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.
Jo (Katharine Hepburn) with a frosty friend. (Photofest)
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 uncommonly plummy 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 Afghan1 round her chilly shoulders, and a Christmas carol issuing from her lips, on a pink paper streamer:—
“THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH.2
“God bless you, dear Queen Bess!3
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. 2,4
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 Blanc5 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 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.”6
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;7 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,8 muttering to herself, as she slammed the door, “I hate estimable young men with brown eyes!”
In the last of May Alcott’s illustrations for Little Women, Beth runs to greet her long-absent father.
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,9 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 raisens, 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.
&nb
sp; “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 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 prink at 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’ today, how, after many troubles, Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow,10 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:—11
“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!”12
1. Afghan. A blanket or wrap of knitted or crocheted wool.
2. “THE JUNGFRAU TO BETH.” “Jungfrau” is German for “young woman” or “maiden”; also a snow-covered peak in the Swiss Alps. The poem as a whole loosely imitates the Christmas carol “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
3. “dear Queen Bess!” Jo and Laurie ironically liken the shy, demure Beth to the bold, imperious Queen Elizabeth I, who ruled England from 1558 to 1603.
4. “By Raphael No. 2.” Raphael No. 2 is a nickname for Amy. See Part First, Chapter IV, Note 10.
5. “Mont Blanc.” The tallest of the Alps.
6. “Christmas present for the March family.” Alcott’s own homecoming from the Civil War was less joyful. Still critically ill, she came home, as she put it in her journal “all blauzed crazy & weak.” In her delirium, she thought “that the house was roofless & no one wanted to see me” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 116). She continued to hallucinate for three weeks. Poisoned by the calomel treatment she was given, Alcott never permanently recovered her full health.
7. Mr. March became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms. After having been absent throughout the novel to this point, Mr. March’s first act is to vanish again. Alcott felt highly protective of her father, who had often been the subject of public scorn, and the all but smothering embrace of Mr. March’s daughters may indicate the extent of Alcott’s desire to shield her own father from the curiosity and judgments of onlookers.
8. beef tea. The following recipe for beef tea was published in 1844:
BEEF TEA.—Cut a pound of the lean of fresh juicy beef into small thin slices, and sprinkle them with a very little salt. Put the meat into a wide-mouthed glass or stone jar closely corked, and set in a kettle or pan of water, which must be made to boil, and kept boiling hard round the jar for an hour or more. Then take out the jar and strain the essence of the beef into a bowl (Leslie, Directions for Cookery, p. 414).
9. plum-pudding. The following recipe for plum pudding comes from the same source as above:
A BAKED PLUM PUDDING.—Grate all the crumb of a stale six-cent loaf; boil a quart of rich milk, and pour it boiling hot over the grated bread; cover it, and let it steep for an hour; then set it out to cool. In the meantime prepare a half a pound of currants, picked, washed, and dried; half a pound of raisins, stoned and cut in half; and a quarter of a pound of citron cut in large slips; also, two nutmegs beaten to a powder; and a table-spoonful of mace and cinnamon powdered and mixed together. Crush with a rolling-pin half a pound of sugar, and cut up half a pound of butter. When the bread and milk is uncovered to cool, mix with it the butter, sugar, spice and citron; adding a glass of brandy, and a glass of white wine. Beat eight eggs very light, and when the milk is quite c
old, stir them gradually into the mixture. Then add, by degrees, the raisins and currants, (which must be previously dredged with flour,) and stir the whole very hard. Put it into a buttered dish, and bake it two hours. Send it to table warm, and eat it with wine sauce, or with wine and sugar only. In making this pudding, you may substitute for the butter, half a pound of beef suet minced as fine as possible. It will be found best to prepare the ingredients the day before, covering them closely and putting them away.
10. “Christian and Hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow.” Beth refers to an episode near the end of Part One of The Pilgrim’s Progress in which Christian and Hope “were got over the Inchanted Ground, and entering into the Country of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant, . . . solaced themselves for a season.”
11. fitting song for her. In Part Two of The Pilgrim’s Progress, Christiana and her children encounter a shepherd’s boy “in very mean cloaths, but of a very fresh and well-favoured countenance.” Though Alcott varies a word or two, Beth’s song is almost identical to that of the shepherd’s boy. The song alludes in turn to Philippians 4:12–13 and Hebrews 13:5. When she was eleven and living at Fruitlands, Alcott copied a portion of this song into her journal.
12. “Is best from age to age!” Alcott’s initial manuscript for Part First ended here. However, Thomas Niles, her editor, his thoughts already focused on a sequel, asked her to add one more chapter, “in which allusions might be made to something in the future.”
The Annotated Little Women Page 38
