The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  He did his best, and did it manfully; but I don’t think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child, and home.

  Early as it was, he was at the station, next morning, to see Jo off; and, thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and, best of all, the happy thought,—

  “Well, the winter’s gone, and I’ve written no books—earned no fortune; but I’ve made a friend worth having, and I’ll try to keep him all my life.”

  1. chateau en Espagne. Literally “castle in Spain,” the phrase means a pipe dream.

  2. “Weekly Volcano.” The “Weekly Volcano,” like the “Blarneystone Banner” later in the chapter, is an invention of Alcott’s.

  3. Sartor Resartus. The novel Sartor Resartus (1836) by Scottish essayist, satirist, and biographer Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881) is a work not easily classified. Purporting to be a commentary on the life and opinions of a fictitious German philosopher, Diogenes Teufelsdröckh, the book explores the existential problems of modern living. At once deeply philosophical and bitingly satirical, the book was greatly respected both by Emerson, who oversaw its publication in America, and Herman Melville (1819–91), for whom it served as an inspiration for Moby-Dick (1851).

  4. “Mr. Dashwood.” Mr. Dashwood is likely a parodical composite of various penny-press editors, including Frank Leslie (1821–80), the English-born publisher of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, and other periodicals. Alcott published a number of stories in Leslie’s newspaper, including “Pauline’s Passion and Punishment,” “A Whisper in the Dark,” and “The Fate of the Forrests.”

  5. “no nom de plume.” Alcott, by contrast, made frequent use of noms de plume, most notably A. M. Barnard. She also wrote as Flora Fairfield and Flora Fairchild and may have used other pen names as well.

  6. “under its wing.” Though a similar line appears in Joseph Mather’s 1862 song “Bang Beggar,” no source for Alcott’s exact quotation has been found.

  7. only men and women, after all. Alcott’s own early experience with literary glowworms was not much more inspiring. In January 1862, at which time she was living in the Boston home of publisher James T. Fields, she wrote, “Saw many great people, and found them no bigger than the rest of the world,—often not half so good as some humble soul who made no noise. I learned a great deal in my ways and am not half so much impressed by society as before I got a peep at it. Having known Emerson, [Thomas] Parker, [Wendell] Phillips, and that set of really great and good men and women . . . the mere show people seem rather small and silly, though they shine well, and feel that they are stars” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 108).

  8. “spirit, fire, and dew.” The 1855 poem “Evelyn Hope” by Robert Browning contains the lines, “Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? / What, your soul was pure and true, / The good stars met in your horoscope, / Made you of spirit, fire and dew.”

  9. two decanters. The figure of the great novelist may have been inspired by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1804–64), author of The Scarlet Letter (1850) and The House of the Seven Gables (1851). Hawthorne, who both worked and socialized with James T. Fields, had something of a weakness for alcohol.

  10. famous divine . . . another Corinne. The divine may be based on the famous minister Henry Ward Beecher (1813–87), who was a family friend of James T. Fields and whose career was later besmirched by allegations of adultery with a friend’s wife, Elizabeth Tilton. Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Madame de Staël-Holstein (1766–1817), best remembered as the author of the novel Corinne, exerted strong influence on the Romantic literary movements in Europe and the United States. The eponymous heroine of Corinne is a woman of great independence and genius who became a model of female erudition and forthrightness among Alcott’s parents’ generation. The “Madame de Staël of the age” to whom Alcott refers may have been based on poet Celia Thaxter, whose home supplied a lively salon for such luminaries as Hawthorne, James T. Fields, and John Knowles Paine. Alcott had lunch with Thaxter on November 16, 1868, while in the midst of writing Little Women, Part Second.

  11. Johnsonianly. English author and lexicographer Samuel Johnson (see Part First, Chapter xxi, Note 9) was known as a prodigious consumer of tea. No model for Alcott’s “profound philosopher” has been identified.

  12. Glacial Periods. Alcott’s reference here is almost certainly to the much-revered Swiss-born geologist and anthropologist Louis Agassiz (1807–73), who began a celebrated professorial tenure at Harvard in 1848.

  13. young musician . . . second Orpheus, The musician is possibly based on John Knowles Paine (1839–1906). Paine was the first American composer to win respect as a composer of large-scale concert music. His organ recitals, beginning in 1861, captivated the listening public in Boston and paved the way for an appointment to the Harvard faculty. Orpheus, taught to play the lyre by the god Apollo, is the preeminent human musician of Greek mythology.

  The first famous American composer of symphonic works, John Knowles Paine (1839–1906) is now known chiefly to a relative handful of classical music enthusiasts. (Chronicle / Alamy)

  14. hobby. Here, short for “hobbyhorse,” meaning a subject to which one repeatedly and somewhat tediously returns.

  15. Kant and Hegel. Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) were highly distinguished German idealist philosophers, much read by the New England Transcendentalists. Their work, which remains central to philosophical study, is notoriously difficult to understand.

  Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), who cast new light on the relation between reason and experience, and Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831), who influenced almost every corner of nineteenth-century philosophy. (Left: bpk, Berlin / Schiller-Nationalmuseum und Deutsches Literaturarchiv, Marbach am Neckar, Germany / Lutz Braun / Art Resource, NY; Right: bpk, Berlin / Nationalgalerie, Staatliche Museen, Berlin, Germany / Klaus Goeken / Art Resource, NY)

  16. thank him. Professor Bhaer never more closely resembles Alcott’s father than in this passage. Like Bhaer, Bronson Alcott rejected the idea that religion and philosophy must diverge. In Tablets, he wrote, “Our instincts, faithfully drawn out and cherished by purity of life, lead to Theism as their flower and fruit” (A. Bronson Alcott, Tablets, p. 143). In 1873, he wrote in “Philosophemes,” “Faith suffices where knowledge is wanting. . . . Man is not a terrestrial plant but a celestial, blossoming in time, to ripen its fruit in eternity” (A. Bronson Alcott, “Philosophemes,” Journal of Speculative Philosophy 7, no. 1, p. 48).

  17. but great. Bhaer’s position also resembles that of Emerson, who, at the time of Little Women, was lecturing across New England on “Greatness.” In that lecture, Emerson averred, “Men are ennobled by morals and by intellect: but these two elements know each other and always beckon to each other, until at last they meet in the man, if he is to be truly great.” In the same lecture, Emerson offered the prediction that Alcott quotes here, foretelling “a day when the air of the world shall be purified by nobler society, when the measure of greatness shall be usefulness in the highest sense, greatness consisting in truth, reverence and good will” (Emerson, Letters and Social Aims, pp. 300, 301).

  18. “Death of Wallenstein.” The Death of Wallenstein (1799) is the concluding play in Schiller’s dramatic trilogy inspired by the Bohemian General Albrecht von Wallenstein (1583–1634). The three plays depict the general’s tragic decline, culminating in his assassination.

  19. “Demon of the Jura.” Another invented title.

  20. Mrs. Sherwood . . . Hannah More. Both evangelical Christians, the English authors Mary Martha Sherwood (1775–1851) and Hannah More (1745–1833) wrote pious, morally instructive books for children. For Miss Edgeworth, see Part First, Chapter VIII, Note 2.

  CHAPTER XII.

  Heartache.

  WHATEVER his motive might have been, Laurie “dug” to some p
urpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the Latin Oration with the grace of a Phillips, and the eloquence of a Demosthenes,1—so his friends said. They were all there—his grandfather, oh, so proud! Mr. and Mrs. March, John and Meg, Jo and Beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.

  “I’ve got to stay for this confounded supper,—but I shall be home early to-morrow; you’ll come and meet me as usual, girls?” Laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over. He said “girls,” but he meant Jo,—for she was the only one who kept up the old custom; she had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered, warmly,—

  “I’ll come, Teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing ‘Hail the conquering hero comes,’ on a jews-harp.”2

  Laurie thanked her with a look that made her think, in a sudden panic, “Oh, deary me! I know he’ll say something, and then what shall I do?”

  Evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and, having decided that she wouldn’t be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping Teddy wouldn’t go and make her hurt his poor little feelings. A call at Meg’s, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the Daisy and Demijohn, still further fortified her for the tête-a-tête, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.

  “Where’s the jews-harp, Jo?” cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.

  “I forgot it”; and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like.

  She always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint,—which was a bad sign,—but talked on rapidly about all sorts of far-away subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and, now and then, a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said, hastily,—

  “Now you must have a good, long holiday!”

  “I intend to.”

  Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly, to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring,—

  “No, Teddy,—please don’t!”

  “I will; and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo; we’ve got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.

  “Say what you like, then; I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience.

  Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to “have it out,” if he died in the attempt; so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuosity, saying, in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady,—

  “I’ve loved you ever since I’ve known you, Jo,—couldn’t help it, you’ve been so good to me,—I’ve tried to show it, but you wouldn’t let me; now I’m going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for I can’t go on so any longer.”

  “I wanted to save you this; I thought you’d understand—” began Jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.

  “I know you did; but girls are so queer you never know what they mean. They say No, when they mean Yes; and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it,” returned Laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.

  “I don’t. I never wanted to make you care for me so, and I went away to keep you from it if I could.”

  “I thought so; it was like you, but it was no use. I only loved you all the more, and I worked hard to please you, and I gave up billiards and everything you didn’t like, and waited and never complained, for I hoped you’d love me, though I’m not half good enough—” here there was a choke that couldn’t be controlled, so he decapitated butter-cups while he cleared his “confounded throat.”

  “Yes, you are; you’re a great deal too good for me, and I’m so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, I don’t see why I can’t love you as you want me to. I’ve tried, but I can’t change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say I do when I don’t.”

  “Really, truly, Jo?”

  He stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget.

  “Really, truly, dear!”

  They were in the grove now,—close by the stile; and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too much for him; so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.

  “Oh, Teddy, I’m so sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn’t take it so hard; I can’t help it; you know it’s impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don’t,” cried Jo, inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.

  “They do sometimes,” said a muffled voice from the post.

  “I don’t believe it’s the right sort of love, and I’d rather not try it,” was the decided answer.

  There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said, very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile,—

  “Laurie, I want to tell you something.”

  He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out, in a fierce tone,—

  “Don’t tell me that, Jo; I can’t bear it now!”

  “Tell what?” she asked, wondering at his violence.

  “That you love that old man.”

  “What old man?” demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.

  “That devilish Professor you were always writing about. If you say you love him I know I shall do something desperate”—and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.

  Jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself, and said, warmly, for she, too, was getting excited with all this,—

  “Don’t swear, Teddy! He isn’t old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend I’ve got—next to you. Pray don’t fly into a passion; I want to be kind, but I know I shall get angry if you abuse my Professor. I haven’t the least idea of loving him, or anybody else.”

  “But you will after a while, and then what will become of me?”

  “You’ll love some one else, too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble.”

  “I can’t love any one else; and I’ll never forget you, Jo, never! never!” with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.

  Jo’s rejection of Laurie has become a favorite scene for filmmakers and visual artists alike. The two characters’ heartache is seen here through the eyes of director Gillian Armstrong (Photofest) and illustrators Alice Barber Stephens and Jessie Wilcox Smith.

  “What shall I do with him?” sighed Jo, finding that emotions were more unmanageable than she expected. “You haven’t heard what I wanted to tell you. Sit down and listen; for indeed I want to do right, and make you happy,” she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason,—which proved that she knew nothing about love.

  Seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, Laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face. Now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on Jo’s part; for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him? She gently turned
his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake,—how touching that was to be sure!—

  “I agree with mother, that you and I are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to—” Jo paused a little over the last word, but Laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression,—

  “Marry,—no we shouldn’t! If you loved me, Jo, I should be a perfect saint,—for you can make me anything you like!”

  “No I can’t. I’ve tried it and failed, and I won’t risk our happiness by such a serious experiment. We don’t agree, and we never shall; so we’ll be good friends all our lives, but we won’t go and do anything rash.”

  “Yes, we will if we get the chance,” muttered Laurie, rebelliously.

  “Now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case,” implored Jo, almost at her wit’s end.

  “I won’t be reasonable; I don’t want to take what you call ‘a sensible view’; it won’t help me, and it only makes you harder. I don’t believe you’ve got any heart.”

  “I wish I hadn’t!”

  There was a little quiver in Jo’s voice, and, thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before,—

  “Don’t disappoint us, dear! every one expects it. Grandpa has set his heart upon it,—your people like it,—and I can’t get on without you. Say you will, and let’s be happy! do, do!”

  Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could. It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

  “I can’t say ‘Yes’ truly, so I won’t say it at all. You’ll see that I’m right, by and by, and thank me for it”—she began, solemnly.