was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her
week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and
ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well anywheres." This hitch
in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the
whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil desperandum," and having made up
her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles.
To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well: the chicken was
tough, the tongue too salt, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly.
Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and
various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up
rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had
an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a
divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were
uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.
"If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as Amy
declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best joke of the
season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else.
If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday,--an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last
degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which
is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a
little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late
for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people
out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be
got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby; but
without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skilfully made the
best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the
carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures framed in ivy, and
filling up empty corners with home-made statuary, which gave an artistic
air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.
The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped
it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver
would 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 had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, an
aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything
would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with
anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch safely over, she should
drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights; for
the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge were her strong points.
Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor
to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart
shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young
ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two the
exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
"No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so we must
fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next
morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had
said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting
a little stale.
"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad to-day,"
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, who was still a patroness of cats.
"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, with the magnanimity
of a martyr.
"You'd come bringing it home under your arm, without any paper, just to
try me. I'll go myself," answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to
fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket, she
departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit, and
fit her for the labors of the day. 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, well pleased with her own
forethought.
As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady,
Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to
find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card
full of refractory figures that she did not observe a new-comer, who
entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said,
"Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's
most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out
before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and,
congratulating herself that she had on her new travelling dress,
returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by
learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away
in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to
the door, she upset the basket, and--oh, horror!--the lobster, in all
its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a
Tudor.
"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth,
poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing
to hand out the basket after the old lady.
"Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red
as her fish.
[Illustration: Please don't, it's mine]
"Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said
Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that
did credit to his breeding.
Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat,
and said, laughing,--
"Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and to
see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"
Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind
were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing
reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young ladies" diverted
his mind from the comical mishap.
"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I sha'n't see
them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that,
thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of
dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the
preparations which now seemed more irksome than before; 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 to-day; 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 into the porch to meet
them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time
after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word.
But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression,
for, looking quite lost 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, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a
laugh.
In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest who
had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn,
played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most
hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely control the merriment
which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being gayly partaken of, the
studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy
ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce!) and drove her
friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when "the party went
out."
As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever, she
observed that every vestige of the unfortunate _fête_ had disappeared,
except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth.
"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother,
as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
"Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I
thought," observed Beth, with unusual warmth.
"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg
soberly.
"Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will
mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of
the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
"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, and the
whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,
"Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn"--here
a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history of sallets," to
the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason you
should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping
her eyes.
"I thought I _should_ have died when I saw you two girls rattling about
in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell,
and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite
spent with laughter.
"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, and I'll
thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least."
No one did for several months; but the word "_fête_" always produced a
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard.
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Literary Lessons]
XXVII.
LITERARY LESSONS.
Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in her
path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would
have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came to her
in this wise.
Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her
scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it, writing
away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was
finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit" consisted of a
black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a
cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which
she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap
was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these
periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads
semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They
did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an
observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive
article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that
hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly
askew; and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and
cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew; and
not until the red bow was seen gayly erect upon the gifted brow, did any
one dare address Jo.
She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the writing
fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a
blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat
safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and
dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood
untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which
blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even
if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week
or two, and then she emerged from her "vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross,
or despondent.
She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed
upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue
was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on
the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for
such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil
would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories
of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price
of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder
riddles than that of the Sphinx.
They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo
amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the
seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads,
and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights and making tatting.
Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the
hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an
old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On
her right, her only neighbor was a studious-looking lad absorbed in a
newspaper.
It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,
idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed
the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling
over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young
gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each
other close by, and a dishevelled female was flying away in the
background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw
her looking, and, with boyish good-nature, offered half his paper,
saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a first-rate story."
Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for
lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,
mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light
literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's
invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the
_dramatis personæ_, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.
"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo,
amused at his admiration of the trash.
"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good
living out 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 pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed."
"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo
looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly-sprinkled
exclamation-points that adorned the page.
"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for
writing it."
Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Prof.
Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its
columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the
audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the
first founded upon paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her
story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the
elopement or after the murder.
She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to
the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when
"genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her
theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for
they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her
limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to
make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an
earthquake, as a striking and appropriate _dénouement_. The manuscript
was privately despatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if
the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she
would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.
Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to
keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all
hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which
almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a hundred
dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had
been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable
gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense
happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would devote his
leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo valued the
letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and after years
of effort it was _so_ pleasant to find that she had learned to do
something, though it was only to write a sensation story.
[Illustration: A check for one hundred dollars]
A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed
herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the
letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won
the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came
every one read and praised it; though after her father had told her that
the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy
quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way,--
"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the
money."
"_I_ think the money is the best part of it. What _will_ you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.
"Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo
promptly.
"Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish,"
cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath, as
if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and motioned
away the check which her sister waved before her.
"Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I tried for,
and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone,
so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, Marmee needs
the change, and she won't leave you, so you _must_ go. Won't it be fun
to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always
cures her patients!"
To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth didn't
come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better,
while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo was
satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with
a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She
did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the
house; for 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" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the Coventrys" proved the
blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.
Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny
side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction
which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of
necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the
world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy
richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could
supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.
Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market; and,
encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and
fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her
confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three
publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut
it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly
admired.
"Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould, pay for
printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and get what I can
for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more
convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important
subject," said Jo, calling a family council.
"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,
and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no
haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.
"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making 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. We are too partial; but the praise and blame of
outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."
"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been fussing
over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or
indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons
take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
"I wouldn't leave out a word of it; you'll spoil it if you do, for the
interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the
people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on,"
said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable
novel ever written.
"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and
dramatic, and let the characters tell the story,'" 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. By and by, when, you've
got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and
metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly
practical view of the subject.
"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people _are_ 'philosophical and
metaphysical,' it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things,
except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise
ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth,
what do you say?"
"I should so like to see it printed _soon_," was all Beth said, and
smiled in saying it; but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last
word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike
candor, which chilled Jo's heart, for a minute, with a foreboding fear,
and decided her to make her little venture "soon."
So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on
her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of
pleasing every one, she took every one's advice; and, like the old man
and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody.
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
into it; so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts about
it. Her mother thought that there _was_ a trifle too much description;
out, therefore, it nearly all came, and with it many necessary links in
the story. Meg admired the tragedy; so Jo piled up the agony to suit
her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in
life, Jo quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the sombre
character of the story. Then, to complete the ruin, she cut it down one
third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked
robin, out into the big, busy world, to try its fate.
Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it; likewise
plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that
she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from which it took her some
time to recover.