Луиза Мэй Олкотт
Хорошие жёны / Good Wives. Уровень 3

© Матвеев С.А.

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2021

Louisa May Alcott
Good Wives

Gossip

The war is over. Mr. March was safely at home, busy with his books and the small parish. Poverty and the strict integrity shut him out from[1] the more worldly successes, but attracted to him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees. Earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they. Sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved.

Five energetic women ruled the house, but the quiet scholar was the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter. Mrs. March is as brisk and cheery. John Brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return. He received no stars or bars[2], but he deserved them. He was preparing for business, and earning a home for Meg. With the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he accepted the place of bookkeeper.

Now we can talk about four March sisters. Margaret “Meg” March, the oldest sister, was growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts. She had her girlish ambitions and hopes. Ned Moffat married Sallie Gardiner, and Meg was contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own. She was secretly wishing to have the same.

What about other girls? Amy Curtis March, the youngest sister, gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.

Josephine “Jo” March meantime devoted herself to literature and Beth, who remained delicate after the fever. As long as “The Spread Eagle[3]” paid Jo a dollar a column for her ‘rubbish’, as she called it, Jo felt herself a woman of means[4].

Elizabeth “Beth” March is kind, gentle, sweet, shy, quiet, honest and musical. She is the shyest March sister and the pianist of the family. Moreover, she is the peacemaker of the family and gently scolds her sisters when they argue.

We will mention Laurie as well. Laurie went to college to please his grandfather, and now was trying to please himself. Of course he frolicked and flirted, was dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained, talked slang. But he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed.

Now we can talk about the ‘Dovecote’. That was the name of the little brown house. Mr. Brooke prepared it for Meg’s first home. It was a tiny house, with a little garden behind and a lawn. Here Meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers. There were no marble tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor.

“Are you satisfied? Does it seem like home? Will you be happy here?” asked Mrs. March, as she and her daughter went through the new kingdom.

“Yes, Mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that I can’t talk about it,” answered Meg.

“What about a servant or two?” asked Amy. She went out of the parlor.

“Mother and I talked about that. There will be little work here,” answered Meg tranquilly.

“Sallie Moffat has four servants,” began Amy.

“If Meg has four, the house won’t hold them,” said Jo.

“Sallie isn’t a poor man’s wife. Meg and John begin humbly,” said Mrs. March.

“Yes, Mother. Do you know I like this room most of all in my baby house,” added Meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet[5].

Beth was there. She was laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves.

“This is a setout that will last me all my days.” Meg looked quite contented.

A tall, broad-shouldered young fellow came down the road, walked over the low fence. It was Laurie.

“Here I am, Mother! This is for Mrs. John Brooke, with congratulations and compliments. Bless you, Beth! What a spectacle you are, Jo. Amy, you are too handsome for a single lady.”

As Laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to Meg, pulled Beth’s hair ribbon, and stared at Jo’s big pinafore. Everyone began to talk.

“Where is John?” asked Meg anxiously.

“Stopped to get the license[6] for tomorrow, ma’am.”

“Who won the last match, Teddy?” inquired Jo.

“We won, of course.”

“How is the lovely Miss Randal?” asked Amy with a significant smile.

“More cruel than ever.”

“Undo the bundle, Meg,” said Beth.

“It’s a useful thing in case of fire or thieves,” observed Laurie, as a watchman’s rattle[7] appeared, amid the laughter of the girls.

“When will you grow up, Laurie?” asked Meg in a matronly tone.

“I’m doing my best, ma’am,” responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier. “Listen, Jo, you’ll marry next.”

The First Wedding

The June roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning, like friendly little neighbors. Meg looked very like a rose herself, with a charm more beautiful than beauty. So she made her wedding gown herself. Her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which ‘her John’ liked best of all the flowers that grew.

“You look just like our own dear Meg. And you are very sweet and lovely! I want to hug, but I’m afraid to crumple your dress,” cried Amy.

“Then I am satisfied. But please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don’t mind my dress,” and Meg opened her arms to her sisters. “Now I’m going to tie John’s cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with Father quietly in the study.”

Meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies. As the younger girls stand together, and give the last touches to their simple toilet, we’ll discuss the news.

Over the three years, Jo’s angles are much softened, she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace. Her hair grew long. There was a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue today.

Beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever. Amy was considered ‘the flower of the family’. At sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but possessed with grace. All three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls.

There will be no ceremonious performances, everything will be as natural and homelike as possible. When Aunt March arrived, she was shocked to see the bride and the bridegroom. The bride herself was running to welcome and lead her in. And the bridegroom himself was fastening up a garland.

“Upon my word, here’s a state of things![8]” cried the old lady. She took the seat of honor prepared for her. “Nobody is allowed to see you till the last minute, child.”

“I’m not a show, Aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon. I’m too happy to think about what anyone says or thinks. I’m going to have my little wedding just as I like it. John, dear, here’s your hammer.”

And Meg went away to help ‘that man’ in his highly improper employment.

Mr. Brooke didn’t even say, “Thank you,” but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door.

There was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as Mr. March and the young couple took their places under the green arch. Mother and sisters gathered close. The fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn. The bridegroom’s hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies. But Meg looked straight up in her husband’s eyes, and said, “I will!” with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her mother’s heart rejoiced and Aunt March sniffed audibly.

Jo did not cry, though she was very near it once. She was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that Laurie was staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes. Beth’s face was hidden on her mother’s shoulder. Amy stood like a graceful statue.

No one said anything, till Laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.

“Has Jo smashed all the bottles by accident?” he whispered.

“No, your grandfather kindly offered us his best wine. Aunt March actually sent some. But Father put away a little for Beth, and dispatched the rest to the Soldier’s Home. You know he thinks that wine must be used only in illness.”

Meg spoke seriously and expected to see Laurie frown or laugh. But he did not do it, for after a quick look at her, he said,

“I like that! For I’ve seen enough harm from wine. Let other women think as you do.”

“You are not wise because of your experience, I hope?” and there was an anxious accent in Meg’s voice.

“No. I give you my word for it. Don’t think too well of me, either.”

“Come, Laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of my life.”

A demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment. He gave her his hand, saying heartily,

“I promise, Mrs. Brooke!”

“I thank you, very, very much.”

“And I drink ‘long life to your resolution’, Teddy,” cried Jo.

After lunch, people strolled about through the house and garden. They were enjoying the sunshine. Meg and John were standing together in the middle of the grass plot. Laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding.

“All the married people take hands and dance round the new husband and wife, as the Germans do!” cried Laurie, promenading down the path with Amy.

Mr. and Mrs. March, Aunt and Uncle Carrol began to dance, others joined in, and soon everyone was dancing. Eventually, want of breath closed the impromptu dancing, and then people began to go.

“I wish you well, my dear, I heartily wish you well. But I think you’ll be sorry for it,” said Aunt March to Meg. Then she added to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, “You’ve got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it.”

The little house was not far away. The only Meg’s bridal journey was the quiet walk with John from the old home to the new. When she came down, they all gathered about her to say ‘good-by’.

They were watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride as she walked away, leaning on her husband’s arm. Her hands were full of flowers and the June sunshine brightening her happy face – and so Meg’s married life began.

Artistic Attempts[9]

People need a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction. She attempted every branch of art. For a long time, she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing[10]. Here she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes caused her to put the pen and ink aside for a bold and to study poker-sketching[11]. She then transitioned from fire to oil and fell to painting. Then came charcoal portraits.

Softened into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good, and Amy’s hair, Jo’s nose, Meg’s mouth, and Laurie’s eyes were pronounced ‘wonderfully fine’. A return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet shelves onto people’s heads.

After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade. She got a wrinkle over her nose trying after ‘points of sight’.

If ‘genius is eternal patience’, as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some claim to the divine attribute[12]. She persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements. She is firmly believing that in time she will do something worthy to be called ‘high art’.

“I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma,” Amy said, coming in with an important air one day.

“Well, little girl, what is it?” replied her mother.

“Our drawing class breaks up next week. Before the girls separate for the summer, I want to ask them out here for a day. They are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book. They have been very kind to me in many ways. I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference. I want to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps.”

“That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls like such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant.”

“How many young ladies are there?” asked her mother. She began to look sober.

“Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won’t all come.”

“Bless me, child.”

“Why, not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Laurence’s cherry-bounce[13].”

“All of this will be expensive, Amy.”

“Not very. I’ve calculated the cost, and I’ll pay for it myself.”

“Don’t you think, dear, that as these girls like such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them?”

“If I can’t have it as I like, I don’t care to have it at all. I know that I can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a little. I don’t see why I can’t if I’m willing to pay for it,” said Amy.

Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher.

“Very well, Amy, if you want it, I’ll say no more. Talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, I’ll do my best to help you.”

“Thanks, Mother, you are always so kind.”

And away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters. Meg agreed at once, and promised her aid. But Jo frowned upon the whole project. She wanted to do nothing at first.

“Why do you want to spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for some girls who don’t care a sixpence for you?” said Jo.

“I don’t truckle, and I hate the situation when someone patronizes as much as you do!” returned Amy. “The girls care for me, and I for them. There’s a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense. You don’t care to make people like you – I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes.”

The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted. The following Monday was set apart for the grand event. If not on Monday, the young ladies will come on Tuesday. This arrangement aggravated Jo and Hannah (the March family maid and cook, their only servant) to the last degree.

The lunch looked charming. Amy surveyed it. It will taste well. Amy will borrow glass, china, and silver, and after the event, everything will get safely home again. The carriages were promised. Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honors. Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes. Jo was trying to be as lively and amiable as possible. Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, after the lunch is safely over, she will drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights.

At eleven nobody came, and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast.

“No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come. So we must be ready for them,”

said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning.

“I can’t get any lobsters, so you won’t have any salad today,” said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair.

“Use the chicken then, the toughness won’t matter in a salad,” advised his wife.

“Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it. I’m very sorry, Amy,” added Beth.

“Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won’t do,” said Amy decidedly.

“Shall I rush into town and demand one?” asked Jo.

“You’d come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to bother me. I’ll go myself,” answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.

She departed. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again. Once she was back at home, she went through with the preparations, and at twelve o’clock all was ready again. Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday’s failure by a grand success today. So she ordered the ‘cherry bounce’, and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.

“There’s the rumble, they’re coming! I’ll go onto the porch and meet them,” said Mrs. March. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression. In the big carriage, sat Amy and one young lady.

“Run, Beth, and help Hannah clear half the things off the table. It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,” cried Jo.

In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family played their parts equally well. Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The lunch was eaten, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy, and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when ‘the party went out’. As she came walking in, she was looking very tired but as composed as ever.

“You’ve had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear,” said her mother respectfully.

“Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought,” observed Beth, with unusual warmth.

“Could you give me some of your cake? I really need some, I have a company, and I can’t make such delicious stuff as yours,” asked Meg.

“Take it all. I’m the only one here who likes sweet things. It will mold before I can dispose of it,” answered Amy, with a sigh.

“It’s a pity Laurie isn’t here to help us,” began Jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.

A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks. The whole family ate in heroic silence.

“Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. I’m sick of the sight of this, and there’s no reason you must all die of a surfeit because I’ve been a fool,” cried Amy, wiping her eyes.

“I’m very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you,” said Mrs. March, in a tone full of motherly regret.

“I am satisfied. I’ve done what I undertook, and it’s not my fault that it failed. I comfort myself with that,” said Amy with a little quiver in her voice. “I thank you all very much for helping me. I’ll thank you still more if you won’t talk about it for a month, at least.”

Literary Lessons

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but anyway.

Every few weeks she shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit[14], and ‘fall into a vortex’. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she wiped her pen, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but liked to write. She sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. The divine usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

One day she escorted Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a lecture on the Pyramids. They arrived early, and Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets, discussing Women’s Rights. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand. A somber spinster was eating peppermints out of a paper bag. An old gentleman was taking his nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a young man with a newspaper.

Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her, and with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, “Do you want to read it? That’s a first-rate story.”

Jo accepted it with a smile. She liked the lads. Soon she found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature.

“Good, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.

“I think you and I can write better if we try,” returned Jo.

“I will be happy if I can. She makes good money of such stories, they say.”

And he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest.

“No, but I read all her stories, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed.”

“Do you say she makes good money out of stories like this?” and Jo looked more respectfully at the points that adorned the page.

“Of course! She knows just what folks like, and they pay her well for it.”

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it. The Professor was talking about Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics. Jo wrote down the address of the paper, and boldly resolved to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. The lecture ended and the audience awoke.

Jo said nothing of her plan at home, but continued to work next day. Jo never tried this style before. Her story was as full of desperation and despair, She chose location in Lisbon, an earthquake was the end of the story. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note. If the tale doesn’t get the prize, which the writer dares expect, she will be very glad to receive any sum.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, but Jo waited. At last, a letter arrived. A check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it was a snake. Then she read her letter and began to cry.

She was very proud. She electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other. She has won the prize! Of course there was a great jubilee, and then everyone read the story and praised it. Her father told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling. But he shook his head, and said,

“You can do better than this, Jo. Don’t think about the money.”

“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?” asked Amy.

“I’ll send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered Jo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion. Though Beth didn’t come home plump and rosy, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money. She earned some money that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house. By the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned into comforts for them all. “The Duke’s Daughter” paid the butcher’s bill, “A Phantom Hand” bought a new carpet, and the “Curse of the Coventrys” blessed the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Jo ceased to envy richer girls. She could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Her stories were not very popular, but they found a market. So she resolved to write a novel. She copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers. What was the result? She must cut it down one third[15], and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.

“Now I must cut it down. Fame is a very good thing, but cash is more convenient. So I want to hear your opinion,” said Jo, calling a family council.

“Don’t spoil your book, my girl. Let it wait and ripen,” was her father’s advice.

“It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting,” said Mrs. March. “Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. The praise and blame of outsiders will be useful, even if she gets little money.”

“Yes,” said Jo, “that’s just it. I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to listen to some cool, impartial persons. They will tell me what they think of it.”

“You’ll spoil it if cut it,” said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel in the world.

“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Make it brief and dramatic’,” interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher’s note.

“Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. When you get a name, you can do whatever you want with your novels,” said Amy, who was very practical.

“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “Now, Beth, what do you say?”

“I want to see it printed soon,” Beth said and smiled.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress took her novel and chopped it up as ruthlessly as an ogre. She wanted to please everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and – like the old man and his donkey in the fable – suited nobody.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, and plenty of praise and blame.

“You say, Mother, that criticism will help me. But how can it, when it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written a good book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo. “This man says, ‘An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is sweet, pure, and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress. “The next, ‘The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ I had no theory of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life. I don’t see how this critic can be right. Another says, ‘It’s one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.’ (I know better than that), and the next asserts that ‘Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.’ Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I have a deep theory, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I hate to be so misjudged!”

When the first soreness was over, Jo could laugh at her poor little book.

“I’m not a genius, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly, “So when I’m ready, I’ll write another novel.”

Domestic Experiences

Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. She brought much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work. She wanted to succeed, in spite of some obstacles.

They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t live on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. The little house ceased to be a glorified bower. It became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders. Meg put on a big apron, and fell to work.

In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she did not get them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn’t like it.

She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more – his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked. All he asked was to keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she has done well. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg’s paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress.

Sallie was buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties. Sallie urged her to do it, offered to lend the money. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said,

“A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.”

She answered,

“I’ll take it,” and it was cut off. She paid for it.

When she got home, the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped like a pattern down the fabric. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully. When John got out his books that night, Meg’s heart sank. For the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked stern. Though he was unusually merry, she was afraid. The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand. She said nervously,

“You haven’t seen my private expense book[16] yet.”

John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so. She brought the little book slowly. The book was laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair. She said, with her panic increasing with every word,

“John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my book, for I’ve really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I meet people and I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised me to buy something. So I did, and my New Year’s money will partly pay for it. I was sorry after. I know what you will think of it.”

John laughed, and drew her round beside him,

“Don’t hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair of boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and don’t mind if she pays eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.”

That was one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye fell on it as he spoke.

“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said.

“Well, dear, what is the total?”

For a minute the room was very still, then John said slowly – but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,

“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the details you have to have to finish it off these days.”

“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly.

“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I’ve no doubt my wife will look fine,” said John dryly.

“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t do anything. I don’t mean to waste your money. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I’m tired of being poor[17].”

The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did. They wounded him deeply. He denied himself many pleasures for Meg’s sake. She wanted to bite her tongue out the minute she said it. John pushed the books away and got up. He said with a little quiver in his voice,

“I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg.”

If he scolds her, or even shakes her, it won’t break her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears,

“Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy! I didn’t mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful. How could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!”

He was very kind. He forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach. But Meg knew that she did and said. Such a thing won’t be forgotten soon. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick. The discovery that John countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He said simply, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change,

“I can’t afford it, my dear.”

Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old greatcoat. She was crying.

They had a long talk that night. Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty. It has made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience.

Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat. When John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued.

* * *

Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, with an excited face.

“How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you tell me before I came home?”

“Happy as a queen, the dear! Now you go into the parlor,” with that reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.

Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle. Jo’s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion.

“Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,” she said invitingly.

“No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop it or smash it.”

“Then you shan’t see your nephew,” said Jo decidedly.

“I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.”

Obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peal

of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find two babies instead of one.

“Twins, by Jupiter!” was all he said, then he added, “Take them quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall drop them.”

“It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t it?” said Jo.

“I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let’s have another look.”

“Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa.

“Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?”

“Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. The boy’s name is John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs. I suppose the boy will be Jack, unless we find a better name,” said Amy.

“Name him Demĳohn, and call him Demi for short,” said Laurie.

“Daisy and Demi, just the thing[18]!” cried Jo, clapping her hands.

Calls

“Come, Jo, it’s time.”

“Where?”

“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls[19] with me today? It was a bargain between us. It’s a lovely day, no prospect of rain. So be honorable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months.”

Jo hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any. In the present instance there was no escape. They visited a few houses and presently were walking towards Aunt March’s house.

“What a good girl you are, Amy!” said Jo. “I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them.”

Amy smiled.

“Women must learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones. They have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive.”

“I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be. It’s a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn’t it?”

“It’s a greater not to be able to hide them.”

“But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Shall we continue bearing things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires?”

“I can’t argue about it. I only know that it’s the way of the world. People who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains.”

“I like them, and I shall be one if I can. In spite of the laughing the world will never get on without them. We can’t agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it.”

“Well, compose yourself now, and don’t worry Aunt with your new ideas.”

“It’s my doom, and I can’t help it.”

They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in.

“Are you going to help about the fair, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her.

“Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me, and I offered to tend a table. I have nothing but my time to give.”

“I’m not,” put in Jo decidedly. “I hate to be patronized. The Chesters think it’s a great favor to allow us to help with their fair.”

“I want to work. I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.”

“Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It’s a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that is trying,” observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo.

“I don’t like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I’d rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent.”

“Ahem!” coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.

“I told you so,” said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.

“Do you speak French, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy’s.

“Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March,” replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably.

“How are you about languages?” asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.

“Don’t know a word. I’m very stupid about studying anything. I hate French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of language,” was the reply.

Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy,

“You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don’t trouble you any more, do they?”

“Not at all, thank you, ma’am.”

“Good girl! You deserve to go, and I’m sure you will some day,” said Aunt March.

Consequences

Mrs. Chester’s fair was so very elegant that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies

of the neighborhood to be invited. Everyone was much interested in it. Amy was asked, but Jo was not. Aunt Carrol was there, and talked about something to Mrs. March in a corner. It made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.

A week later a letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March’s face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded to know, what it said.

“Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants…”

“Me to go with her!” burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.

“No, dear, not you. It’s Amy. I’m afraid it’s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit. Here she writes, as if quoting something you had said – ’I planned at first to ask Jo, but as ‘favors burden her’, and she ‘hates French’, I think I won’t venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo.”

“Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can’t I learn to keep it quiet?” groaned Jo, remembering her own words.

When she heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully,

“Dear, there is no hope of it this time. Try to bear it cheerfully, and don’t sadden Amy’s pleasure.”

“I’ll try,” said Jo. “I’ll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won’t be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment.”

“Jo, dear, I’m very selfish, but I can’t spare you, and I’m glad you are not going quite yet,” whispered Beth. She embraced her with such a loving face that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret.

By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family happiness. The young lady herself received the news as with great joy, and went about packing her pencils.

“It isn’t a pleasure trip to me, girls,” she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. “It will decide my career, for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it.”

“Suppose you haven’t?” said Jo.

“Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,” replied the aspirant for fame.

“No, you won’t. You hate hard work, and you’ll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days,” said Jo.

“Your predictions are sometimes right, but I don’t believe that one will be. I’m sure I wish it. If I can’t be an artist myself, I want to help those who are,” said Amy, smiling.

“Hum!” said Jo, with a sigh. “If you wish it you’ll have it, for your wishes are always granted – mine never.”

“Do you want to go?” asked Amy.

“Rather!”

“Well, in a year or two I’ll send for you, and we’ll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we’ve made so many times.”

“Thank you. I’ll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does,” returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer gratefully.

There was not much time for preparation. The house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well until it was done. Then she cried till she couldn’t cry any more. Amy likewise bore up well till the steamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, saying with a sob,

“Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything happens…”

“I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I’ll come and comfort you,” whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word.

So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes.

Our Foreign Correspondent

London

Dear girls,

Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It’s not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years ago, and won’t go anywhere else. However, we don’t intend to stay long. Oh, I can’t begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can.

I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don’t laugh, Jo, gentlemen are really necessary on the ship.

Aunt and Flo were ill all the way, and liked to be let alone. So I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly.

It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen’s countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn’t regret getting up to see it. The bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I shall never forget it.

At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at me,

“Oh, have you ever heard of Kate Kearney?

She lives on the banks of Killarney;

From the glance of her eye,

Shun danger and fly,

For fatal is the glance of Kate Kearney.”

Wasn’t that nonsensical?

We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It’s a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves[20], some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella. I like traveling.

I shall never get to London if I don’t hurry. The trip was riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The grass is so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark!

Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things are very cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn’t that sound elegant and rich?

Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive. We learned afterward that it wasn’t appropriate for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! We were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he didn’t hear me. We were quite helpless. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and opened it. A red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,

“Now, then, mum?”

I gave my order soberly, and, with an “Aye, aye, mum,” the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, “A little faster,” then off he went very fast, as before. We resigned ourselves to our fate.

Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. And the Duke of Wellington’s house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! There were fat dowagers in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous servants in silk stockings and velvet coats, powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps.

The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well. But the women are stiff, and bounce. I wanted to show them an American gallop!

Don’t expect me to describe Westminster Abbey, that’s impossible. I’ll only say it is sublime! This evening we are going to the theatre.

* * *

It’s very late, but I want to tell you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie’s English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was very surprised. Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They heard from Laurie where we were, and came to ask us to their house. But Uncle doesn’t want to go, so we shall see them as soon as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we had such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his ‘respectful compliments to the big hat’. Neither of them forgot Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there.

Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a London lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things. My head is full of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say “Ah!” and twirl their blond mustaches.

Your loving Amy

Paris

Dear girls,

In my last letter I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else. At Hampton I saw Raphael’s works, and at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great people. The day in Richmond Park was charming. We had an English picnic. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don’t. Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.

Well, he said that he was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn’t say a word. He speaks French like a Frenchman, and I don’t know what we will do without him. Uncle doesn’t know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud. Aunt’s pronunciation is old-fashioned. Flo and I find we don’t know French at all, and are very grateful to have Fred to do the ‘parley vooing’[21], as Uncle calls it.

We have such delightful times! Sightseeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the cafeterias. Rainy days I spend in the Louvre.

The Palais Royale is a heavenly place, so full of bijouterie and lovely things that I’m nearly distracted because I can’t buy them. Fred wanted to buy me some, but of course I didn’t allow it. Then the Bois and Champs Elysees are wonderful. I’ve seen the imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, I thought. Purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves.

We often walk in the Tuileries Gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique Luxembourg Gardens suit me better. Pere la Chaise cemetery is very curious. Many of the tombs are like small rooms. One sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament. That is so Frenchy[22].

Our rooms are on the Rue de Rivoli. Sitting on the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street. It is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when too tired. Fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man I ever knew-except Laurie, whose manners are more charming. I wish Fred was dark, for I don’t like light men, however, the Vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so I won’t find fault with their yellow hair.

Next week we are going to Germany and Switzerland. I try to ‘remember correctly and describe clearly all that I see and admire’, as Father advised. It is good practice for me.

Adieu, I embrace you tenderly.

Votre Amie[23].

Heidelberg

My dear Mamma,

I’ll try to tell you what happened. Some of it is very important, as you will see. The sail up the Rhine was perfect. I just sat and enjoyed it with all my might. At Coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from Bonn, with whom Fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade. It was a moonlight night. About one o’clock Flo and I were waked by the most delicious music under our windows. We got up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed us Fred and the students singing away down below. It was the most romantic thing I ever saw-the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music!

Then we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go away, to smoke and drink beer, I suppose. Next morning Fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental. I laughed at him, and said I didn’t throw it, but Flo. It seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window. I’m afraid I’m going to have trouble with that boy.

In Baden-Baden Fred lost a lot of money, and I scolded him. He needs someone to look after him when Frank is not with him. Kate hopes he’ll marry soon, and I quite agree with her that it will be well for him.

Frankfurt was delightful. I saw Goethe’s house, Schiller’s statue, and Dannecker’s famous ‘Ariadne.’ It was very lovely.

Now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and Fred has just gone. He is very kind and jolly. I never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the serenade night. But I see that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures are something more to him than fun. I haven’t flirted, Mother, truly, I remember what you said to me. But people like me, what to do? Anyway, I decided something. If Fred gives me a proposal, I shall accept it, though I’m not madly in love. I like him. He is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich-ever richer than the Laurences. I don’t think his family will object, and I shall be very happy, for they are all kind, generous people, and they like me. Fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, I suppose, and such a splendid one it is! A city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury. I like it. I’ve seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses. I may be mercenary, but I hate poverty. One of us must marry well. Meg didn’t, Jo won’t, Beth can’t. So I shall. I won’t marry a man I hate or despise. You may be sure of that. Though Fred is not my model hero, he is not bad. In time I will love him, too. It is impossible not to see that Fred likes me. He says nothing, but little things show it. He looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who speaks to me.

Yesterday at dinner, when an Austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a baron, about ‘ein wonderschönes Blondchen[24]’, Fred looked as fierce as a lion. He has Scotch blood in him.

Well, last evening we went up to the castle, at least all of us but Fred, who was to meet us there after going to the Post Office for letters. We had a charming time. The ruins, the vaults, and the beautiful gardens…I liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine. I sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion’s head on the wall. I was cool and only a little excited.

Then I heard Fred’s voice, and then he came through the great arch to me. He looked so troubled that I forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was. He got a letter begging him to come home, for Frank was very ill. So he was going at once on the night train and only had time to say good-bye. I was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself. He shook hands, and said, “I shall soon come back, you won’t forget me, Amy?”

I didn’t promise, but I looked at him, and he was satisfied. I know he wanted to speak. We shall soon meet in Rome, and then I’ll say “Yes, thank you,” when he says “Will you, please?”

Of course this is all very private. Don’t be anxious about me, remember I am your ‘prudent Amy’. Be sure I will do nothing rashly. Love and trust me.

Ever your Amy

Tender Troubles

“Jo, I’m anxious about Beth.”

“Why, Mother, she seems unusually well.”

“It’s not her health that troubles me now, it’s her spirits.”

“What makes you think so, Mother?”

“She sits alone a good deal, and doesn’t talk to her father. I found her crying over the babies the other day. This isn’t like Beth, and it worries me.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

“I have tried once or twice, but she evaded my questions.”

“I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes. Why, Mother, Beth is eighteen, but we don’t realize it, and treat her like a child. We forget she’s a woman.”

“So she is. Dear heart, how fast you grow up,” returned her mother with a sigh and a smile.

“Can’t be helped, Mama.”

“I leave Beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her Jo sooner than to anyone else. Be very kind, and don’t let her think anyone watches or talks about her.”

“I’ll settle Bethy’s troubles, and then I’ll tell you mine. They are not very wearing, so they’ll keep.”

And Jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother’s heart at rest about her for the present at least.

Jo watched Beth. Sitting at the window, Beth leaned her head upon her hand, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumn landscape. Suddenly someone passed below, and a voice called out, “All right! I’ll come in tonight.”

Beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, then said softly as if to herself,

“How strong and well and happy that dear boy looks.”

“Hum!” said Jo, still intent upon her sister’s face, for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window ledge. Beth whisked it off, and walked out of the room.

“Mercy on me, Beth loves Laurie!” she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery.

Jo turned scarlet with a sudden thought.

“If he doesn’t love her, how dreadful it will be! He must. I’ll make him! Oh dear, we are growing up. Here’s Meg married, Amy is flourishing away at Paris, and Beth is in love. I’m the only one that has sense here.”

Though Laurie flirted with Amy and joked with Jo, his manner to Beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle. Indeed, a general impression was that he liked Jo, who, however, did not want to hear a word upon the subject.

When Laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but these small flames were brief. But later he avoided the tender subject altogether. Things were in this state when the grand discovery was made. Jo watched Laurie that night as she never did before.

As usual Beth lay on the sofa and Laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip. But that evening Jo fancied that Beth’s eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match.

“Who knows? Stranger things have happened,” thought Jo. “She will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other. I don’t see how he can help it.”

As everyone was out of the way but herself, Jo began to feel that she ought to go away. But where to go? And she sat down on the sofa.

Soon a form appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, Laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction…

“Now, good and cheap.”

“No slang,” snapped Jo.

“Come, Jo, don’t be thorny.”

“How many bouquets have you sent Miss Randal this week?”

“Not one, upon my word. She’s engaged.”

“I’m glad of it, that’s one of your foolish extravagances, sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don’t care two pins[25],” continued Jo.

“Sensible girls for whom I care whole papers of pins won’t let me send them ‘flowers and things’, so what can I do? My feelings need an exit.”

“Mother doesn’t approve of flirting even in fun, and you flirt desperately, Teddy.”

“I’ll give anything if I can answer, ‘So do you’. As I can’t, I’ll merely say that I don’t see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it’s only play.”

“Well, it looks pleasant, but I can’t learn how it’s done.”,

“Take lessons of Amy, she has a regular talent for it.”

“Yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far.”

“I’m glad you can’t flirt. It’s really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself. Between ourselves, Jo, some of the girls I know really do go on at such a rate I’m ashamed of them. They don’t mean any harm, I’m sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they’d mend their ways, I fancy.”

“They do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit. If you behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them. If you must have an ‘exit’, Teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the ‘pretty, modest girls’ whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones.”

“You really advise it?” and Laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.

“Yes, I do.”

Jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to Beth’s bedside, with the anxious inquiry,

“What is it, dear?”

“I thought you were asleep,” sobbed Beth.

“Is it the old pain, my precious?”

“No, it’s a new one, but I can bear it,” and Beth tried to check her tears.

“Tell me all about it, and let me cure it as I often did the other.”

“You can’t, there is no cure.”

There Beth’s voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that Jo was frightened.

“Where is it? Shall I call Mother?”

“No, no, don’t call her, don’t tell her. I shall be better soon. Lie down here. I’ll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed I will.”

“Does anything trouble you, dear?”

“Yes, Jo,” after a long pause.

“Wouldn’t it comfort you to tell me what it is?”

“Not now, not yet.”

“Then I won’t ask, but remember, Bethy, that Mother and Jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can.”

“I know it. I’ll tell you by-and-by.”

“Is the pain better now?”

“Oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, Jo.”

“Go to sleep, dear. I’ll stay with you.”

So cheek to cheek they fell asleep.

But Jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother.

“You asked me the other day what my wishes were. I’ll tell you one of them, Mummy,” she began, as they sat along together. “I want to go away somewhere this winter for a change.”

“Why, Jo?” and her mother looked up quickly.

With her eyes on her work Jo answered soberly,

“I want something new. I feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than I am.”

“Where will you go?”

“To New York. I had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it. You know Mrs. Kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew. It’s rather hard to find just the thing, but I think I will fit if I try.”

“My dear, go out to service in that great boarding house[26]!” and Mrs. March looked surprised, but not displeased.

“It’s not exactly going out to service, for Mrs. Kirke is your friend and would make things pleasant for me, I know. It’s honest work, and I’m not ashamed of it.”

“Nor I. But your writing?”

“All the better for the change. I shall see and hear new things, get new ideas.”

“I have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?”

“No, Mother.”

“May I know the others?”

Jo looked up and down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks.

“It may be vain and wrong to say it, but – I’m afraid – Laurie is getting too fond of me.”

“Then you don’t care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?” and Mrs. March looked anxious as she put the question.

“Mercy, no! I love the dear boy, as I always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it’s out of the question.”

“I’m glad of that, Jo.”

“Why, please?”

“Because, dear, I don’t think you suited to one another. As friends you are very happy. But I fear you will both rebel if you are married. You are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together.”

“That’s just the feeling I had, though I couldn’t express it. It would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy.”

“You are sure of his feeling for you?”

The color deepened in Jo’s cheeks.

“I’m afraid it is so, Mother. He hasn’t said anything, but he looks a great deal. I think I must go away before it comes to anything.”

“I agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go.”

The plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for Mrs. Kirke gladly accepted Jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her. Jo was surprised that Laurie took it very quietly and made her preparations with a lightened heart.

“One thing I leave in your especial care,” she said to Beth, the night before she left.

“You mean your papers?” asked Beth.

“No, my boy. Be very good to him, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, but I can’t fill your place, and he’ll miss you sadly.”

“It won’t hurt him, so remember, I leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order.”

“I’ll do my best, for your sake,” promised Beth, wondering why Jo looked at her so queerly.

When Laurie said good-bye, he whispered significantly,

“It’s useless, Jo. I watch you, so think what you do, or I’ll come and bring you home.”

Jo’s Journal

New York, November

Dear Mummy and Beth,

I’m going to write you a volume. I have may things to tell.

Mrs. Kirke welcomed me so kindly I felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers. She gave me a funny little parlor – all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window. I can sit here and write whenever I like.

“Now, my dear, make yourself at home,” said Mrs. K., “There are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free. Come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can.”

As I went downstairs soon after, I saw something I liked. The flights[27] are very long in this tall house. As I stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to show up, I saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door nearby, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent,

“It goes better so. The little back is too young to such heaviness.”

Wasn’t it good of him? I like such things, for as Father says, trifles show character. When I mentioned it to Mrs. K., that evening, she laughed, and said,

“That must have been Professor Bhaer, he always does things of that sort.”

Mrs. K. told me he was from Berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an American. I mean to peep at him, and then I’ll tell you how he looks. He’s almost forty, so it’s no harm, mummy.

I shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.

Tuesday

The children were very noisy and I really thought to shake them. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and soon they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the servant took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework.

Suddenly the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, “Kennst Du Das Land[28]”, like a big bumblebee. It was dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn’t resist the temptation, and lifted one end of the curtain before the glass door, and peeped in.

Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a good look at him. A regular German-rather stout, with brown hair all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I ever saw, and a splendid big voice. His clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he had beautiful teeth. He looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, said in a loud, brisk tone,

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Примечания

1

shut him out from – закрыли ему путь к

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2

no stars or bars – ни чинов, ни наград

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3

The Spread Eagle – «Парящий орёл»

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4

a woman of means – женщина со средствами

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5

linen closet – бельевая

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6

имеется в виду лицензия на венчание без церковного оглашения

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7

watchman’s rattle – трещотка сторожа

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8

here’s a state of things! – что же это такое!

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9

Artistic Attempts – творческие изыскания

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10

pen-and-ink drawing – рисунки тушью и пером

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11

poker-sketching – выжигание по дереву

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12

divine attribute – божественное свойство

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13

cherry-bounce – шарабан

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14

scribbling suit – пиcательский костюм

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15

cut it down one third – сократить на треть

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16

private expense book – книга личных расходов

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17

I’m tired of being poor – я устала быть бедной

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18

just the thing – то, что надо

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19

calls – визиты

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20

dogskin gloves – лайковые перчатки

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21

to do the ‘parley vooing’ – «парлевукать» (зд.: говорить по-французски)

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22

That is so Frenchy. – Это так по-французски.

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23

Votre Amie – Ваша Эмми (франц.)

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24

ein wonderschönes Blondchen – прекрасная блондинка (нем.)

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25

whom you don’t care two pins – до которых тебе нет дела ни на грош

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26

boarding house – пансион

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27

flights – лестничные пролёты

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28

Kennst Du Das Land – «Ты знаешь ли край» (песня из романа Гёте «Годы учения Вильхельма Мейнстера»)

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