The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.

  “Now I call that lovely of her, don’t you?” cried one girl.

  May’s answer was inaudible; but another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable laugh, “Very lovely; for she knew she wouldn’t sell them at her own table.”

  Now that was hard; when we make little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated, at least; and for a minute Amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward. But it is,—as she presently discovered; for her spirits began to rise, and her table to blossom under her skilful hands; the girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.

  It was a very long day, and a hard one to Amy, as she sat behind her table often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon; few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night.

  The Art table was the most attractive in the room; there was a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important faces and rattling money-boxes. Amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It might seem no hardship to some of us; but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying; and the thought of being found there in the evening by her family, and Laurie and his friends, made it a real martyrdom.

  She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea, Beth helped her dress, and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting, darkly, that the tables were about to be turned.

  “Don’t do anything rude, pray, Jo; I won’t have any fuss made, so let it all pass, and behave yourself,” begged Amy, as she departed early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little table.

  “I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible. Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we’ll have a good time yet,” returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.

  “Is that my boy?”

  “As sure as this is my girl!” and Laurie tucked her hand under his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

  “Oh, Teddy, such doings!” and Jo told Amy’s wrongs with sisterly zeal.

  “A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by and by, and I’ll be hanged if I don’t make them buy every flower she’s got, and camp down before her table afterward,” said Laurie, espousing her cause with warmth.

  “The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time. I don’t wish to be unjust or suspicious, but I shouldn’t wonder if they never came at all. When people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another,” observed Jo, in a disgusted tone.

  “Didn’t Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to.”

  “I didn’t know that; he forgot, I suppose; and, as your grandpa was poorly, I didn’t like to worry him by asking, though I did want some.”

  “Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking? They are just as much yours as mine; don’t we always go halves in everything?” began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo turn thorny.

  “Gracious! I hope not! half of some of your things wouldn’t suit me at all. But we mustn’t stand philandering here; I’ve got to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid; and if you’ll be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the Hall, I’ll bless you forever.”

  “Couldn’t you do it now?” asked Laurie, so suggestively that Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, “Go away, Teddy; I’m busy.”

  Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a lovely basket arranged in his best manner for a centre-piece; then the March family turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring Amy’s taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and, out of gratitude, if nothing more, was as sprightly and gracious as possible,—coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.

  Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety; and when Amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself for her share of the ill-feeling, and resolved to exonerate Amy as soon as possible; she also discovered what Amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As she passed the Art table, she glanced over it for her sister’s things, but saw no signs of them. “Tucked away out of sight, I dare say,” thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered to her family.

  “Good evening, Miss Jo; how does Amy get on?” asked May, with a conciliatory air,—for she wanted to show that she also could be generous.

  “She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you know, ‘especially to gentlemen.’ ”

  Jo couldn’t resist giving that little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.

  “Is Amy’s illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to buy that for father;” said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister’s work.

  “Everything of Amy’s sold long ago; I took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us,” returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations as well as Amy that day.

  Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news; and Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May’s words and manner.

  “Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine—especially the Art-table,” she said, ordering out “Teddy’s Own,” as the girls called the college friends.

  “ ‘Charge, Chester, charge!’ is the motto for that table; but do your duty like men, and you’ll get your money’s worth of art in every sense of the word,” said the irrepressible Jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.

  “To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May,” said little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said: “Very well, my son, for a small boy!” and walked him off with a paternal pat on the head.

  “Buy the vases,” whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy’s head.

  To May’s great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filagree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.

  Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.

  The fair was pronounced a success; and when May bid Amy “good-night,�
� she did not “gush,” as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said, “Forgive and forget.” That satisfied Amy; and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney-piece, with a great bouquet in each. “The reward of merit for a magnanimous March,” as Laurie announced with a flourish.

  “You’ve a deal more principle, and generosity, and nobleness of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You’ve behaved sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart,” said Jo, warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.

  “Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long, and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things. I don’t believe I could have done it as kindly as you did,” added Beth, from her pillow.

  “Why, girls, you needn’t praise me so; I only did as I’d be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do it as far as I know how. I can’t explain exactly, but I want to be above the little meannesses, and follies, and faults that spoil so many women. I’m far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is.”

  Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug,—

  “I understand now what you mean, and I’ll never laugh at you again. You are getting on faster than you think, and I’ll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you’ve learned the secret, I believe. Try away, deary, you’ll get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than I shall.”

  A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March’s face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it, that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.

  “Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants—”

  “Me to go with her!” burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.

  “No, dear, not you, it’s Amy.”2

  “Oh, mother! she’s too young; it’s my turn first; I’ve wanted it so long—it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid—I must go.”

  “I’m afraid it’s impossible, Jo; aunt says Amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor.”

  “It’s always so; Amy has all the fun, and I have all the work. It isn’t fair, oh, it isn’t fair!” cried Jo, passionately.

  “I’m afraid it is partly your own fault, dear. When aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit; and here she writes as if quoting something you had said,—‘I planned at first to ask Jo; but as “favors burden her,” and she “hates French,” I think I won’t venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her.’ ”

  “Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! why can’t I learn to keep it quiet?” groaned Jo, remembering words which had been her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said, sorrowfully,—

  “I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time; so try to bear it cheerfully, and don’t sadden Amy’s pleasure by reproaches or regrets.”

  “I’ll try,” said Jo, winking hard, as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset. “I’ll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness; but it won’t be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment;” and poor Jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held, with several very bitter tears.

  “Jo, dear, I’m very selfish, but I couldn’t spare you, and I’m glad you ain’t going quite yet,” whispered Beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face, that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.

  By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation; not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at Amy’s good fortune. The young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy,3 went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports, to those less absorbed in visions of art than herself.

  Jo (Katharine Hepburn) bids Amy (Joan Bennett) a fond farewell in the 1933 film. (Photofest)

  “It isn’t a mere pleasure trip to me, girls,” she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. “It will decide my career; for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it.”

  “Suppose you haven’t?” said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

  “Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,” replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure; but she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.

  “No you won’t; you hate hard work, and you’ll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days,” said Jo.

  “Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don’t believe that one will. I’m sure I wish it would, for if I can’t be an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are,” said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful4 would suit her better than that of a poor drawing teacher.

  “Hum!” said Jo, with a sigh; “if you wish it you’ll have it, for your wishes are always granted—mine never.”

  “Would you like to go?” asked Amy, thoughtfully flattening her nose with her knife.

  “Rather!”

  “Well, in a year or two I’ll send for you, and we’ll dig in the Forum5 for relics, and carry out all the plans we’ve made so many times.”

  “Thank you; I’ll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does,” returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.

  There was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn’t cry any more. Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed; then, just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her, that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob,—

  “Oh, take care of them for me; and if anything should happen—”

  “I will, dear, I will; and if anything happens, I’ll come and comfort you,” whispered Laurie, little dreaming how soon he would be called upon to keep his word.

  So Amy sailed away to find the old world, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.

  1. “as thyself.” This injunction is first stated in the Hebrew Bible—“Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself” (Leviticus 19:18)—and rephrased in the Christian Gospels: “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another, as I have loved you, that ye also love one another” (John 13:34).

  2. “it’s Amy.” When Little Women was published, May Alcott had yet to visit Europe. However, the novel proved prophetic. Alcott’s youngest sister made two trips to the Continent to pursue her artistic ambitions. On the first, in 1870–71, she traveled with Louisa and a wealthy friend named Alice Bartlett. May’s second European trip began on September 9, 1876. She remained there until her death in December 1879.

  3. tidings of great joy. Alcott borrows a phrase from Luke 2:10: “And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to al
l people.”

  4. Lady Bountiful. Lady Bountiful, now a trope for a conspicuously generous woman, was initially a character in The Beaux’ Stratagem, a 1707 comedy by Irish playwright George Farquhar (1677–1707). The phrase can be used in a derogatory sense to describe someone who makes a show of her wealth through ostentations giving.

  5. “Forum.” Built on a former wetland that was drained in the seventh century BCE, the Roman Forum was a plaza surrounded by government buildings in the center of the city. One of the most significant surviving ruins of the ancient world, the Forum is among the leading tourist attractions in Rome.

  The Roman Forum as it appears today. (Sylvain Sonnet / The Image Bank / Getty Images)

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Our Foreign Correspondent.1

  “LONDON.

  “DEAREST PEOPLE:

  “Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel,2 Piccadilly. It’s not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and won’t go anywhere else; however, we don’t mean to stay long, so it’s no great matter. Oh, I can’t begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can, so I’ll only give you bits out of my note-book, for I’ve done nothing but sketch and scribble since I started.“I sent a line from Halifax when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Every one was very kind to me,3 especially the officers. Don’t laugh, Jo, gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one; and as they have nothing to do, it’s a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, I’m afraid.

  “Aunt and Flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when I had done what I could for them, I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly. I wish Beth could have come, it would have done her so much good; as for Jo, she would have gone up and sat on the main-top jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the Captain’s speaking trumpet, she’d have been in such a state of rapture.