The Annotated Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

  3. “wiser than we are.” Bronson Alcott believed that children are born with a supreme knowledge that they bring with them from Heaven, but that the corrupting influences of society quickly sapped and deadened this knowledge unless the child’s parents and teachers protected and fostered it. He wrote: “He who would retain his original freshness and vividness of being, who would look out upon life with hope, faith, and love, must commune often and daily with the young, who are still in possession of the celestial radiance” (A. Bronson Alcott, “Observations on the Spiritual Nurture of My Children,” Houghton Library, Harvard University, bMS Am 1130.10[6], p. 50).

  4. Alcibiades. The eponymous character in a dialogue attributed to Plato. In a discussion concerning the nature of justice, Socrates so confounds Alcibiades’s argument that the latter at last exclaims, “But, indeed, Socrates, I do not know what I am saying.”

  5. Artful Dodgers? In Dickens’s early novel Oliver Twist, Oliver is recruited into Fagin’s gang of pickpockets by a boy named Jack Dawkins, known to his friends as the Artful Dodger. The Artful Dodger relies on his cleverness and charm in his serial violations of the law.

  6. “The Three Little Kittens” . . . “Buy a penny bun.” “The Three Little Kittens” (who lost their mittens) is a traditional nursery rhyme. “Buy a penny bun” is likely a variation on one of the “To Market” rhymes that one recites while bouncing a child on one’s knee; for example, “To market, to market / To buy a fat pig / Home again, home again, / Jiggity jig.”

  7. legs in the air. Louisa’s nephew John Sewall Pratt Alcott (1865–1923) received alphabet instruction of just this kind from his grandfather Bronson: “Instead of using a book alphabet he invented one of his own, which he illustrated with anything he happened to have on hand,—even if it was only himself, as, when, lying on his back, with his legs straddled in the air, he personified ‘Y,’ to our intense enjoyment and edification” (Shealy, ed., Alcott in Her Own Time, p. 159).

  8. “He’s a born Weller.” Jo recalls Sam Weller from Pickwick Papers, who routinely substituted w’s for v’s when speaking.

  9. “bübchen?” “Little boy.”

  10. “couldn’t tell a lie.” Alcott alludes to a popular myth about George Washington, which originated in The Life and Memorable Actions of George Washington by Parson Mason Locke Weems. The legend has it that, as a boy, Washington chopped down his father’s prized cherry tree and, in confessing his deed, proclaimed, “I can’t tell a lie, Pa; you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  Under the Umbrella.

  WHILE Laurie and Amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, Mr. Bhaer and Jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.

  “I always do take a walk toward evening, and I don’t know why I should give it up, just because I often happen to meet the Professor on his way out,” said Jo to herself, after two or three encounters; for, though there were two paths to Meg’s, whichever one she took she was sure to meet him, either going or returning. He was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her till quite close, when he would look as if his short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that moment. Then, if she was going to Meg’s, he always had something for the babies; if her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just about returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.

  Under the circumstances, what could Jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in? If she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, “as Friedrich—I mean Mr. Bhaer—don’t like tea.”

  Professor Bhaer (Paul Lukas) courts Jo (Katharine Hepburn) near the end of the 1933 film. (Photofest)

  By the second week, every one knew perfectly well what was going on, yet every one tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in Jo’s face—never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise; and no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that Professor Bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.

  Jo couldn’t even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings; and, failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life. She was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence. Laurie was her especial dread; but, thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called Mr. Bhaer “a capital old fellow” in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to Jo’s improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the Professor’s hat on the Marches’ hall-table, nearly every evening. But he exulted in private, and longed for the time to come when he could give Jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms.

  For a fortnight, the Professor came and went with lover-like regularity; then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign—a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and Jo to become pensive, at first, and then,—alas for romance,—very cross.

  “Disgusted, I dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came. It’s nothing to me, of course; but I should think he would have come and bid us good-by, like a gentleman,” she said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk, one dull afternoon.

  “You’d better take the little umbrella, dear; it looks like rain,” said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact.

  “Yes, Marmee; do you want anything in town? I’ve got to run in and get some paper,” returned Jo, pulling out the bow under her chin, before the glass, as an excuse for not looking at her mother.

  “Yes; I want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles,1 and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon. Have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?”

  “I believe so,” answered Jo, absently.

  “If you happen to meet Mr. Bhaer, bring him home to tea; I quite long to see the dear man,” added Mrs. March.

  Jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her heartache,—

  “How good she is to me! What do girls do who haven’t any mothers to help them through their troubles?”

  The dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate; but Jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for some one, examining engineering instruments in one window, and samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine interest; tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men, who looked as if they wondered “how the deuce she got there.” A drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons; for the drops continued to fall, and, being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet. Now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off; but regret was unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one, or submit to a drenching. She looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow, already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with “Hoffman, Swartz & Co.” over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly-reproachful air,—

  “It serves me right! What business had I to put on all my best things, and come philandering down here, hoping to see the Professor? Jo, I’m ashamed of you! No, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends. You shall slop away, and do your errands in the rain; and if you catch your death, and ruin your bonnet, it’s no more than you de
serve. Now then!”

  With that she rushed across the street so impetuously, that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, “I beg pardon, ma’am,” and looked mortally offended. Somewhat daunted, Jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead. The fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet, attracted her attention; and, looking up, she saw Mr. Bhaer looking down.

  “I feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many horse-noses, and so fast through much mud. What do you down here, my friend?”

  “I’m shopping.”

  Mr. Bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle-factory on one side, to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other; but he only said, politely,—

  “You haf no umbrella; may I go also, and take for you the bundles?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Jo’s cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her; but she didn’t care, for in a minute she found herself walking away, arm-in-arm with her Professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day.

  “We thought you had gone,” said Jo, hastily, for she knew he was looking at her,—her bonnet wasn’t big enough to hide her face, and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.

  “Did you believe that I should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?” he asked, so reproachfully, that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered, heartily,—

  “No, I didn’t; I knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we rather missed you,—father and mother especially.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m always glad to see you, sir.”

  In her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, Jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the Professor, for his smile vanished, as he said, gravely,—

  “I thank you, and come one time more before I go.”

  “You are going, then?”

  “I haf no longer any business here; it is done.”

  “Successfully, I hope?” said Jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his.

  “I ought to think so, for I haf a way opened to me by which I can make my bread and gif my Jünglings much help.”

  “Tell me, please! I like to know all about the—the boys,” said Jo eagerly.

  “That is so kind, I gladly tell you. My friends find for me a place in a college, where I teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for Franz and Emil. For this I should be grateful, should I not?”

  “Indeed you should! How splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys—” cried Jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.

  “Ah, but we shall not meet often, I fear; this place is at the West.”

  “So far away!” and Jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn’t matter now what became of her clothes or herself.

  Mr. Bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read women yet. He flattered himself that he knew Jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day,—for she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour. When she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express purpose. When he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight; but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply, that despair fell upon him. On learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands,—was the joy all for the boys? Then, on hearing his destination, she said, “So far away!” in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope; but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter,—

  “Here’s the place for my errands; will you come in? It won’t take long.”

  Jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particuarly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and despatch with which she would accomplish the business. But, owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss; she upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be “twilled” till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter. Mr. Bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder; and, as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions women, like dreams, go by contraries.

  When they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it, on the whole.

  “Should we not do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast to-night if I go for my last call at your so pleasant home?” he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers.

  “What will we buy?” said Jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight, as they went in.

  “May they haf oranges and figs?” asked Mr. Bhaer, with a paternal air.

  “They eat them when they can get them.”

  “Do you care for nuts?”

  “Like a squirrel.”

  “Hamburg grapes; yes, we shall surely drink to the Fatherland in those?”

  Jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn’t buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and done with it? Whereat Mr. Bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn. Then, distorting his pockets with the knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they travelled on again.

  “Miss Marsch, I haf a great favor to ask of you,” began the Professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.

  “Yes, sir,” and Jo’s heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it.

  “I am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” and Jo nearly smashed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it.

  “I wish to get a little dress for my Tina, and I am too stupid to go alone. Will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?”

  “Yes sir,” and Jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden, as if she had stepped into a refrigerator.

  “Perhaps also a shawl for Tina’s mother, she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care,—yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a friendly thing to take the little mother.”

  “I’ll do it with pleasure, Mr. Bhaer. I’m going very fast, and he’s getting dearer every minute,” added Jo to herself; then, with a mental shake, she entered into the business with an energy which was pleasant to behold.

  Mr. Bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for Tina, and then ordered out the shawls. The clerk, being a married man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family.

  “Your lady may prefer this; it’s a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel,” he said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over Jo’s shoulders.

  “Does this suit you, Mr. Bhaer?” she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.

  “Excellently well, we will haf it,” answered the Professor, smiling to himself, as he paid for it, while Jo continued to rummage the counters, like a confirmed bargain-hunter.

&nb
sp; “Now shall we go home?” he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him.

  “Yes, it’s late, and I’m so tired.” Jo’s voice was more pathetic than she knew, for now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter. Mr. Bhaer was going away; he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better. With this idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot, and were badly damaged.

  “That is not our omniboos,” said the Professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little posies.

  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t see the name distinctly. Never mind, I can walk, I’m used to plodding in the mud,” returned Jo, winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.

  Mr. Bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away; the sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal,—

  “Heart’s dearest, why do you cry?”

  Now if Jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn’t crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion; instead of which that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob,—

  “Because you are going away.”

  “Ah, my Gott, that is so good!” cried Mr. Bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles. “Jo, I haf nothing but much love to gif you; I came to see if you could care for it, and I waited to be sure that I was something more than a friend. Am I? Can you make a little place in your heart for old Fritz?” he added, all in one breath.

  “Oh yes!” said Jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it.