Little Women

A universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck, and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, ‘I told you so! I told you so!’ With wonderful presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside:

‘Don’t laugh! Act as if it was all right!’ – and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall of the tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman, and refused to stir. This dauntless example fired Zara: she also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in with chains, and led them away, looking very much frightened, and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made. Act third was the castle hall; and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish Hugo. She hears him coming, and hides; sees him put the potions into two cups of wine, and bid the timid little servant ‘Bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them I shall come anon.’ The servant takes Hugo aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless. Ferdinando, the ‘minion’, carries them away, and Hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and, after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies; while Hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.

This was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long hair rather marred the effect of the villain’s death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together.

Act fourth displayed the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself, because he has been told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true, but in danger, and he can save her, if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains, and rushes away to find and rescue his lady-love.

Act fifth opened with a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent, but she won’t hear of it; and, after a touching appeal, is about to faint, when Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously, but cannot agree, and Roderigo is about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair, and an awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn’t make them happy. The bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage, till it is quite glorified with the glitter. This entirely softens the ‘stern sire’: he consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive Don Pedro’s blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.

Tumultuous applause followed, but received an unexpected check; for the cot-bed, on which the ‘dress-circle’ was built, suddenly shut up, and extinguished the enthusiastic audience. Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter. The excitement had hardly subsided, when Hannah appeared, with ‘Mrs March’s compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.’

This was a surprise, even to the actors; and, when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them; but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty. There was icecream – actually two dishes of it, pink and white – and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons, and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hothouse flowers.

It quite took their breath away; and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

‘Is it fairies?’ asked Amy.

‘It’s Santa Claus,’ said Beth.

‘Mother did it’; and Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her grey beard and white eyebrows.

‘Aunt March had a good fit, and sent the supper,’ cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.

‘All wrong. Old Mr Laurence sent it,’ replied Mrs March.

‘The Laurence boy’s grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don’t know him!’ exclaimed Meg.

‘Hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him. He knew my father, years ago; and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling towards my children by sending them a few trifles in honour of the day. I could not refuse; and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast.’

‘That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He’s a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted. He looks as if he’d like to know us; but he’s bashful, and Meg is so prim she won’t let me speak to him when we pass,’ said Jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ‘Ohs!’ and ‘Ahs!’ of satisfaction.

‘You mean the people who live in the big house next door, don’t you?’ asked one of the girls. ‘My mother knows old Mr Laurence; but says he’s very proud, and doesn’t like to mix with his neighbours. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn’t riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We invited him to our party, but he didn’t come. Mother says he’s very nice, though he never speaks to us girls.’

‘Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally – all about cricket, and so on – when he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day; for he needs fun, I’m sure he does,’ said Jo decidedly.

‘I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman; so I’ve no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself; and I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic, and evidently having none of his own.’

‘It’s a mercy you didn’t, Mother!’ laughed Jo, looking at her boots. ‘But we’ll have another play, some time, that he can see. Perhaps he’ll help act; wouldn’t that be jolly?’

‘I never had such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!’ And Meg examined her flowers with great interest.

‘They are lovely. But Beth’s roses are sweeter to me,’ said Mrs March, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.

Beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, ‘I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I’m afraid he isn’t having such a merry Christmas as we are.’

CHAPTER 3 The Laurence Boy

‘Jo! Jo! where are you?’ cried Meg, at the foot of the garret stairs.

‘Here!’ answered a husky voice from above; and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window. This was Jo’s favourite refuge; and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by, and didn’t mind her a particle. As Meg appeared, Scrabble whisked into his hole. Jo shook the tears off her cheeks, and waited to hear the news.

‘Such fun! only see! a regular note of invitation from Mrs Gardiner for tomorrow night!’ cried Meg, waving the precious paper, and then proceeding to read it, with girlish delight.

‘“Mrs Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year’s Eve.” Marmee is willing we should go; now what shall we wear?’

‘What’s the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins because we haven’t got anything else?’ answered Jo, with her mouth full.

‘If I only had a silk!’ sighed Meg. ‘Mother says I may when I’m eighteen, perhaps; but two years is an everlasting time to wait.’

‘I’m sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us. Yours is as good as new, but I forgot the burn and the tear in mine. Whatever shall I do? the burn shows badly and I can’t take any out.’

‘You must sit still all you can, and keep your back out of sight; the front is all right. I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren’t as nice as I’d like.’

‘Mine are spoilt with lemonade, and I can’t get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,’ said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.

‘You must have gloves, or I won’t go,’ cried Meg decidedly, ‘gloves are more important than anything else. I should be so mortified if you didn’t have them.’

‘Then I’ll stay still. I don’t care much for company dancing. It’s no fun to go sailing round. I like to fly about and cut capers.’

‘You can’t ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless. She said, when you spoilt the others, that she shouldn’t get you any more this winter. Can’t you make them do?’ asked Meg anxiously.

‘I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are; that’s all I can do. No, I’ll tell you how we can manage – each wear one good one and carry a bad one; don’t you see?’

‘Your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully,’ began Meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.

‘Then I’ll go without. I don’t care what people say!’ cried Jo, taking up her book.

‘You may have it, you may! only don’t stain it, and do behave nicely. Don’t put your hands behind you, or stare, or say “Christopher Columbus!” will you?’

‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll be as prim as I can, and not get into any scrapes, if I can help it. Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story.’

So Meg went away to ‘accept with thanks’, look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill; while Jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with Scrabble.

On New Year’s Eve the parlour was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing-maids, and the two older were absorbed in the all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party’. Simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burnt hair pervaded the house. Meg wanted a few curls about her face, and Jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.

‘Ought they to smoke like that?’ asked Beth, from her perch on the bed.

‘It’s the dampness drying,’ replied Jo.

‘What a queer smell! it’s like burnt feathers,’ observed Amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.

‘There, now I’ll take off the papers and you’ll see a cloud of little ringlets,’ said Jo, putting down the tongs.

She did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.

‘Oh, oh, oh! what have you done? I’m spoilt! I can’t go! My hair, oh, my hair!’ wailed Meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.

‘Just my luck; you shouldn’t have asked me to do it; I always spoil everything. I’m so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so I’ve made a mess,’ groaned poor Jo, regarding the black pancakes with tears of regret.

‘It isn’t spoilt: just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion. I’ve seen many girls do it so,’ said Amy, consolingly.

‘Serves me right for trying to be fine. I wish I’d let my hair alone,’ cried Meg, petulantly.

‘So do I, it was so smooth and pretty. But it will soon grow out again,’ said Beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.

After various lesser mishaps, Meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the family, Jo’s hair was got up and her dress on. They looked very well in their simple suits. Meg in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin; Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on the one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect ‘quite easy and fine’. Meg’s high-heeled slippers were very tight, and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant or die!

‘Have a good time, dearies!’ said Mrs March, as the sisters went daintily down the walk. ‘Don’t eat much supper, and come away at eleven, when I send Hannah for you.’ As the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window:

‘Girls, girls! have you both got nice pocket-handkerchiefs?’

‘Yes, yes, spandy nice, and Meg has cologne on hers,’ cried Jo, adding with a laugh, as they went on, ‘I do believe Marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake.’

‘It is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief,’ replied Meg, who had a good many little ‘aristocratic tastes’ of her own.

‘Now don’t forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, Jo. Is my sash right? and does my hair look very bad?’ said Meg, as she turned from the glass in Mrs Gardiner’s dressing room, after a prolonged prink.

‘I know I shall forget. If you see me doing anything wrong just remind me by a wink, will you?’ returned Jo, giving her collar a twitch and her hair a hasty brush.

‘No, winking isn’t lady-like; I’ll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right. Now hold your shoulders straight and take short steps, and don’t shake hands if you are introduced to anyone: it isn’t the thing.’

‘How do you learn all the proper ways? I never can. Isn’t that music gay?’

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and, informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them. Mrs Gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly, and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Meg knew Sallie, and was at her ease very soon; but Jo, who didn’t care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower-garden. Half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life. She telegraphed her wish to Meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir. No one came to talk to her, and one by one the group near her dwindled away, till she was left alone. She could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burnt breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began. Meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly. Jo saw a big redheaded youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace. Unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge; for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy’.

‘Dear me, I didn’t know anyone was here!’ stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed, and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled:

‘Don’t mind me; stay if you like.’

‘Shan’t I disturb you?’

‘Not a bit; I only came here because I don’t know many people, and I felt rather strange at first, you know.’

‘So did I. Don’t go away, please, unless you’d rather.’

The boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till Jo said, trying to be polite and easy:

‘I think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before; you live near us, don’t you?’

‘Next door’; and he looked up and laughed outright, for Jo’s prim manner was rather funny, when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home.

That put Jo at her ease; and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way:

‘We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.’

‘Grandpa sent it.’

‘But you put it into his head, didn’t you, now?’

‘How is your cat, Miss March?’ asked the boy, trying to look sober, while his black eyes shone with fun.

‘Nicely, thank you, Mr Laurence; but I am not Miss March, I’m only Jo,’ returned the young lady.

‘I’m not Mr Laurence, I’m only Laurie.’

‘Laurie Laurence – what an odd name!’

‘My first name is Theodore, but I don’t like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.’

‘I hate my name, too – so sentimental! I wish everyone would say Jo, instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?’

‘I thrashed ’em.’

‘I can’t thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it’; and Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

‘Do you like parties?’ she asked in a moment.

‘Sometimes; you see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been in company enough yet to know how you do things here.’

‘Abroad!’ cried Jo. ‘Oh, tell me about it! I love dearly to hear people describe their travels.’

Laurie didn’t seem to know where to begin; but Jo’s eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in Vevey, where the boys never wore hats, and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

‘Don’t I wish I’d been there!’ cried Jo. ‘Did you go to Paris?’

‘We spent last winter there.’

‘Can you talk French?’

‘We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevey.’

‘Do say some! I can read it, but can’t pronounce.’

‘Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolies?’ said Laurie, good-naturedly.

‘How nicely you do it! Let me see – you said, “Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers,” didn’t you?’

‘Oui, mademoiselle.’

‘It’s my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?’

‘Yes; she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet.’

Jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to Meg. Both peeped and criticized and chatted, till they felt like old acquaintances. Laurie’s bashfulness soon wore off; for Jo’s gentlemanly demeanour amused and set him at his ease, and Jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten, and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her. She liked the ‘Laurence boy’ better than ever, and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls; for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.

‘Curly black hair; brown skin; big, black eyes; handsome nose; fine teeth; small hands and feet; taller than I am; very polite for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?’

It was on the tip of Jo’s tongue to ask; but she checked herself in time, and with unusual tact, tried to find out in a roundabout way.

‘I suppose you are going to college soon? I see you pegging away at your books – no, I mean studying hard’; and Jo blushed at the dreadful ‘pegging’ which had escaped her.

Laurie smiled, but didn’t seem shocked, and answered, with a shrug:

‘Not for a year or two; I won’t go before seventeen, anyway.’

‘Aren’t you but fifteen?’ asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.

‘Sixteen, next month.’

‘How I wish I was going to college! You don’t look as if you liked it.’

‘I hate it! Nothing but grinding or skylarking. And I don’t like the way fellows do either in this country.’

‘What do you like?’

‘To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.’

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was: but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them; so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, ‘That’s a splendid polka in the next room. Why don’t you go and try it?’

‘If you will come too,’ he answered, with a gallant little bow.

‘I can’t; for I told Meg I wouldn’t, because –’ There Jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.

‘Because what?’ asked Laurie, curiously.

‘You won’t tell?’

‘Never!’

‘Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one; and though it’s nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still, so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to; it is funny, I know.’

But Laurie didn’t laugh; he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo, when he said very gently: ‘Never mind that. I’ll tell you how we can manage: there’s a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.’

Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice, pearl-coloured ones her partner put on. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring.

When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and Laurie was in the midst of an account of a students’ festival at Heidelberg, when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

‘I’ve sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned, and gave me a sad wrench. It aches so I can hardly stand, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to get home,’ she said, rocking to and fro in pain.

‘I knew you’d hurt your feet with those silly shoes. I’m sorry. But I don’t see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,’ answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

‘I can’t have a carriage, without its costing ever so much. I daresay I can’t get one at all; for most people come in their own, and it’s a long way to the stable, and no one to send.’

‘I’ll go.’

‘No, indeed! It’s past nine, and dark as Egypt. I can’t stop here, for the house is full. Sallie has some girls staying with her. I’ll rest till Hannah comes, and then do the best I can.’

‘I’ll ask Laurie; he will go,’ said Jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her.

‘Mercy, no! Don’t ask or tell anyone. Get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things. As soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah, and tell me the minute she comes.’

‘They are going out to supper now. I’ll stay with you; I’d rather.’

‘No, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee. I’m so tired, I can’t stir!’

So Meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and Jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a china-closet, and opening the door of a room where old Mr Gardiner was taking a little private refreshment. Making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilt, making the front of her dress as bad as the back.

‘Oh, dear, what a blunderbuss I am!’ exclaimed Jo, finishing Meg’s glove by scrubbing her gown with it.

‘Can I help you?’ said a friendly voice; and there was Laurie, with a full cup in one hand, and a plate of ice in the other.