Work: A Story of Experience
by Louisa May Alcott
AUTHOR OF “LITTLE WOMEN,” “LITTLE MEN,” “AN
OLD-FASHIONED GIRL,” “HOSPITAL SKETCHES,” ETC.
[Illustration]
“An endless significance lies in work; in idleness alone is there
perpetual despair.”—CARLYLE.
BOSTON:
1901.
TO
MY MOTHER,
WHOSE LIFE HAS BEEN A LONG LABOR OF LOVE, THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED
BY
HER DAUGHTER.
Contents
I. CHRISTIE
II. SERVANT
III. ACTRESS
IV. GOVERNESS
V. COMPANION
VI. SEAMSTRESS
VII. THROUGH THE MIST
VIII. A CURE FOR DESPAIR
IX. MRS. WILKINS’S MINISTER
X. BEGINNING AGAIN
XI. IN THE STRAWBERRY BED
XII. CHRISTIE’S GALA
XIII. WAKING UP
XIV. WHICH?
XV. MIDSUMMER
XVI. MUSTERED IN
XVII. THE COLONEL
XVIII. SUNRISE
XIX. LITTLE HEART’S-EASE
XX. AT FORTY
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS,
FROM DRAWINGS BY SOL EYTINGE.
“How doth the little busy bee”
Christie
Aunt Betsey’s Interlarded Speech
Mrs. Stuart.
Hepsey
Christie as Queen of the Amazons
Mr. Philip Fletcher
Mrs. Saltonstall and Family
“No, I thank you”
Helen Carrol
Mrs. King and Miss Cotton
The Rescue
“C. Wilkins, Clear Starcher”
Lisha Wilkins
Mrs. Wilkins’ “Six Lively Infants”
Mr. Power
Mrs. Sterling
David and Christie in the Greenhouse
Mr. Power and Christie in the Strawberry Bed
A Friendly Chat
Kitty.
“One Happy Moment”
David
“Then they were married”
“Don’t mourn, dear heart, but WORK”
“She’s a good little gal; looks consid’able like you”
“Each ready to do her part to hasten the coming of the happy end”
WORK: A STORY OF EXPERIENCE.
CHAPTER I.
CHRISTIE.
[Illustration: CHRISTIE.]
“Aunt Betsey, there’s going to be a new Declaration of Independence.”
“Bless and save us, what do you mean, child?” And the startled old lady
precipitated a pie into the oven with destructive haste.
“I mean that, being of age, I’m going to take care of myself, and not
be a burden any longer. Uncle wishes me out of the way; thinks I ought
to go, and, sooner or later, will tell me so. I don’t intend to wait
for that, but, like the people in fairy tales, travel away into the
world and seek my fortune. I know I can find it.”
Christie emphasized her speech by energetic demonstrations in the
bread-trough, kneading the dough as if it was her destiny, and she was
shaping it to suit herself; while Aunt Betsey stood listening, with
uplifted pie-fork, and as much astonishment as her placid face was
capable of expressing. As the girl paused, with a decided thump, the
old lady exclaimed:
“What crazy idee you got into your head now?”
“A very sane and sensible one that’s got to be worked out, so please
listen to it, ma’am. I’ve had it a good while, I’ve thought it over
thoroughly, and I’m sure it’s the right thing for me to do. I’m old
enough to take care of myself; and if I’d been a boy, I should have
been told to do it long ago. I hate to be dependent; and now there’s no
need of it, I can’t bear it any longer. If you were poor, I wouldn’t
leave you; for I never forget how kind _you_ have been to me. But Uncle
doesn’t love or understand me; I _am_ a burden to him, and I must go
where I can take care of myself. I can’t be happy till I do, for
there’s nothing here for me. I’m sick of this dull town, where the one
idea is eat, drink, and get rich; I don’t find any friends to help me
as I want to be helped, or any work that I can do well; so let me go,
Aunty, and find my place, wherever it is.”
“But I do need you, deary; and you mustn’t think Uncle don’t like you.
He does, only he don’t show it; and when your odd ways fret him, he
ain’t pleasant, I know. I don’t see why you can’t be contented; I’ve
lived here all my days, and never found the place lonesome, or the
folks unneighborly.” And Aunt Betsey looked perplexed by the new idea.
“You and I are very different, ma’am. There was more yeast put into my
composition, I guess; and, after standing quiet in a warm corner so
long, I begin to ferment, and ought to be kneaded up in time, so that I
may turn out a wholesome loaf. You can’t do this; so let me go where it
can be done, else I shall turn sour and good for nothing. Does that
make the matter any clearer?” And Christie’s serious face relaxed into
a smile as her aunt’s eye went from her to the nicely moulded loaf
offered as an illustration.
“I see what you mean, Kitty; but I never thought on’t before. You be
better riz than me; though, let me tell you, too much emptins makes
bread poor stuff, like baker’s trash; and too much workin’ up makes it
hard and dry. Now fly ’round, for the big oven is most het, and this
cake takes a sight of time in the mixin’.”
“You haven’t said I might go, Aunty,” began the girl, after a long
pause devoted by the old lady to the preparation of some compound which
seemed to require great nicety of measurement in its ingredients; for
when she replied, Aunt Betsey curiously interlarded her speech with
audible directions to herself from the receipt-book before her.
[Illustration: AUNT BETSEY’S INTERLARDED SPEECH.]
“I ain’t no right to keep you, dear, ef you choose to take (a pinch of
salt). I’m sorry you ain’t happy, and think you might be ef you’d only
(beat six eggs, yolks and whites together). But ef you can’t, and feel
that you need (two cups of sugar), only speak to Uncle, and ef he says
(a squeeze of fresh lemon), go, my dear, and take my blessin’ with you
(not forgettin’ to cover with a piece of paper).”
Christie’s laugh echoed through the kitchen; and the old lady smiled
benignly, quite unconscious of the cause of the girl’s merriment.
“I shall ask Uncle to-night, and I know he won’t object. Then I shall
write to see if Mrs. Flint has a room for me, where I can stay till I
get something to do. There is plenty of work in the world, and I’m not
afraid of it; so you’ll soon hear good news of me. Don’t look sad, for
you know I never could forget you, even if I should become the greatest
lady in the land.” And Christie left the prints of two floury but
affectionate hands on the old lady’s shoulders, as she kissed the
wrinkled face that had never worn a frown to her.
Full of hopeful fancies, Christie salted the pans and buttered the
dough in pleasant forgetfulness of all mundane affairs, and the
ludicrous dismay of Aunt Betsey, who followed her about rectifying her
mistakes, and watching over her as if this sudden absence of mind had
roused suspicions of her sanity.
“Uncle, I want to go away, and get my own living, if you please,” was
Christie’s abrupt beginning, as they sat round the evening fire.
“Hey! what’s that?” said Uncle Enos, rousing from the doze he was
enjoying, with a candle in perilous proximity to his newspaper and his
nose.
Christie repeated her request, and was much relieved, when, after a
meditative stare, the old man briefly answered:
“Wal, go ahead.”
“I was afraid you might think it rash or silly, sir.”
“I think it’s the best thing you could do; and I like your good sense
in pupposin’ on’t.”
“Then I may really go?”
“Soon’s ever you like. Don’t pester me about it till you’re ready; then
I’ll give you a little suthing to start off with.” And Uncle Enos
returned to “The Farmer’s Friend,” as if cattle were more interesting
than kindred.
Christie was accustomed to his curt speech and careless manner; had
expected nothing more cordial; and, turning to her aunt, said, rather
bitterly:
“Didn’t I tell you he’d be glad to have me go? No matter! When I’ve
done something to be proud of, he will be as glad to see me back
again.” Then her voice changed, her eyes kindled, and the firm lips
softened with a smile. “Yes, I’ll try my experiment; then I’ll get
rich; found a home for girls like myself; or, better still, be a Mrs.
Fry, a Florence Nightingale, or”—
“How are you on’t for stockin’s, dear?”
Christie’s castles in the air vanished at the prosaic question; but,
after a blank look, she answered pleasantly:
“Thank you for bringing me down to my feet again, when I was soaring
away too far and too fast. I’m poorly off, ma’am; but if you are
knitting these for me, I shall certainly start on a firm foundation.”
And, leaning on Aunt Betsey’s knee, she patiently discussed the
wardrobe question from hose to head-gear.
“Don’t you think you could be contented any way, Christie, ef I make
the work lighter, and leave you more time for your books and things?”
asked the old lady, loth to lose the one youthful element in her quiet
life.
“No, ma’am, for I can’t find what I want here,” was the decided answer.
“What do you want, child?”
“Look in the fire, and I’ll try to show you.”
The old lady obediently turned her spectacles that way; and Christie
said in a tone half serious, half playful:
“Do you see those two logs? Well that one smouldering dismally away in
the corner is what my life is now; the other blazing and singing is
what I want my life to be.”
“Bless me, what an idee! They are both a-burnin’ where they are put,
and both will be ashes to-morrow; so what difference doos it make?”
Christie smiled at the literal old lady; but, following the fancy that
pleased her, she added earnestly:
“I know the end is the same; but it does make a difference how they
turn to ashes, and how I spend my life. That log, with its one dull
spot of fire, gives neither light nor warmth, but lies sizzling
despondently among the cinders. But the other glows from end to end
with cheerful little flames that go singing up the chimney with a
pleasant sound. Its light fills the room and shines out into the dark;
its warmth draws us nearer, making the hearth the cosiest place in the
house, and we shall all miss the friendly blaze when it dies. Yes,” she
added, as if to herself, “I hope my life may be like that, so that,
whether it be long or short, it will be useful and cheerful while it
lasts, will be missed when it ends, and leave something behind besides
ashes.”
Though she only half understood them, the girl’s words touched the kind
old lady, and made her look anxiously at the eager young face gazing so
wistfully into the fire.
“A good smart blowin’ up with the belluses would make the green stick
burn most as well as the dry one after a spell. I guess contentedness
is the best bellus for young folks, ef they would only think so.”
“I dare say you are right, Aunty; but I want to try for myself; and if
I fail, I’ll come back and follow your advice. Young folks always have
discontented fits, you know. Didn’t you when you were a girl?”
“Shouldn’t wonder ef I did; but Enos came along, and I forgot ’em.”
“My Enos has not come along yet, and never may; so I’m not going to sit
and wait for any man to give me independence, if I can earn it for
myself.” And a quick glance at the gruff, gray old man in the corner
plainly betrayed that, in Christie’s opinion, Aunt Betsey made a bad
bargain when she exchanged her girlish aspirations for a man whose soul
was in his pocket.
“Jest like her mother, full of hifalutin notions, discontented, and sot
in her own idees. Poor capital to start a fortin’ on.”
Christie’s eye met that of her uncle peering over the top of his paper
with an expression that always tried her patience. Now it was like a
dash of cold water on her enthusiasm, and her face fell as she asked
quickly:
“How do you mean, sir?”
“I mean that you are startin’ all wrong; your redic’lus notions about
independence and self-cultur won’t come to nothin’ in the long run, and
you’ll make as bad a failure of your life as your mother did of her’n.”
“Please, don’t say that to me; I can’t bear it, for I shall never think
her life a failure, because she tried to help herself, and married a
good man in spite of poverty, when she loved him! You call that folly;
but I’ll do the same if I can; and I’d rather have what my father and
mother left me, than all the money you are piling up, just for the
pleasure of being richer than your neighbors.”
“Never mind, dear, he don’t mean no harm!” whispered Aunt Betsey,
fearing a storm.
But though Christie’s eyes had kindled and her color deepened, her
voice was low and steady, and her indignation was of the inward sort.
“Uncle likes to try me by saying such things, and this is one reason
why I want to go away before I get sharp and bitter and distrustful as
he is. I don’t suppose I can make you understand my feeling, but I’d
like to try, and then I’ll never speak of it again;” and, carefully
controlling voice and face, Christie slowly added, with a look that
would have been pathetically eloquent to one who could have understood
the instincts of a strong nature for light and freedom: “You say I am
discontented, proud and ambitious; that’s true, and I’m glad of it. I
am discontented, because I can’t help feeling that there is a better
sort of life than this dull one made up of everlasting work, with no
object but money. I can’t starve my soul for the sake of my body, and I
mean to get out of the treadmill if I can. I’m proud, as you call it,
because I hate dependence where there isn’t any love to make it
bearable. You don’t say so in words, but I know you begrudge me a home,
though you will call me ungrateful when I’m gone. I’m willing to work,
but I want work that I can put my heart into, and feel that it does me
good, no matter how hard it is. I only ask for a chance to be a useful,
happy woman, and I don’t think that is a bad ambition. Even if I only
do what my dear mother did, earn my living honestly and happily, and
leave a beautiful example behind me, to help one other woman as hers
helps me, I shall be satisfied.”
Christie’s voice faltered over the last words, for the thoughts and
feelings which had been working within her during the last few days had
stirred her deeply, and the resolution to cut loose from the old life
had not been lightly made. Mr. Devon had listened behind his paper to
this unusual outpouring with a sense of discomfort which was new to
him. But though the words reproached and annoyed, they did not soften
him, and when Christie paused with tearful eyes, her uncle rose,
saying, slowly, as he lighted his candle:
“Ef I’d refused to let you go before, I’d agree to it now; for you need
breakin’ in, my girl, and you are goin’ where you’ll get it, so the
sooner you’re off the better for all on us. Come, Betsey, we may as wal
leave, for we can’t understand the wants of her higher nater, as
Christie calls it, and we’ve had lecterin’ enough for one night.” And
with a grim laugh the old man quitted the field, worsted but in good
order.
“There, there, dear, hev a good cry, and forgit all about it!” purred
Aunt Betsey, as the heavy footsteps creaked away, for the good soul had
a most old-fashioned and dutiful awe of her lord and master.
“I shan’t cry but act; for it is high time I was off. I’ve stayed for
your sake; now I’m more trouble than comfort, and away I go.
Good-night, my dear old Aunty, and don’t look troubled, for I’ll be a
lamb while I stay.”
Having kissed the old lady, Christie swept her work away, and sat down
to write the letter which was the first step toward freedom. When it
was done, she drew nearer, to her friendly confidante the fire, and
till late into the night sat thinking tenderly of the past, bravely of
the present, hopefully of the future. Twenty-one to-morrow, and her
inheritance a head, a heart, a pair of hands; also the dower of most
New England girls, intelligence, courage, and common sense, many
practical gifts, and, hidden under the reserve that soon melts in a
genial atmosphere, much romance and enthusiasm, and the spirit which
can rise to heroism when the great moment comes.
Christie was one of that large class of women who, moderately endowed
with talents, earnest and true-hearted, are driven by necessity,
temperament, or principle out into the world to find support,
happiness, and homes for themselves. Many turn back discouraged; more
accept shadow for substance, and discover their mistake too late; the
weakest lose their purpose and themselves; but the strongest struggle
on, and, after danger and defeat, earn at last the best success this
world can give us, the possession of a brave and cheerful spirit, rich
in self-knowledge, self-control, self-help. This was the real desire of
Christie’s heart; this was to be her lesson and reward, and to this
happy end she was slowly yet surely brought by the long discipline of
life and labor.
Sitting alone there in the night, she tried to strengthen herself with
all the good and helpful memories she could recall, before she went
away to find her place in the great unknown world. She thought of her
mother, so like herself, who had borne the commonplace life of home
till she could bear it no longer. Then had gone away to teach, as most
country girls are forced to do. Had met, loved, and married a poor
gentleman, and, after a few years of genuine happiness, untroubled even
by much care and poverty, had followed him out of the world, leaving
her little child to the protection of her brother.
Christie looked back over the long, lonely years she had spent in the
old farm-house, plodding to school and church, and doing her tasks with
kind Aunt Betsey while a child; and slowly growing into girlhood, with
a world of romance locked up in a heart hungry for love and a larger,
nobler life.
She had tried to appease this hunger in many ways, but found little
help. Her father’s old books were all she could command, and these she
wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found
nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and often
coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girls whose one
ambition was to “get married,” and whose only subjects of conversation
were “smart bonnets” and “nice dresses.” She tried to believe that the
admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers was worth striving
for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she
found it impossible to accept for her life’s companion a man whose soul
was wrapped up in prize cattle and big turnips.
Uncle Enos never could forgive her for this piece of folly, and
Christie plainly saw that one of three things would surely happen, if
she lived on there with no vent for her full heart and busy mind. She
would either marry Joe Butterfield in sheer desperation, and become a
farmer’s household drudge; settle down into a sour spinster, content to
make butter, gossip, and lay up money all her days; or do what poor
Matty Stone had done, try to crush and curb her needs and aspirations
till the struggle grew too hard, and then in a fit of despair end her
life, and leave a tragic story to haunt their quiet river.
To escape these fates but one way appeared; to break loose from this
narrow life, go out into the world and see what she could do for
herself. This idea was full of enchantment to the eager girl, and,
after much earnest thought, she had resolved to try it.
“If I fail, I can come back,” she said to herself, even while she
scorned the thought of failure, for with all her shy pride she was both
brave and ardent, and her dreams were of the rosiest sort.
“I won’t marry Joe; I won’t wear myself out in a district-school for
the mean sum they give a woman; I won’t delve away here where I’m not
wanted; and I won’t end my life like a coward, because it is dull and
hard. I’ll try my fate as mother did, and perhaps I may succeed as
well.” And Christie’s thoughts went wandering away into the dim, sweet
past when she, a happy child, lived with loving parents in a different
world from that.
Lost in these tender memories, she sat till the old moon-faced clock
behind the door struck twelve, then the visions vanished, leaving their
benison behind them.
As she glanced backward at the smouldering fire, a slender spire of
flame shot up from the log that had blazed so cheerily, and shone upon
her as she went. A good omen, gratefully accepted then, and remembered
often in the years to come.