The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  But she did not get it; for, though he joined her, and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the continent and been to Greece. So, after idling away an hour, they drove home again; and, having paid his respects to Mrs. Carrol, Laurie left them, promising to return in the evening.

  It must be recorded of Amy, that she deliberately “prinked” that night. Time and absence had done its work on both the young people; she had seen her old friend in a new light,—not as “our boy,” but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight. Amy knew her good points, and made the most of them, with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman.

  Tarlatan and tulle16 were cheap at Nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and, following the sensible English fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective. It must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies. But, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities.

  “I do want him to think I look well, and tell them so at home,” said Amy to herself, as she put on Flo’s old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion,17 out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect. Her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a Hebe-like knot18 at the back of her head.

  “It’s not the fashion, but it’s becoming, and I can’t afford to make a fright of myself,” she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid as the latest style commanded.

  Having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, Amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea,19 and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines. Remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasséd down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.

  “My new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on aunt’s mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress. If I only had a classical nose and mouth I should be perfectly happy,” she said, surveying herself with a critical eye, and a candle in each hand.

  In spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away; she seldom ran,—it did not suit her style, she thought,—for, being tall, the stately and Junoesque20 was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante. She walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for Laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair; then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room,—as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one. It so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for Laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him; and, as she stood at the distant window with her head half turned, and one hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue.

  “Good evening, Diana!”21 said Laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.

  “Good evening, Apollo!”22 she answered, smiling back at him,—for he, too, looked unusually débonnaire,—and the thought of entering the ball-room on the arm of such a personable man, caused Amy to pity the four plain Misses Davis from the bottom of her heart.

  “Here are your flowers! I arranged them myself, remembering that you didn’t like what Hannah calls a ‘sot-bookay,’ ” said Laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in Cardiglia’s window.23

  “How kind you are!” she exclaimed, gratefully; “if I’d known you were coming I’d have had something ready for you to-day,—though not as pretty as this, I’m afraid.”

  “Thank you; it isn’t what it should be, but you have improved it,” he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.

  “Please don’t!”

  “I thought you liked that sort of thing!”

  “Not from you; it doesn’t sound natural, and I like your old bluntness better.”

  “I’m glad of it!” he answered, with a look of relief; then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together, at home.

  The company assembled in the long salle a manger,24 that evening, was such as one sees nowhere but on the continent. The hospitable Americans had invited every acquaintance they had in Nice, and, having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add lustre to their Christmas ball.

  A Russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour, and talk with a massive lady, dressed like Hamlet’s mother, in black velvet, with a pearl bridle under her chin. A Polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him “a fascinating dear,” and a German Serene Something, having come for the supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour. Baron Rothschild’s private secretary,25 a large-nosed Jew, in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master’s name crowned him with a golden halo; a stout Frenchman, who knew the Emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and Lady de Jones, a British matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight. Of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced American girls, handsome, lifeless looking English ditto, and a few plain but piquante French demoiselles. Likewise the usual set of travelling young gentlemen, who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls, and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters.26

  Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she “took the stage” that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ball-room, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort—except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts—and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner, as she passed; which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently; for she danced well, and wanted Laurie to know it; therefore, the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said, in a perfectly tranquil tone,—

  “Do you care to dance?”

  “One usually does at a ball!”

  Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible.

  “I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?”

  “I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely; but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend,” said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.

  “Nice little boy, but rather a short Pole to support the steps of

  ‘A daughter of the gods

  Divinely tall, and most divinely fair,’ ”27

  was all the satisfaction she got, however.

  The set in which they found themselves was composed of English, and Amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the Tarantula28 with a relish. Laurie resigned her to the “nice little boy,” and went to do his duty to Flo, without securing Amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any sign of penitence. She showed him her ball-book29 with demure satisfaction
when he strolled, instead of rushing, up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka-redowa; but his polite regrets didn’t impose upon her, and when she gallopaded away with the Count, she saw Laurie sit down by her aunt, with an actual expression of relief.

  That was unpardonable; and Amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then, when she came to her chaperon, between the dances, for a necessary pin or a moment’s rest. Her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant. Laurie’s eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view; and before the evening was half over, had decided that “little Amy was going to make a very charming woman.”

  It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of every one, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it; everybody danced who could, and those who couldn’t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth. The air was dark with Davises, and many Joneses gambolled like a flock of young giraffes. The golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor, with a dashing Frenchwoman, who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train. The Serene Teuton found the supper-table, and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismaying the garçons by the ravages he committed. But the Emperor’s friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him. The boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold; for, though he “carried weight,” he danced like an india-rubber ball. He ran, he flew, he pranced; his face glowed, his bald head shone, his coat tails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow-men like a French Pickwick without glasses.

  Amy and her Pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm, but more graceful agility; and Laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers, as they flew by, as indefatigably as if winged. When little Vladimir30 finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was “desolated to leave so early,” she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.

  It had been successful; for, at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion. Laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat; and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile,—

  “Ah, I thought that would do him good!”

  “You look like Balzac’s ‘Femme piente par elle même,’ ”31 he said, as he fanned her with one hand, and held her coffee-cup in the other.

  “My rouge won’t come off;” and Amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove, with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright.

  “What do you call this stuff?” he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee.

  “Illusion.”

  “Good name for it; it’s very pretty—new thing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s as old as the hills; you have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now—stupide!”

  “I never saw it on you, before, which accounts for the mistake, you see.”

  “None of that, it is forbidden; I’d rather take coffee than compliments, just now. No, don’t lounge, it makes me nervous.”

  Laurie sat bolt upright, and meekly took her empty plate, feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having “little Amy” order him about; for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irresistible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.

  “Where did you learn all this sort of thing?” he asked, with a quizzical look.

  “As ‘this sort of thing’ is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?” returned Amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.

  “Well—the general air, the style, the self-possession, the—the—illusion—you know,” laughed Laurie, breaking down, and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.

  Amy was gratified, but, of course, didn’t show it, and demurely answered,—

  “Foreign life polishes one in spite of one’s self; I study as well as play; and as for this”—with a little gesture toward her dress—“why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and I am used to making the most of my poor little things.”

  Amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn’t in good taste; but Laurie liked her the better for it, and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers. Amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening, in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.

  1. orchards and the hills. The highly picturesque Promenade des Anglais, a broad walkway adjacent to the beach at Nice on the French Riviera, was constructed in 1821–22 with funding from a consortium of wealthy Englishmen and the labor of local indigent workers. Alcott had stayed in Nice for almost five months during her European tour, arriving in early December 1865 and remaining until May 1, 1866. She wrote in her journal for December of taking “a pleasant drive every day on the Promenade, a wide curving mall along the bay with Hotels & Pensions on one side & a flowery walk on the other. Gay carriages & people always to be seen. Shops full of fine & curious things, picturesque castles, towers & walls on one hill, a lighthouse on each point of the moon-shaped bay, boats & our fleet on the water, gardens, olive & orange trees, queer cactuses & palms all about on the land” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 145). By January, however, Alcott had grown tired of the Promenade, “for every one was on exhibition” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 149).

  2. ugly Russians. While in Nice, Alcott was somewhat predisposed to regard Rus sians as ugly; while at Vevey, her more-than-friend, less-than-lover Ladislas Wisniewski had told her much about Russian atrocities against the Poles during Poland’s recent patriotic uprising, including a massacre in which he claimed that five hundred of his countrymen had been shot for singing their national hymn.

  3. Ristori . . . Sandwich Islands. Adelaide Ristori (1822–1906) was a renowned Italian actress whom Alcott went to see twice during her stay in Nice, first in Ernest Legouvé’s Médée and then in Paolo Giacometti’s Elisabetha Regina d’Inghilterra. Alcott recalled, “Never saw such acting; especially in Queen Bess, it was splendid, & the changes from the young, violent, coquettish woman to the peevish old crone dying with her crown on, vain, ambitious & remorseful” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, pp. 150–51). Victor Emmanuel II of the House of Savoy (1820–78) ruled as king of Sardinia from 1849 to 1861, before becoming king of the newly reunified Italy in 1861. The queen of the Sandwich Islands to whom Alcott refers was the Dowager Queen Emma (1836–85), the widow of Hawaii’s King Kamehameha IV. Queen Emma traveled to England in 1865 to commiserate with Queen Victoria, who was in an extended period of mourning over the passing of Prince Albert. In December, she pressed on to the Riviera, where Alcott happened to be staying at the same time (Kanahele, Emma, p. 207).

  Adelaide Ristori (1822–1906), shown here in the title role of Ernest Legouvé’s Médée, was much admired for her tragic roles. A celebrity of the first magnitude, Ristori gave her name to a variety of products, ranging from candies to mascara and Eau-de-Cologne. (The Library of Nineteent
h-Century Photography)

  4. barouches. A barouche is a four-wheeled carriage of German origin, widely known as “German wagons.”

  5. Jardin Publique . . . Castle Hill. The Jardin Publique (“Public Garden”) has long attracted visitors with its laurels, palms, and myrtles. When Alcott stayed in Nice in 1866, she enjoyed the view of the city from Castle Hill, a 315-foot eminence that had been the site of a château that stood from the thirteenth to the eighteenth century but which by Alcott’s time had been converted into a handsome park known as the Parc du Château.

  6. “mad English.” Alcott is likely referring to Hamlet, act 5, scene 1, in which the First Clown says that Hamlet has been sent to England to cure his madness and then observes that, if the remedy fails, it won’t matter because “there the men are as mad as he.”

  7. “the Chauvain.” Perhaps remembering the Rue Chauvain in Nice, Alcott may have meant to say the Hotel Chauvat, mentioned in Charles Bertram Black’s Guide to France, Belgium, Holland, and the Rhine (London: Sampson Low, 1874), p. 545. While in Nice, Alcott first resided at the Pension Milliet on the Rue Saint-Étienne.

  8. “then to Castle Hill.” Amy would likely have mounted the hill by carriage along the Avenue Montfort.

  9. “Place Napoleon.” Built toward the end of the eighteenth century, the large city square known as the Place Napoléon was renamed the Place Garibaldi only a year after the publication of Little Women, Part Second, in honor of the Italian patriot Giuseppe Garibaldi, a native of Nice.

  10. “Church of St. John.” Also known as L’Église du Voeu (“the Church of the Vow”), the Church of Saint Jean Baptiste is a neoclassical church built between 1836 and 1852 in fulfillment of a promise to the Virgin, in exchange for her having protected the city during an outbreak of cholera.

  The Église du Voeu, also known as the Church of Notre-Dame-des-Grâces and the Church of St. John the Baptist, remains active to this day. (© pixs:sell / Fotolia.com)