pairs of the socks,--for they were boggled out of shape with his
queer darns. Nothing was said, and I hoped he wouldn't find it
out, but one day last week he caught me at it. Hearing the
lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much
that I took a fancy to learn; for Tina runs in and out, leaving
the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near this
door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what
he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had
gone, and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was
busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most
absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was
Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to
Tina not to betray him.
"'So!' he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, 'you peep
at me, I peep at you, and that is not bad; but see, I am not
pleasanting when I say, haf you a wish for German?'
"'Yes; but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,' I
blundered out, as red as a peony.
"'Prut! we will make the time, and we fail not to find the
sense. At efening I shall gif a little lesson with much
gladness; for, look you, Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay,'
and he pointed to my work. 'Yes, they say to one another, these
so kind ladies, "he is a stupid old fellow; he will see not what
we do; he will never opserve that his sock-heels go not in holes
any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall,
and believe that strings make theirselves." Ah! but I haf an
eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel the thanks for
this. Come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy
works for me and mine.'
"Of course I couldn't say anything after that, and as it really
is a splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I
took four lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog.
The Professor was very patient with me, but it must have been
torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an
expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether
to laugh or cry. I tried both ways; and when it came to a sniff
of utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to
the floor, and marched out of the room. I felt myself disgraced
and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was
scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and
shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if
I'd covered myself with glory.
"'Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant
little Märchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that
goes in the corner for making us trouble.'
"He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Andersen's fairy tales so
invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and
went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to
amuse him immensely. I forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away
(no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over
long words, pronouncing according to the inspiration of the
minute, and doing my very best. When I finished reading my first
page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried
out, in his hearty way, 'Das ist gute! Now we go well! My turn.
I do him in German; gif me your ear.' And away he went, rumbling
out the words with his strong voice, and a relish which was good
to see as well as hear. Fortunately the story was the 'Constant
Tin Soldier,' which is droll, you know, so I could laugh,--and I
did,--though I didn't understand half he read, for I couldn't
help it, he was so earnest, I so excited, and the whole thing so
comical.
"After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty
well; for this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the
grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills
in jelly. I like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it
yet,--which is very good of him, isn't it? I mean to give him
something on Christmas, for I dare not offer money. Tell me
something nice, Marmee.
"I'm glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up
smoking, and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better
than I did. I'm not jealous, dear; do your best, only don't make
a saint of him. I'm afraid I couldn't like him without a spice
of human naughtiness. Read him bits of my letters. I haven't
time to write much, and that will do just as well. Thank Heaven
Beth continues so comfortable."
"JANUARY.
"A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course
includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can't
tell you how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn't
get it till night, and had given up hoping. Your letter came in
the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it
for a surprise; so I was disappointed, for I'd had a 'kind of a
feeling' that you wouldn't forget me. I felt a little low in my
mind, as I sat up in my room, after tea; and when the big,
muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I just hugged
it, and pranced. It was so _homey_ and refreshing, that I sat
down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and
cried, in my usual absurd way. The things were just what I
wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
Beth's new 'ink-bib' was capital; and Hannah's box of hard
gingerbread will be a treasure. I'll be sure and wear the nice
flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully the books father
has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!
[Illustration: I sat down upon the floor and read and looked and ate]
"Speaking of books reminds me that I'm getting rich in that
line for, on New Year's Day, Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine
Shakespeare. It is one he values much, and I've often admired
it, set up in the place of honor, with his German Bible, Plato,
Homer, and Milton; so you may imagine how I felt when he
brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my name in
it, 'from my friend Friedrich Bhaer.'
"'You say often you wish a library: here I gif you one; for
between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read
him well, and he will help you much; for the study of character
in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it
with your pen.'
"I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about 'my
library,' as if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much
there was in Shakespeare before; but then I never had a Bhaer to
explain it to me. Now _don't_ laugh at his horrid name; it isn't
pronounced either Bear or Beer, as people _will_ say it, but
something between the two, as only Germans can give it. I'm glad
you both like what I tell you about him, and hope you will know
him some day. Mother would admire his warm heart, father his
wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend
Friedrich Bhaer.'
"Not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, I got several
little things, and put them about the room, where he would find
them unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny,--a new
standish on his table, a little vase for his flower,--he always
has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he
says,--and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up
what Amy calls 'mouchoirs.' I made it like those Beth
invented,--a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow
wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy
immensely, and he put it on his mantel-piece as an article of
_vertu_; so it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he
didn't forget a servant or a child in the house; and not a soul
here, from the French laundry-woman to Miss Norton, forgot him.
I was so glad of that.
"They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year's Eve. I
didn't mean to go down, having no dress; but at the last minute,
Mrs. Kirke remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me
lace and feathers; so I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed
in with a mask on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and
no one dreamed of the silent, haughty Miss March (for they think
I am very stiff and cool, most of them; and so I am to
whipper-snappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a
'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of
the Nile.' I enjoyed it very much; and when we unmasked, it was
fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell
another that he knew I'd been an actress; in fact, he thought he
remembered seeing me at one of the minor theatres. Meg will
relish that joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was
Titania,--a perfect little fairy in his arms. To see them dance
was 'quite a landscape,' to use a Teddyism.
"I had a very happy New Year, after all; and when I thought it
over in my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite
of my many failures; for I'm cheerful all the time now, work
with a will, and take more interest in other people than I used
to, which is satisfactory. Bless you all! Ever your loving
JO."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: In the presence of three gentlemen]
XXXIV.
A FRIEND.
Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with
the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter for the
effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now
took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl;
but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that
money conferred power: money and power, therefore, she resolved to have;
not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than
self.
The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she
wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom; going
abroad herself, and always having _more_ than enough, so that she might
indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished
castle in the air.
The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful _château
en Espagne_. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger bean-stalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble, and the
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the
"up again and take another" spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack; so
she scrambled up, on the shady side this time, and got more booty, but
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the money-bags.
She took to writing sensation stories; for in those dark ages, even
all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a
"thrilling tale," and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
of the "Weekly Volcano." She had never read "Sartor Resartus," but she
had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful
over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of
cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their
heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of
them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by
this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment,--
"Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I wished to
see Mr. Dashwood."
Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced,
with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.
"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an
experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this
suits."
While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,
and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and
casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.
"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon,--sure
sign of a novice.
"No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the
'Blarneystone Banner.'"
"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to
take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more
of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present;
but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."
Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at
all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was
apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both; for it was
perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged among the
gentlemen, that her little fiction of "my friend" was considered a good
joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to
return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching
pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh
over the scene, and long for next week.
When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr.
Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr.
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners:
so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.
"We'll take this" (editors never say I), "if you don't object to a few
alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will
make it just the right length," he said, in a business-like tone.
Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its
pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on being
asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new
cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find
that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as
ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.
"But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
took care to have a few of my sinners repent."
Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.
"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell
nowadays;" which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.
"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"
"Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so
on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.
"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly
knowing how to express herself.
"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point
had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is
said.
"Very well; you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story, with a
satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five
seemed good pay.
"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than
this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.
"Well, we'll look at it; can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it
short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend
like to put to it?" in a careless tone.
"None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear, and
has no _nom de plume_," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.
"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week; will you
call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a
natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.
"I'll call. Good morning, sir."
As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark,
"Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."
Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend,
she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.
Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit
as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles
as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously
permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it
necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the
fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely
left him in the lurch.
She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains
next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing
disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at
home. She had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and
preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was
easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories; Mr.
Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon, but promised to be
dumb; and, for a wonder, kept his word.
She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write
nothing of which she should be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of
conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her
earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.
But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales; and, as thrills could
not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history
and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic
asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her
innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world
which underlies society; so, regarding it in a business light, she set
about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to
find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if
not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents,
incidents, and crimes; she excited the suspicions of public librarians
by asking for works on poisons; she studied faces in the street, and
characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her; she delved in the
dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as
good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well
as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering
finely; but, unconsciously, she was beginning to desecrate some of the
womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad
society; and, imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for
she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and
was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature
acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to
all of us.
She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of
other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating
about her own,--a morbid amusement, in which healthy young minds do not
voluntarily indulge. Wrong-doing always brings its own punishment; and,
when Jo most needed hers, she got it.
I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
brave, and strong; but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every
perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested
her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their
conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely
characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo
took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him,--a
proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the
worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.
Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither
rich nor great, young nor handsome; in no respect what is called
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant; and yet he was as attractive as a
genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about
a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving something
away; a stranger, yet every one was his friend; no longer young, but as
happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked
beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake.
Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and, at last,
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any
sorrow, "it sat with its head under its wing," and he turned only his
sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time
seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many
friendly words and cheery laughs; his eyes were never cold or hard, and
his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than
words.
His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable; his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
underneath; his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full;
his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy
like other people's.
"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that
genuine good-will towards one's fellow-men could beautify and dignify
even a stout German teacher, who shovelled in his dinner, darned his own
socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.
Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came
to see him, and, in a conversation with Miss Norton, divulged the
pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better
because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was
an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in
America; and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the
spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the _entrée_ into literary society,
which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary
woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many
favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with
her, one night, to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.
[Illustration: A select symposium]
Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
worshipped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for
genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to
recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and
women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid
admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on
"spirit, fire, and dew," to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a
fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters
with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with
one of the Madame de Staëls of the age, who looked daggers at another
Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after out-manœuvring her in
efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly
and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech
impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and
glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to
oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was
charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen
of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of
the party.