11. “Que pensez vous?” “What are you thinking?”
12. “could do nothing at home.” May Alcott was at home during her sister Lizzie’s illness, assisted in her care, and was with her when she died. Ironically, however, years after the publication of Little Women, May was in Europe studying art during her mother’s last illness, and, like the Marches in her novel, Alcott urged her sister to remain overseas and keep following her dream.
13. “nets in the bay.” Alcott’s journal of her time in Nice notes a visit to the “Villa Franco in a lovely little bay” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 150).
14. “Shubert’s Tower.” There is no Schubert’s Tower in Nice. However, Schubert’s French contemporary Hector Berlioz (1803–69) wrote his King Lear Overture while staying at the Bellanda Tower in Nice in 1831.
15. in his sight. Napoléon Bonaparte (1769–1821) was born in Ajaccio, Corsica.
16. Tarlatan and tulle. For tarlatan, see Part First, Chapter IX, Note 2. Tulle is a very fine, lightweight netting. Now also made from artificial fibers, it was traditionally made of silk.
17. illusion. A thin, transparent tulle, also known as zephyr.
18. Hebe-like knot. Hebe, Greek goddess of youth, was also a cupbearer for the other gods. She is often depicted with her hair wound into a compact knot, as in the accompanying illustration.
(bpk, Belin / Staatliche Museen, Berlin, Germany / Klaus Goeken / Art Resource, NY)
19. azalea. Azaleas connote fragile passions, appropriate for Amy’s still-uncertain attraction to Laurie.
20. Junoesque. Reminiscent of Juno, the wife of Jupiter in Roman mythology. To be Junoesque is to be a tall, shapely woman.
21. “Diana!” A daughter of Zeus and Leto, Diana was the ancient Roman goddess of the moon and the hunt. She also personi fied chastity. In likening her to a goddess, Laurie carefully chooses one that shows his respect for Amy’s virtue. In comparing Amy to a Greek goddess, Alcott may have been recalling her sister May’s appearance at a “Grande Masque,” or masquerade ball, in Concord in 1862, where she dressed as the goddess of the dance, wearing “crimson sandals, white gold dress, curly head a la Greek” (Schlesinger, “The Alcotts through Thirty Years,” p. 374).
22. “Apollo!” Apollo was Diana’s twin brother, the god of the sun, and a patron of music and the arts. Like Diana, he is a model of handsome youth and athletic grace.
23. Cardiglia’s window. There is no known record of a Cardiglia’s shop in Nice in the 1860s. Cardiglia is a fine Italian lace, popular at the time. Having been part of Italy for much of its existence, Nice shows many signs of deep Italian influence.
24. salle a manger. French for “dining room.”
25. private secretary. The private secretary to the Baron de Rothschild in 1865 was a career civil servant named Frank Romer (d. 1872).
Better remembered than Frank Romer was his wife, Louise Goode Romer Jopling (1843–1933), one of the most prominent woman artists of her generation, who received strong support from the Baroness de Rothschild. The painting above, Phyllis, ranks among her best. (Russell-Cotes Art Gallery and Museum, Bournemouth, UK / Bridgeman Images)
26. with their daughters. Alcott’s Christmas in Nice was not nearly so glamorous or stimulating as Amy’s. She called it “a dull Christmas within doors though a lovely day without. Windows open, roses blooming, air mild & city gay. With friends, health and a little money how jolly one might be in this perpetual summer” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 148).
27. “ ‘divinely fair.’ ” Alcott quotes from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s early poem “A Dream of Fair Women” (1833).
28. Tarantula. Alcott, or possibly Amy herself, confuses “tarantula” with the tarantella. The latter is an energetic peasant dance, whose name may derive from an Italian old wives’ tale. In one version, it was said that one could counteract the poison in the bite of a tarantula by engaging in frenzied dancing. Another version claims that the dancing is a symptom of the spider’s poisoning. Another explanation of the similarity of the two words is pure coincidence: the spider and the dance are both native to the southern Italian province of Taranto.
29. ball-book. Similar in function to a dance card, a ball-book was like a miniature ledger, listing a social event’s dances in one column and the man with whom the lady was scheduled to dance in another.
30. little Vladimir. Amy’s brief flirtation with “little Vladimir” is perhaps Alcott’s nod to her own brief romance with the dashing young Ladislas Wisniewski.
31. “ ‘Femme piente par elle même.’ ” Alcott’s memory and French both fail her slightly as she tries to reproduce the title of Balzac’s story. Properly written, the phrase is “Femme peinte par elle-même.” Correctly remembered, the story is “La Femme Comme Il Faut,” first published by Balzac in a multi-author collection titled Les Français Peints Par Eux-Mêmes (1839) (The French Painted by Themselves), and revised as “Autre Étude de Femme” (“Another Study of Woman”) in 1842. The woman in Balzac’s tale is described as “so fragile, and so strong, so fair, so artless, pure [and] spotless” that “a man would have endured death to win one of her glances.”
CHAPTER XV.
On the Shelf.
IN France the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when “Vive la liberté”1 becomes their motto. In America, as every one knows, girls early sign a declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with republican zest; but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne, and go into a seclusion almost as close as a French nunnery, though by no means as quiet. Whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, “I’m as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because I’m married.”
An image of Anna Alcott Pratt from the Orchard House collections. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association)
Not being a belle, or even a fashionable lady, Meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old,—for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever.
As she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else. Day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving John to the tender mercies of the help,—for an Irish lady now presided over the kitchen department. Being a domestic man, John decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive; but, as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing, with masculine ignorance, that peace would soon be restored. But three months passed, and there was no return of repose; Meg looked worn and nervous,—the babies absorbed every minute of her time,—the house was neglected,—and Kitty, the cook, who took life “aisy,” kept him on short commons. When he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma; if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a “Hush! they are just asleep after worrying all day.” If he proposed a little amusement at home, “No, it would disturb the babies.” If he hinted at a lecture or concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided—“Leave my children for pleasure, never!” His sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro, in the watches of the night; his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above; and, when he read his paper of an evening, Demi’s colic got into the shipping-list, and Daisy’s fall affected the price of stocks,—for Mrs. Brooke was only interested in domestic news.
The poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife; home was merely a nursery, and the perpetual “hushing” made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of Babydom. He bore it very patie
ntly for six months, and, when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do,—tried to get a little comfort elsewhere. Scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and John fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end. Mrs. Scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable,—and she performed her mission most successfully. The parlor was always bright and attractive, the chess-board ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
John would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely; but as it was, he gratefully took the next best thing, and enjoyed his neighbor’s society.
Meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that John was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children. But by and by, when the teething worry was over, and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss John, and find her work-basket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing-gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender.2 She would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told,—entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain. She was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them, want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of American women,—the teapot,—makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.
“Yes,” she would say, looking in the glass, “I’m getting old and ugly; John don’t find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances. Well, the babies love me; they don’t care if I am thin and pale, and haven’t time to crimp my hair; they are my comfort, and some day John will see what I’ve gladly sacrificed for them,—won’t he, my precious?”
To which pathetic appeal Daisy would answer with a coo, or Demi with a crow, and Meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being. But the pain increased as politics absorbed John, who was always running over to discuss interesting points with Scott, quite unconscious that Meg missed him. Not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was,—for Meg’s drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.
“I wouldn’t tell any one except you, mother; but I really do need advice, for, if John goes on so much longer I might as well be a widow,” replied Mrs. Brooke, drying her tears on Daisy’s bib, with an injured air.
“Goes on how, my dear?” asked her mother, anxiously.
“He’s away all day, and at night, when I want to see him, he is continually going over to the Scotts’. It isn’t fair that I should have the hardest work, and never any amusement. Men are very selfish, even the best of them.”
“So are women; don’t blame John till you see where you are wrong yourself.”
“But it can’t be right for him to neglect me.”
“Don’t you neglect him?”
“Why, mother; I thought you’d take my part!”
“So I do as far as sympathizing goes; but I think the fault is yours, Meg.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Let me show you. Did John ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening,—his only leisure time?”
“No; but I can’t do it now, with two babies to tend.”
“I think you could, dear; and I think you ought. May I speak quite freely, and will you remember that it’s mother who blames as well as mother who sympathizes?”
“Indeed I will! speak to me as if I was little Meg again. I often feel as if I needed teaching more than ever, since these babies look to me for everything.”
Meg drew her low chair beside her mother’s, and, with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever.
“You have only made the mistake that most young wives make,—forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children. A very natural and forgivable mistake, Meg, but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways; for children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you,—as if they were all yours, and John had nothing to do but support them. I’ve seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right, in time.”
Anna Pratt toward the end of her life. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association)
“I’m afraid it won’t. If I ask him to stay he’ll think I’m jealous; and I wouldn’t insult him by such an idea. He don’t see that I want him, and I don’t know how to tell him without words.”
“Make it so pleasant he won’t want to go away. My dear, he’s longing for his little home; but it isn’t home without you, and you are always in the nursery.”
“Oughtn’t I to be there?”
“Not all the time; too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything. Besides, you owe something to John as well as to the babies; don’t neglect husband for children,—don’t shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it. His place is there as well as yours, and the children need him; let him feel that he has his part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all.”
“You really think so, mother?”
“I know it, Meg, for I’ve tried it; and I seldom give advice unless I’ve proved its practicability. When you and Jo were little, I went on just as you do, feeling as if I didn’t do my duty unless I devoted myself wholly to you. Poor father took to his books, after I had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone.3 I struggled along as well as I could, but Jo was too much for me. I nearly spoilt her by indulgence. You were poorly, and I worried about you till I fell sick myself. Then father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that I saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him since. That is the secret of our home happiness; he does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, and I try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits. Each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together, always.”
“It is so, mother; and my great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours. Show me how; I’ll do anything you say.”
“You always were my docile daughter. Well, dear, if I were you I’d let John have more to do with the management of Demi,—for the boy needs training, and it’s none too soon to begin. Then I’d do what I have often proposed,—let Hannah come and help you; she is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework. You need the exercise, Hannah would enjoy the rest, and John would find his wife again. Go out more; keep cheerful as well as busy,—for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather. Then I’d try to take an interest in whatever John likes, talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way. Don’t shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world’s work, for it all affects you and yours.”
“John is so sensible, I’m afraid he will think I’m stupid if I ask questions about politics and things.”
“I don’t believe he would; love covers a multitude of sins,4 and of whom could you ask more freely than of him? Try it, and see if he doesn’t find your society far more agreeable than Mrs. Scott’s suppers.”
“I will. Poor John! I’m afraid I have neglected him sadly, but I thought I was right, and he never said anything.”
“He tried not to
be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, I fancy. This is just the time, Meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together; for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it; and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents, as the first years of the little lives given them to train. Don’t let John be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation, than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should. Now, dear, good-by; think over mother’s preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and God bless you all!”
Meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it. Of course, the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted. Mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse, by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son. For Demi inherited a trifle of his sire’s firmness of character—we won’t call it obstinacy—and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men could not change that pertinacious little mind. Mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience; so Master Demi early discovered, that when he undertook to “wrastle” with “parpar,” he always got the worst of it; yet, like the Englishman, Baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father, whose grave, “No, no” was more impressive than all the mother’s love pats.
A few days after the talk with her mother, Meg resolved to try a social evening with John; so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment. But, unfortunately, Demi’s most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage; so poor Meg sung and rocked, told stories, and tried every sleep-provoking wile she could devise, but all in vain—the big eyes wouldn’t shut; and long after Daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty Demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance.
The Annotated Little Women Page 62
