“His father had no patience with him, called him a shiftless dreamer,
and threatened to burn the beloved books. But his mother defended
him, for he was her youngest, and the pride of her heart; so she let
him scribble all over her floors before she scrubbed them up, dipped
extra thick candles for his use, saved every scrap of paper to swell
his little store, and firmly believed that he would turn out the
great man of the family. His brothers joked about his queer ways,
but in his sisters he found firm friends and tender comforters for
all his woes. So he struggled along, working on the farm in summer
and in a clock shop during the winter, with such brief spells of
schooling as he could get between whiles, improving even these poor
opportunities so well that he was letter-writer for all the young
people in the neighborhood.
“Now, he was writing in his journal very slowly, but very well,
shaping his letters with unusual grace and freedom; for the wide
snow-banks were his copybooks in winter, and on their white pages he
had learned to sweep splendid capitals or link syllables handsomely
together. This is what he wrote that night, with a sparkle in the
blue eyes and a firm folding of the lips that made the boyish face
resolute and manly:--
“‘I am set in my own mind that I get learning. I see not how, but my
will is strong, and mother hopes for to make a scholar of me. So,
please God, we shall do it.’
“Then he shut the little book and put it carefully away in the
blue chest, with pen and ink, as if they were very precious things;
piously said his prayers, and was soon asleep under the homespun
coverlet, dreaming splendid dreams, while a great bright star looked
in at the low window, as if waiting to show him the road to fortune.”
Miss Alcott’s mother was a woman of large, generous nature and fine
intellectual powers. She is well represented by Mrs. March in “Little
Women” in her motherly relations. Her early life is told in the “Story
of Aunt Abby.”
Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy are characteristic portraits of the four girls.
Meg, or Anne, was the domestic, home-loving sister with the gentle
disposition of the father, and she knew the happy marriage and sad
widowhood described in “Jo’s Boys.” The writer herself is represented
in the warm-blooded, impetuous, generous Jo; overflowing with life
and talent, strong and rash in her judgment, high and heroic in her
purposes, refined, idealized, and ever held up by the high spiritual
influences which her father’s thought and life shed around her, though
she sympathized more with her practical mother. Her sympathy with
others, her delight in blessing them, her keen understanding of their
natures and trials, are all true of the girl who was to develop into
such strong, noble womanhood. It is not true that she courted under an
umbrella or married a German professor, but she has so well imagined
the matrimonial conclusion which was demanded for the story, that we
are tempted to wish it were. She reappears in “Little Men,” “Jo’s
Boys,” “Old-fashioned Girl,” and many other stories.
The tender Elizabeth (the Beth of the story) drooped in her young
maidenhood even as the tale reports, and the father sat alone by the
beautiful body of his child all night in silence. The mother’s heart,
which had borne so many trials, was never quite blithe after this long
watching of two years, ending in the loss of her cherished child.
Every one who knew the young, enthusiastic, artistic May Alcott,
recognized her in the charming sketch of “Amy.” Beautifully idealized
by her sister’s genius, her little faults and peculiarities are
delicately sketched in, and we can see her stately walk, and recognize
the child-like, loving spirit which never forsook her. She had her
youthful romances and day-dreams, but she did not marry Laurie, nor
live to enjoy the blessings of motherhood and family life. She went
abroad in 1878 for improvement in art, in which she had much success,
and married a Swiss gentleman. Death closed her happy married life
of only a few months. She left her baby, a girl, to the care of her
sister Louisa, who sent out to Europe for the little nursling, and ever
afterwards cherished her as her own child. The verses of Mr. Alcott
show how the motherless child was welcomed into heart and home.
“Who was Laurie?” is a question asked by many children. No one boy
united all his traits, but three of their neighbors’ children in
Concord were especially intimate in the Alcott family, and supplied
letters for the post-office and other incidents of the story. But the
most perfect type of the accomplished, generous Laurie was a young
Polish lad whom Miss Alcott met in Europe.
No one can help seeing in her stories her fondness for boys. She loved
the bold, free spirit of adventure in them, the chivalric devotion
and self-sacrifice, the eagerness for knowledge of life, rather than
of books. She always held up a high standard, and believed in their
future, in spite of all boyish faults and follies. Consequently she
was warmly beloved, and “Jo’s Boys” was not merely a fiction of the
imagination, but a reality of the heart.
As soon as the war broke out, Miss Alcott could not rest at home, but
eagerly offered her services as nurse in the army hospitals. She had
been brought up in anti-slavery principles, and was full of patriotic
zeal and sympathy for the soldiers.
She has told the story of her work in “Hospital Sketches,” which is
very largely a mere transcript of letters which she sent home to her
family. She was stricken with fever while on duty, and returned home to
suffer many weeks of illness, and she never recovered from the terrible
strain upon her nervous system. The suffering she had witnessed and the
intense excitement of the war produced a fever of the brain, and the
peaceful chamber at Concord became so filled with harrowing visions
that she never loved to be there afterwards.
Miss Alcott never liked teaching, and longed for more congenial
occupation. When about nineteen or twenty she became enamoured of the
stage, and was very eager to develop her dramatic talent as an actress,
but wiser counsels restrained her. She has indicated this experience
in “Work,” which gives a great deal of her own life and struggles. She
understood her own powers and her own defects, and while she saw it was
not the life for her, she was sensible to its fascinations as well as
its dangers.
“On the night of the benefit, Lucy was in a most exasperating
mood, Christie in a very indignant one, and as they entered their
dressing-room they looked as if they might have played the ‘Rival
Queens’ with great effect. Lucy offered no help and Christie asked
none, but putting her vexation resolutely out of sight, fixed her
mind on the task before her.
“As the pleasant stir began all about her, actress-like, she felt
her spirits rise, her courage increase with every curl she fastened
up, every gay garment she put on, and soon smiled approvingly at
herself, for excitement lent her cheeks a better color than rouge;
her eyes shone with satisfaction, and her heart beat high with a
resolve to make a hit or die.
“Christie needed encouragement that night, and found it in the
hearty welcome that greeted her, and the full house, which proved
how kind a regard was entertained for her by many who knew her only
by a fictitious name. She felt this deeply, and it helped her much,
for she was vexed with many trials those before the footlights knew
nothing of....
“But, in spite of all annoyances, she had never played better in her
life. She liked the part, and acted the warm-hearted, quick-witted,
sharp-tongued Peg with a spirit and grace that surprised even those
who knew her best. Especially good was she in the scenes with
Triplet, for Kent played the part admirably, and cheered her on with
many an encouraging look and word. Anxious to do honor to her patron
and friend, she threw her whole heart into the work; in the scene
where she comes like a good angel to the home of the poor playwright,
she brought tears to the eyes of her audience; and when, at her
command, Triplet strikes up a jig to amuse the children, she ‘covered
the buckle’ in gallant style, dancing with all the frolicsome
_abandon_ of the Irish orange-girl, who for a moment forgot her
grandeur and her grief.
“That scene was her best, for it is full of those touches of nature
that need very little art to make them effective; and when a great
bouquet fell with a thump at Christie’s feet, as she paused to bow
her thanks for an encore, she felt that she had reached the height of
earthly bliss.”
But writing of poems, and especially of stories, was her earliest
love, and she now began to pursue this work earnestly. She wrote
stories which she sent secretly to the newspapers, and great was her
joy when they were accepted, and wild the excitement of the little
family over the first money which she thus earned. With marvellous
facility she poured out sheet after sheet of the wildest romances,
full of passionate declamation and soul-stirring adventure. They were
published in _Gleason’s Pictorial_, and were in constant demand, and
thus brought her much-needed money.
But she found that she was not in her true path. She was writing for
money only, and not from an earnest purpose to represent life truly,
and to disseminate a sweet and wholesome influence. She has described
this experience in “Little Women.” But it was only frivolity and
excitement, not positive evil in which she had indulged, and we must
not infer too much from her self-accusations. How entirely her later
writings redeemed this early fault, all will admit, for her highest
praise is for the healthy, moral influence of her books. No one would
have condemned her as severely as she does herself. She thus tells the
story of her abandonment of this work:--
“As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and
carefully re-read every one of her stories. Being a little
short-sighted, Mr. Bhaer sometimes used eye-glasses, and Jo had tried
them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her
book; now she seemed to have got on the professor’s mental or moral
spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her
dreadfully, and filled her with dismay.
“‘They _are_ trash, and will soon be worse than trash if I go on; for
each is more sensational than the last. I’ve gone blindly on, hurting
myself and other people, for the sake of money; I know it’s so, for I
can’t read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed
of it; and _what should_ I do if they were seen at home, or Mr. Bhaer
got hold of them?’
“Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into
her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
“‘Yes, that’s the best place for such inflammable nonsense; I’d
better burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow
themselves up with my gunpowder,’ she thought, as she watched the
‘Demon of the Jura’ whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.
“But when nothing remained of all her three months’ work, except a
heap of ashes, and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat
on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.
“‘I think I haven’t done much harm _yet_, and may keep this to pay
for my time,’ she said, after a long meditation, adding, impatiently,
‘I almost wish I hadn’t any conscience, it’s so inconvenient. If
I didn’t care about doing right, and didn’t feel uncomfortable
when doing wrong, I should get on capitally. I can’t help wishing,
sometimes, that father and mother hadn’t been so dreadfully
particular about such things.’
“Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that ‘father and mother
_were_ particular,’ and pity from your heart those who have no
such guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem
like prison walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure
foundations to build character upon in womanhood.
“Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did
not pay for her share of the sensation.”
In 1855 she published a little volume called “Flower Fables,” which she
had written for one of her friends when sixteen years old. She received
thirty-two dollars for it.
It was probably about this time that a friendly publisher gave her the
advice, “Louisa, give up writing, stick to your teaching,” accompanying
his unwelcome advice with a small sum of money. “When I make my little
pot of gold by writing, I will repay you this,” she said. When in a few
years she received a handsome sum of copyright money, she thought she
had found the “pot of gold,” and returned the money, as she had not
taken the advice.
In 1864 she published a more ambitious story or novel, entitled
“Moods.” While there is much to indicate her future power, the book has
not the charm of her later stories, and it did not succeed with the
public.
Perhaps she never felt such discouragement as from the severe
criticisms of this book, on which she had spent much time and labor.
But her motive for exertion was too strong to allow her to yield
to despondency. She wisely turned to the life which she thoroughly
understood, and in 1868 produced, out of her own family experience,
“Little Women,” which at once won the hearts of all the children, and
established her fame and fortune. The children throughout the land
recognized her as their friend and their story-teller, and the second
series, which should complete the story, was waited for with as much
impatience as the news of a battle.
Vehement was the indignation when Jo refused to make Laurie happy, and
young girls cried themselves sick over the pathetic passages of the
story.
Violent as the excitement was, it was not transient. This book has
commanded a steady sale ever since, and secured a welcome from
publisher and public for everything which she afterwards wrote.
She has herself given a most amusing description in “Jo’s Boys” of this
success, as well as of the somewhat oppressive attentions which were
poured upon her. She always shrank from any public demonstrations,
and remained as simple, straightforward, natural, impulsive, and
warm-hearted as a woman as she was when a child.
“The March family had enjoyed a great many surprises in the course
of their varied career, but the greatest of all was when the Ugly
Duckling turned out to be, not a swan, but a golden goose, whose
literary eggs found such an unexpected market that in ten years Jo’s
wildest and most cherished dream actually came true. How or why it
happened she never clearly understood, but all of a sudden she found
herself famous in a small way, and, better still, with a snug little
fortune in her pocket to clear away the obstacles of the present and
assure the future of her boys....
“Things always went by contraries with Jo. Her first book, labored
over for years, and launched full of the high hopes and ambitious
dreams of youth, foundered on its voyage. The hastily written story,
sent away with no thought beyond the few dollars it might bring,
sailed with a fair wind and a wise pilot at the helm straight into
public favor, and came home heavily laden with an unexpected cargo of
gold and glory....
“It was the power of making her mother’s last years happy and serene;
to see the burden of care laid down forever, the weary hands at rest,
the dear face untroubled by any anxiety, and the tender heart free
to pour itself out in the wise charity which was its delight. As a
girl, Jo’s favorite plan had been a room where Marmee could sit in
peace and enjoy herself after her hard, heroic life. Now the dream
had become a happy fact, and Marmee sat in her pleasant chamber
with every comfort and luxury about her, loving daughters to wait
on her as infirmities increased, a faithful mate to lean upon, and
grandchildren to brighten the twilight of life with their dutiful
affection. A very precious time to all, for she rejoiced, as only
mothers can, in the good fortunes of their children. She had lived to
reap the harvest she sowed; had seen prayers answered, hopes blossom,
good gifts bear fruit, peace and prosperity bless the home she had
made; and then, like some brave, patient angel, whose work was done,
turned her face heavenward, glad to rest.”
Dearer than all the fame was the power she gained by her writings to
lift her family out of poverty and care into welfare and luxury. Her
father was “throned in philosophic ease,” and every taste gratified;
his library replenished, his books re-bound, and his leisure made
peaceful and serene.
It was sweet to see the motherly hands, which had toiled so long for
every member of the household, resting in calm satisfaction. The
widowed sister and the dear nephews were helped in every emergency;
the young artist was furnished with means to go abroad and pursue her
career; the little babe was surrounded with every comfort; the old age
of the mother was made peaceful and happy, and the long, slow passage
of her father to the grave was smoothed with every attention and care.
Nor did her beneficence end at home. She did not have a Plumfield
school for boys, but she had her boys, whose career she watched
with constant love and care, and whom she sent to Europe to study,
or aided with means at home, as their needs required. The circle of
her influence was ever widening, and her charity flowed out to many
who never knew its source. She was constantly appealed to for advice
by young writers, and though she gave severe criticism, she readily
acknowledged merit and success. She gave sympathy and help to every
good reform, and was an ardent advocate of Woman’s Suffrage and other
plans for the advancement of women.
In 1865 her long-cherished desire of a visit to Europe was gratified.
She went as companion to an invalid lady. She left her on the Continent
and went alone to England, where she visited dear friends, and had
a delightful time. Very little of this experience appears in her
books, and she very seldom goes out of her native surroundings for
her characters and incidents. She was thoroughly American in all her
feelings, and she studied daily life more than old books and chronicles.
Four or five years later she went again to Europe with her youngest
sister and a friend. She has given a very lively and interesting
account of this journey in “Shawl Straps,” in which she rather
caricatures herself as the old lady of the party, for she was not yet
forty. But ill-health had thrown its saddening influence over her, and
the hints of physical and nervous suffering are only too real. She was
called home by news of the sudden death of her beloved brother-in-law.
She has told the sweet, touching story of his death in “Little Men”:--
“‘He was only ill a few hours, and died as he had lived, so
cheerfully, so peacefully, that it seems a sin to mar the beauty of
it with any violent or selfish grief. We were in time to say good-by;
and Daisy and Demi were in his arms as he fell asleep on Aunt Meg’s
breast. No more now, I cannot bear it’; and Mr. Bhaer went hastily
away quite bowed with grief, for in John Brooke he had lost both
friend and brother, and there was no one to take his place.”
I have tried to show you how Miss Alcott’s life was revealed in her
stories, and when you wonder how she could charm and interest children
so, this is the answer: because she tells you what she knows well
herself. All her books are full of incidents treasured in her heart and
memory.
“The Grandmother” in “Old-fashioned Girl” tells the stories of
Lafayette and Madam Hancock, which she had from her mother’s lips. Some
of the methods used by Mr. Bhaer in disciplining his boys were Mr.
Alcott’s plans in his Boston school; especially making the boys whip
him instead of receiving the blows themselves.
May’s experiences furnished the story of “Class Day.”
In 1879, Miss Alcott spent some weeks at Willow Cottage, Magnolia,
where she wrote the story of “Jack and Jill.” The main part of the
story describes life in Concord, or “Harmony,” as she translates it.
But a little paragraph pictures the beautiful sea-shore place, and the
kind, bright hostess who made it such a home; and the story of the
lobsters is founded in melancholy fact. Here is her description of this
pleasant summer home:--
“The Willows was a long, low house close to the beach, and as full as
a bee-hive of pleasant people, all intent on having a good time. A
great many children were swarming about, and Jill found it impossible
to sleep after her journey,--there was such a lively clatter of
tongues on the piazzas, and so many feet were going to and fro in the
halls. She lay down obediently, while Mrs. Minot settled matters in
the two airy rooms and gave her some dinner; but she kept popping up
her head to look out of the window to see what she could see. Just
opposite stood an artist’s cottage and studio, with all manner of
charming galleries, towers, steps, and even a sort of drawbridge, to
pull up when the painter wished to be left in peace. He was absent
now, and the visitors took possession of this fine play-place.
Children were racing up and down the galleries, ladies sitting in the
tower, boys disporting themselves on the roof, and young gentlemen
preparing for theatricals in the large studio.”
[Illustration: WILLOW COTTAGE, MAGNOLIA.]
The first chapter of the story gives a very lively description
of the favorite New England winter sport of “coasting,” which is a
good sketch of the scenes on the popular resort of Ponkataset Hill in
Concord:--
“Up and down three long coasts they went as fast as legs and sleds
could carry them. One smooth path led into the meadow, and here the
little folk congregated; one swept across the pond, where skates went
gayly around, like water-bugs; and the third, from the very top of
the steep hill, ended abruptly at a rail fence on the high bank above
the road.
“There was a group of lads and lasses sitting or leaning on this
fence to rest, after an exciting race, and, as they reposed, they
amused themselves with criticising their mates still absorbed in this
most delightful of out-door sports.”
In “Work” she describes her beloved minister, Theodore Parker, the
truest of friends; and in “Old-fashioned Girl,” two young artists who
cling to each other through all variations of life and fortune. The
doctor and the philanthropist (a beautiful girl lost on the ill-fated
“Schiller”), the actor and the lawyer, were all drawn from life.
It is this truth to real experience which gave her such power over the
hearts of children and girls, for they felt she understood and knew all
their trials, and never considered them small.
To understand other people’s feelings is the first step toward really
helping them.
A noble philanthropist said to me, “How much Louisa Alcott has done
to lead girls to right ways of thinking!” That is what she has tried
to do for you, her dear children and girls. She has tried to show how
sweet and precious home life is, and how you can always find something
to bless those right around you, and make yourselves and them happier
and better. She has taught you that homely, quiet work is never to be
despised, and that character and happiness can be built up without
great talents or large fortune. She has taught you never to despise
or despair of any child, however poor or homely or naughty, or even
sinful he may be; but to seek out the good angel in him, by which he
may be led onwards and upwards to usefulness and happiness. And she
has also taught you that if you are blessed with great gifts, with
wealth or talent, you have no right to leave them unemployed, but must
be as faithful to your large opportunities as others to their small
ones. Her boy Laurie must be shaken out of his elegant languor and
good-natured self-indulgence, as thoroughly as Dan must be civilized
out of rudeness. And the great principle which governed her own life,
and made her the benefactor and the friend of children, was loyalty to
duty in whatever form it appeared.
One of her prettiest poems is the “Song from the Suds,” and her
description of bread-making makes it as poetic as Nausicaa’s washing.
[Illustration]
“A SONG FROM THE SUDS.”