“Oh, Beth, and you didn’t tell me,—didn’t let me comfort and help you! How could you shut me out, and bear it all alone?”
Jo’s voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while Beth learned to say good-by to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.
“Perhaps it was wrong, but I tried to do right; I wasn’t sure, no one said anything, and I hoped I was mistaken. It would have been selfish to frighten you all when Marmee was so anxious about Meg, and Amy away, and you so happy with Laurie,—at least I thought so then.”
“And I thought that you loved him, Beth, and I went away because I couldn’t,” cried Jo,—glad to say all the truth.
Beth looked so amazed at the idea, that Jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added, softly,—
“Then you didn’t, deary? I was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of love-lornity all that while.”
“Why, Jo! how could I, when he was so fond of you?” asked Beth, as innocently as a child. “I do love him dearly; he is so good to me, how can I help it? But he never could be anything to me but my brother. I hope he truly will be, some time.”
“Not through me,” said Jo, decidedly. “Amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently,—but I have no heart for such things now. I don’t care what becomes of anybody but you, Beth. You must get well.”
“I want to,—oh, so much! I try, but every day I lose a little, and feel more sure that I shall never gain it back. It’s like the tide, Jo, when it turns,—it goes slowly, but it can’t be stopped.”
“It shall be stopped,—your tide must not turn so soon,—nineteen is too young.3 Beth, I can’t let you go. I’ll work, and pray, and fight against it. I’ll keep you in spite of everything; there must be ways,—it can’t be too late. God won’t be so cruel as to take you from me,” cried poor Jo, rebelliously,—for her spirit was far less piously submissive than Beth’s.
Simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety; it shows itself in acts, rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations. Beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death. Like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to God and nature, Father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come. She did not rebuke Jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our Father never means us to be weaned, but through which He draws us closer to Himself. She could not say, “I’m glad to go,” for life was very sweet to her; she could only sob out, “I’ll try to be willing,” while she held fast to Jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.
By and by Beth said, with recovered serenity,—
“You’ll tell them this, when we go home?”
“I think they will see it without words,” sighed Jo; for now it seemed to her that Beth changed every day.
“Perhaps not; I’ve heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things. If they don’t see it, you will tell them for me. I don’t want any secrets, and it’s kinder to prepare them. Meg has John and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and mother, won’t you, Jo?”
“If I can, but, Beth, I don’t give up yet; I’m going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it’s true,” said Jo, trying to speak cheerfully.
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way,—
“I don’t know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to any one but you, because I can’t speak out, except to my old Jo. I only mean to say, that I have a feeling that it never was intended4 I should live long. I’m not like the rest of you; I never made any plans about what I’d do when I grew up; I never thought of being married, as you all did. I couldn’t seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems as if I should be homesick for you even in heaven.”
Jo could not speak; and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind, and the lapping of the tide. A white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast; Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness. A little gray-coated sand-bird came tripping over the beach, “peeping” softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea; it came quite close to Beth, looked at her with a friendly eye, and sat upon a warm stone dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth smiled, and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship, and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.
“Dear little bird! See, Jo, how tame it is. I like peeps better than the gulls, they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them my birds, last summer; and mother said they reminded her of me—busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone. Meg is the turtledove, and Amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! she’s so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again, but she seems so far away.”
“She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I’m going to have you well and rosy, by that time,” began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful Beth.
“Jo, dear, don’t hope any more; it won’t do any good, I’m sure of that. We won’t be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait. We’ll have happy times, for I don’t suffer much, and I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me.”
Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face; and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.
She was right—there was no need of any words when they got home, for father and mother saw plainly, now, what they had prayed to be saved from seeing. Tired with her short journey, Beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be at home; and when Jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling Beth’s secret. Her father stood leaning his head on the mantle-piece, and did not turn as she came in; but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and Jo went to comfort her without a word.
1. pathetic beauty. After Lizzie Alcott had spent three weeks at the seashore in August 1857, her father found her “slightly thinner, her countenance paler perhaps and more elongated, but . . . on the whole looking not for the worse.” Yet, he added, “the case is a critical one and there is also a dark side to the prospect” (A. Bronson Alcott, Letters, p. 250). The next day, his tone grew graver: “ ’Tis manifest that Elisabeth [sic] has gained very little from the Sea-Airs. . . . The Eye falling upon her wasted form scarcely dares to hope for her continuance long” (A. Bronson Alcott, Letters, p. 251). In September, Louisa thought Lizzie was “failing fast.” In October, she called her sister “a shadow” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 85).
2. sea-breezes. Louisa never went to the seashore with Lizzie during her sister’s illness.
3. nineteen is too young. During the months of her slow decline, Lizzie Alcott was twenty-two.
4. never was intended. Evidently having little regard for her function as the “angel of the house,” Lizzie Alcott believed that she could “best be spared of the four” (A. Bronson Alcott, Journals, p. 304).
CHAPTER XIV.
New Impressions.
AT three o’clock in the afternoon, all th
e fashionable world at Nice may be seen on the Promenade des Anglais—a charming place; for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills.1 Many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn; and, on a sunny day, the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival. Haughty English, lively French, sober Germans, handsome Spaniards, ugly Russians,2 meek Jews, free-and-easy Americans,—all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticising the latest celebrity who has arrived—Ristori or Dickens, Victor Emanuel or the Queen of the Sandwich Islands.3 The equipages are as varied as the company, and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches4 in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.
Along this walk, on Christmas day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance. He looked like an Italian, was dressed like an Englishman, and had the independent air of an American—a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their button-holes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches. There were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl or lady in blue. Presently he strolled out of the promenade, and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the Jardin Publique, or to wander along the beach toward Castle Hill.5 The quick trot of ponies’ feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single lady, came rapidly down the street. The lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue. He stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
In her travels in southern France, Alcott evidently crossed paths with Emma Kalanikaumaka'amano Kaleleonaˉlani Na'ea (1836–1885), the dowager queen of Hawai’i. (Private Collection / The Stapleton Collection / Bridgeman Images)
“Oh Laurie! is it really you? I thought you’d never come!” cried Amy, dropping the reins, and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a French mamma, who hastened her daughter’s steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these “mad English.”6
“I was detained by the way, but I promised to spend Christmas with you, and here I am.”
“How is your grandfather? When did you come? Where are you staying?”
“Very well—last night—at the Chauvain.7 I called at your hotel, but you were all out.”
“Mon Dieu! I have so much to say, and don’t know where to begin. Get in, and we can talk at our ease; I was going for a drive, and longing for company. Flo’s saving up for to-night.”
“What happens, then—a ball?”
“A Christmas party at our hotel. There are many Americans there, and they give it in honor of the day. You’ll go with us, of course? aunt will be charmed.”
“Thank you! where now?” asked Laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited Amy, who preferred to drive; for her parasol-whip and blue reins, over the white ponies’ backs, afforded her infinite satisfaction.
“I’m going to the banker’s first, for letters, and then to Castle Hill;8 the view is so lovely, and I like to feed the peacocks. Have you ever been there?”
“Often, years ago; but I don’t mind having a look at it.”
“Now tell me all about yourself. The last I heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from Berlin.”
“Yes, I spent a month there, and then joined him in Paris, where he has settled for the winter. He has friends there, and finds plenty to amuse him; so I go and come, and we get on capitally.”
While in Nice, Alcott was familiar with both the Avenue de la Gare (top) and the Place Massena, shown here as they looked at the time. (Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division)
“That’s a sociable arrangement,” said Amy, missing something in Laurie’s manner, though she couldn’t tell what.
“Why, you see he hates to travel, and I hate to keep still; so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble. I am often with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while I like to feel that some one is glad to see me when I get back from my wanderings. Dirty old hole, isn’t it?” he added, with a sniff of disgust, as they drove along the boulevard to the Place Napoleon,9 in the old city.
“The dirt is picturesque, so I don’t mind. The river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight. Now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass; it’s going to the Church of St. John.”10
While Laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue, chanting as they walked, Amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she couldn’t find the merry-faced boy she left, in the moody-looking man beside her. He was handsomer than ever, and greatly improved, she thought; but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless—not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him. She couldn’t understand it, and did not venture to ask questions; so she shook her head, and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the Paglioni bridge, and vanished in the church.
“Que pensez vous?”11 she said, airing her French, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.
“That mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming,” replied Laurie, bowing, with his hand on his heart, and an admiring look.
She blushed with pleasure, but, somehow, the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was “altogether jolly,” with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head. She didn’t like the new tone; for though not blasé, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.
“If that’s the way he’s going to grow up, I wish he’d stay a boy,” she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort; trying, meantime, to seem quite easy and gay.
At Avigdor’s she found the precious home-letters, and, giving the reins to Laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea-roses bloomed as freshly as in June.
“Beth is very poorly, mother says. I often think I ought to go home, but they all say ‘stay’; so I do, for I shall never have another chance like this,” said Amy, looking sober over one page.
“I think you are right, there; you could do nothing at home,12 and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear.”
He drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self, as he said that; and the fear that sometimes weighed on Amy’s heart was lightened,—for the look, the act, the brotherly “my dear,” seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land. Presently she laughed, and showed him a small sketch of Jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, “Genius burns!”
Laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket “to keep it from blowing away,” and listened with interest to the lively letter Amy read him.
“This will be a regularly merry Christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night,” said Amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed. While Amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, Laurie looked at
her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought. He found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve; for, overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance. Always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was; but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.
Laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene.
As they came up on to the stone plateau that crowns the hill, Amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there,—
“Do you remember the Cathedral and the Corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay,13 and the lovely road to Villa Franca, Schubert’s Tower,14 just below, and, best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is Corsica?”
“I remember; it’s not much changed,” he answered, without enthusiasm.
“What Jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!” said Amy, feeling in good spirits, and anxious to see him so also.
“Yes,” was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even Napoleon now made interesting in his sight.15
“Take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while,” said Amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk.
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