“Will Demi lie still, like a good boy, while mamma runs down and gives poor papa his tea?” asked Meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining-room.
“Me has tea!” said Demi, preparing to join in the revel.
“No; but I’ll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you’ll go bye-bye, like Daisy. Will you, lovey?”
“Iss!” and Demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep, and hurry the desired day.
Taking advantage of the propitious moment, Meg slipped away, and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face, and the little blue bow in her hair, which was his especial admiration. He saw it at once, and said, with pleased surprise,—
“Why, little mother, how gay we are to-night. Do you expect company?”
“Only you, dear.”
“Is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?”
“No; I’m tired of being a dowdy, so I dressed up as a change. You always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are; so, why shouldn’t I, when I have the time?”
“I do it out of respect to you, my dear,” said old-fashioned John.
“Ditto, ditto, Mr. Brooke,” laughed Meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.
“Well, it’s altogether delightful, and like old times. This tastes right; I drink your health, dear!” and John sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration, however; for, as he put down his cup, the door-handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying, impatiently,—
“Opy doy; me’s tummin!”
“It’s that naughty boy; I told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is, down stairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,” said Meg, answering the call.
“Mornin’ now,” announced Demi, in a joyful tone, as he entered, with his long night-gown gracefully festooned over his arm, and every curl bobbing gaily, as he pranced about the table, eyeing the “cakies” with loving glances.
“No, it isn’t morning yet; you must go to bed, and not trouble poor mamma; then you can have the little cake with sugar on it.”
“Me loves parpar,” said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee, and revel in forbidden joys. But John shook his head, and said to Meg,—
“If you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you.”
“Yes, of course; come, Demi!” and Meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery.
Nor was he disappointed; for that short-sighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till morning.
“Iss!” said Demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.
Meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies, by boldly demanding,—
“More sudar, marmar.”
“Now this won’t do,” said John, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner. “We shall never know any peace till that child learns to go to bed properly. You have made a slave of yourself long enough; give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it. Put him in his bed, and leave him, Meg.”
“He won’t stay there; he never does, unless I sit by him.”
“I’ll manage him. Demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma bids you.”
“S’ant!” replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted “cakie,” and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.
“You must never say that to papa; I shall carry you if you don’t go yourself.”
“Go ’way; me don’t love parpar;” and Demi retired to his mother’s skirts for protection.
But even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a “Be gentle with him, John,” which struck the culprit with dismay; for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment-day was at hand. Bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to that detested bed, poor Demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs. The minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out at the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga, and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man’s strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice. This vocal exercise usually conquered Meg; but John sat as unmoved as the post, which is popularly believed to be deaf. No coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story—even the light was put out, and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the “big dark” which Demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear. This new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for “marmar,” as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his tender bond-woman returned to the captive autocrat. The plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to Meg’s heart, and she ran up to say, beseechingly,—
“Let me stay with him; he’ll be good, now, John.”
“No, my dear, I’ve told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him; and he must, if I stay here all night.”
“But he’ll cry himself sick,” pleaded Meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy.
“No he won’t, he’s so tired he will soon drop off, and then the matter is settled; for he will understand that he has got to mind. Don’t interfere; I’ll manage him.”
“He’s my child, and I can’t have his spirit broken by harshness.”
“He’s my child, and I won’t have his temper spoilt by indulgence. Go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me.”
When John spoke in that masterful tone, Meg always obeyed, and never regretted her docility.
“Please let me kiss him once, John?”
“Certainly; Demi, say ‘good-night’ to mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day.”
Meg always insisted upon it, that the kiss won the victory; for, after it was given, Demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.
“Poor little man! he’s worn out with sleep and crying; I’ll cover him up, and then go and set Meg’s heart at rest,” thought John, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.
But he wasn’t; for the moment his father peeped at him, Demi’s eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying, with a penitent hiccough, “Me’s dood, now.”
Sitting on the stairs, outside, Meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar; and, after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room, to set her fears at rest. Demi lay fast asleep; not in his usual spread-eagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father’s arm, and holding his father’s finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy,5 and had gone to sleep a sadder and a wiser baby.6 So held, John had waited with womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold; and, while waiting, had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his little son than with his whole day’s work.
As Meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying, in a satisfied tone,—
“I never need fear that John will be too harsh with my babies, he does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for Demi is getting too much for me.”
When John came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find Meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not too tired. John saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that Meg w
as such a transparent little person, she couldn’t keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon appear. He read a long debate with the most amiable readiness, and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while Meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet. In her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names; but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when John paused, shook her head, and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity,—
“Well, I really don’t see what we are coming to.”
John laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of tulle and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.
“She is trying to like politics for my sake, so I’ll try and like millinery for hers—that’s only fair,” thought John the just, adding aloud,—
“That’s very pretty; is it what you call a breakfast cap?”7
“My dear man, it’s a bonnet—my very best go-to-concert and theatre bonnet!”
“I beg your pardon; it was so very small, I naturally mistook it for one of the fly-away things you sometimes wear. How do you keep it on?”
“These bits of lace are fastened under the chin, with a rose-bud, so”—and Meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet, and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction, that was irresistible.
“It’s a love of a bonnet, but I prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again,” and John kissed the smiling face, to the great detriment of the rose-bud under the chin.
“I’m glad you like it, for I want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night; I really need some music to put me in tune. Will you, please?”
“Of course I will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like. You have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and I shall enjoy it, of all things. What put it into your head, little mother?”
“Well, I had a talk with Marmee the other day, and told her how nervous, and cross, and out of sorts I felt, and she said I needed change, and less care; so Hannah is to help me with the children, and I’m to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time. It’s only an experiment, John, and I want to try it for your sake, as much as for mine, because I’ve neglected you shamefully lately, and I’m going to make home what it used to be, if I can. You don’t object, I hope?”
Never mind what John said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin; all that we have any business to know, is that John did not appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates. It was not all Paradise by any means, but every one was better for the division of labor system; the children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, steadfast John brought order and obedience into Babydom, while Meg recovered her spirits, and composed her nerves, by plenty of wholesome exercise,8 a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband. Home grew home-like again, and John had no wish to leave it, unless he took Meg with him. The Scotts came to the Brookes now, and every one found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love; even gay Sallie Moffat liked to go there. “It is always so quiet and pleasant here; it does me good, Meg,” she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and Ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her.
This household happiness did not come all at once, but John and Meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home-love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy. This is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age; walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old Saxon word, the “house-band,”9 and learning, as Meg learned, that a woman’s happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it—not as a queen, but a wise wife and mother.
1. “Vive la liberté.” Long live liberty.
2. fender. A low metal barrier placed in front of a fireplace to contain the burning materials.
3. “my experiment alone.” Bronson and Abba Alcott’s domestic arrangements were quite different from what Marmee recalls in her fictional marriage. Far from taking to his books and leaving the child care to his wife, Bronson Alcott took a scientific interest in parenting and was perpetually using his children to test his theories. Though he supported Abba’s efforts up to a point, he was at times distressed that she was interfering with his experiments, and his complaints tended to undermine Abba’s confidence in her maternal judgment. “Am I doing what is right?” she asked herself. “Am I doing too much?” (Abigail May Alcott to Samuel and Lucretia May, June 22, 1833, quoted in Matteson, Eden’s Outcasts, p. 51). The two eventually adapted to each other’s parenting styles, but never as harmoniously as did Mr. and Mrs. March.
4. “multitude of sins.” Marmee paraphrases 1 Peter 4:8, which reads, in part: “charity shall cover the multitude of sins.”
5. tempered with mercy. Alcott is perhaps alluding to Book Ten of Milton’s Paradise Lost, in which Jesus vows, “I go to judge . . . yet I shall temper so / Justice with mercy, as may illustrate most / Them fully satisfy’d.” However, the phrase “temper justice with mercy” is a very common one.
6. a sadder and a wiser baby. Alcott adapts another common phrase with a specific literary origin. The lines “A sadder and a wiser man / He rose the morrow morn” conclude The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
7. “breakfast cap?” Women of Alcott’s time often wore head coverings around the house. John’s mistaking of Meg’s bonnet for her much less dressy breakfast cap suggests both that he knows almost nothing of fashion and, sadly, that he has usually been too preoccupied to look at her.
8. wholesome exercise. Alcott strongly advocated physical fitness for women and girls. In her 1875 novel, Eight Cousins, Alcott celebrates “the jollity born of spring sunshine and healthy exercise,” and one of her characters advises, “If you dear little girls would only learn what real beauty is, and not pinch and starve and bleach yourselves out so, you’d save an immense deal of time and money and pain. A happy soul in a healthy body makes the best sort of beauty for man or woman.”
9. “house-band.” “Husband” derives from the Old English hūsbōnda, meaning “householder.” Some etymologists also associate the word with “master of the house.”
CHAPTER XVI.
Lazy Laurence.1
LAURIE went to Nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month. He was tired of wandering about alone, and Amy’s familiar presence seemed to give a home-like charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part. He rather missed the “munching”2 he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again,—for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home. Amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him,—feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she would confess. They naturally took comfort in each other’s society, and were much together,—riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling,—for, at Nice, no one can be very industrious during the gay season. But, while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other. Amy rose daily in th
e estimation of her friend, but he sunk in hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken. Amy tried to please, and succeeded,—for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm. Laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had been cold to him. It cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given Amy all the trinkets in Nice if she would have taken them,—but, at the same time, he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.
“All the rest have gone to Monaco3 for the day; I preferred to stay at home and write letters. They are done now, and I am going to Valrosa4 to sketch; will you come?” said Amy, as she joined Laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon.
“Well, yes; but isn’t it rather warm for such a long walk?” he answered slowly,—for the shaded salon looked inviting, after the glare without.
“I’m going to have the little carriage, and Baptiste can drive,—so you’ll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella and keep your gloves nice,” returned Amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with Laurie.
“Then I’ll go with pleasure,” and he put out his hand for her sketchbook. But she tucked it under her arm with a sharp—
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