest revision of the real story of her family’s involvement in the Civil War. After contracting typhoid pneumonia, Louisa was treated with a mercury compound called calomel, which poisoned her and caused her hair to fall out. Thus, both Louisa and Jo lost their hair in the fight for freedom and union, but in distinctly different fashions.

  5. “Oh, Jo, how could you? Your one beauty.” Alcott likewise mourned the loss of her hair as the sacrifice of her “one beauty” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 117).

  6. “which will be boyish.” Jo’s loss of her hair is another partial casting aside of her female identity.

  7. “ask for a ninepence.” “Ninepence” is a New England name for a Spanish real, valued at twelve and a half cents.

  8. coverlid. An archaic term for coverlet, or bedspread.

  CHAPTER 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, showing them how rich in sunshine their lives had been. The little books were full of help and comfort; and, as they dressed, they agreed to say good-by cheerfully, 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 roller1 more than once, and the little girls’ young faces 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;2 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,”3 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.

  “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 train4 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.”5

  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 old 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 ’em, 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 busily 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!’ ”