The Annotated Little Women Page 20

2. their mother read aloud from Bremer, Scott, or Edgeworth. For Bremer and Scott, see Part First, Chapter IV, Note 9, and Chapter V, Note 1, respectively. Maria Edgeworth (1768–1849) was an Irish novelist who wrote morally improving works of fiction for both adults and children. At Fruitlands, on Louisa’s eleventh birthday, her mother read from Edgeworth’s short story collection Rosamond to her as Louisa did her sewing. A mention of Mrs. Alcott’s reading aloud from Scott’s novel Kenilworth appears in Louisa’s January 1845 journal.

  3. hockey. A hockey stick.

  4. “I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo.” Applied to Alcott’s mother, Marmee’s confession of almost daily anger seems hardly an exaggeration. Abba Alcott was known to have a quick temper and a sharp tongue.

  5. “He helped and comforted me.” It is hard to tell whether Bronson Alcott’s placidity had this calming effect on Louisa’s real mother, or whether it actually tended to kindle her fury.

  6. “may sadden, if not spoil your life.” In a letter he wrote her on her tenth birthday, Bronson Alcott referred to Louisa’s “anger” and “ill-speakings” as “the worm that never dies, the gnawing worm” in her breast (A. Bronson Alcott, Letters, p. 93).

  7. “My Jo, you may say anything to your mother.” Like Marmee, Abba Alcott encouraged Louisa “in all perplexity or trouble [to] come freely to your mother” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 55).

  8. “go to God with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows.” Louisa received advice similar to this from both her parents but found it hard to follow. She wrote at seventeen, “I know God is always ready to hear, but heaven’s so far away . . . and I so heavy that I can’t fly up to find Him” (Louisa May Alcott, Journals, p. 62).

  CHAPTER IX.

  Meg Goes to Vanity Fair.1

  “IDO think it was the most fortunate thing in the world, that those children should have the measles just now,” said Meg, one April day, as she stood packing the “go abroady” trunk in her room, surrounded by her sisters.

  “And so nice of Annie Moffat, not to forget her promise. A whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid,” replied Jo, looking like a windmill, as she folded skirts with her long arms.

  “And such lovely weather; I’m so glad of that,” added Beth, tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great occasion.

  “I wish I was going to have a fine time, and wear all these nice things,” said Amy, with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically replenished her sister’s cushion.

  “I wish you were all going; but, as you can’t, I shall keep my adventures to tell you when I come back. I’m sure it’s the least I can do, when you have been so kind, lending me things, and helping me get ready,” said Meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.

  “What did mother give you out of the treasure-box?” asked Amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest, in which Mrs. March kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came.

  “A pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash. I wanted the violet silk; but there isn’t time to make it over, so I must be contented with my old tarlatan.”2

  “It will look nicely over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully. I wish I hadn’t smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it,” said Jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.

  “There is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure-box; but mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and Laurie promised to send me all I want,” replied Meg. “Now, let me see; there’s my new gray walking-suit,—just curl up the feather in my hat, Beth,—then my poplin,3 for Sunday, and the small party,—it looks heavy for spring, don’t it? the violet silk would be so nice; oh, dear!”

  “Never mind; you’ve got the tarlatan for the big party, and you always look like an angel in white,” said Amy, brooding over the little store of finery in which her soul delighted.

  “It isn’t low-necked, and it don’t sweep enough, but it will have to do. My blue house-dress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that I feel as if I’d got a new one. My silk sacque isn’t a bit the fashion and my bonnet don’t look like Sallie’s; I didn’t like to say anything, but I was dreadfully disappointed in my umbrella. I told mother black, with a white handle, but she forgot, and bought a green one, with an ugly yellowish handle. It’s strong and neat, so I ought not to complain, but I know I shall feel ashamed of it beside Annie’s silk one, with a gold top,” sighed Meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.

  The Alcott women counted this fan among their modest personal finery. (Louisa May Alcott Memorial Association; photograph by James E. Coutré)

  “Change it,” advised Jo.

  “I won’t be so silly, or hurt Marmee’s feelings, when she took so much pains to get my things. It’s a nonsensical notion of mine, and I’m not going to give up to it. My silk stockings and two pairs of spandy gloves are my comfort. You are a dear, to lend me yours, Jo; I feel so rich, and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common;” and Meg took a refreshing peep at her glove-box.

  “Annie Moffat has blue and pink bows on her night-caps; would you put some on mine?” she asked, as Beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins, fresh from Hannah’s hands.

  “No, I wouldn’t; for the smart caps won’t match the plain gowns, without any trimming on them. Poor folks shouldn’t rig,” said Jo, decidedly.

  “I wonder if I shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes, and bows on my caps?” said Meg, impatiently.

  “You said the other day that you’d be perfectly happy if you could only go to Annie Moffat’s,” observed Beth, in her quiet way.

  “So I did! Well, I am happy, and I won’t fret; but it does seem as if the more one gets the more one wants, don’t it? There, now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball-dress, which I shall leave for mother,” said Meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many-times pressed and mended white tarlatan, which she called her “ball-dress,” with an important air.

  The next day was fine, and Meg departed, in style, for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure. Mrs. March had consented to the visit rather reluctantly, fearing that Margaret would come back more discontented than she went. But she had begged so hard, and Sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of hard work, that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.

  The Moffats were very fashionable, and simple Meg was rather daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house, and the elegance of its occupants. But they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease. Perhaps Meg felt, without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made. It certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself. It suited her exactly; and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her; to put on little airs and graces, use French phrases,4 crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions, as well as she could. The more she saw of Annie Moffat’s pretty things, the more she envied her, and sighed to be rich. Home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very destitute and much injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stockings.

  She had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were busily employed in “having a good time.” They shopped, walked, rode, and called all day; went to theatres and operas, or frolicked at home in the evening; for Annie had many friends, and knew how to entertain them. Her older siste
rs were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, Meg thought. Mr. Moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father; and Mrs. Moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to Meg as her daughter had done. Every one petted her; and “Daisy,” as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.

  When the evening for the “small party” came, she found that the poplin wouldn’t do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses, and making themselves very fine indeed; so out came the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever, beside Sallie’s crisp new one. Meg saw the girls glance at it, and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn; for, with all her gentleness, she was very proud. No one said a word about it, but Sallie offered to do her hair, and Annie to tie her sash, and Belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms; but, in their kindness, Meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed and chattered, prinked, and flew about like gauzy butterflies. The hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of flowers. Before she could speak, Annie had the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and ferns within.

  “It’s for Belle, of course; George always sends her some, but these are altogether ravishing,” cried Annie, with a great sniff.

  “They are for Miss March, the man said. And here’s a note,” put in the maid, holding it to Meg.

  “What fun! Who are they from? Didn’t know you had a lover,” cried the girls, fluttering about Meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.

  “The note is from mother, and the flowers from Laurie,” said Meg, simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.

  “Oh, indeed!” said Annie, with a funny look, as Meg slipped the note into her pocket, as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride; for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty.

  Feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily, that Clara, the elder sister, told her she was “the sweetest little thing she ever saw;” and they looked quite charmed with her small attention. Somehow the kind act finished her despondency; and, when all the rest went to show themselves to Mrs. Moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair, and fastened the roses in the dress that didn’t strike her as so very shabby now.

  She enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart’s content; every one was very kind, and she had three compliments. Annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice; Major Lincoln asked who “the fresh little girl, with the beautiful eyes, was;” and Mr. Moffat insisted on dancing with her, because she “didn’t dawdle, but had some spring in her,” as he gracefully expressed it. So, altogether, she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of a conversation, which disturbed her extremely. She was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask, on the other side of the flowery wall,—

  “How old is he?”

  “Sixteen or seventeen, I should say,” replied another voice.

  “It would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn’t it? Sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them.”

  “Mrs. M. has laid her plans, I dare say, and will play her cards well, early as it is. The girl evidently doesn’t think of it yet,” said Mrs. Moffat.

  “She told that fib about her mamma, as if she did know, and colored up when the flowers came, quite prettily. Poor thing! she’d be so nice if she was only got up in style. Do you think she’d be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for Thursday?” asked another voice.

  “She’s proud, but I don’t believe she’d mind, for that dowdy tarlatan is all she has got. She may tear it to-night, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one.”

  “We’ll see; I shall ask that Laurence, as a compliment to her, and we’ll have fun about it afterward.”

  Here Meg’s partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed, and rather agitated. She was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust, at what she had just heard; for, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of her friends. She tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, “Mrs. M. has her plans,” “that fib about her mamma,” and “dowdy tarlatan,” till she was ready to cry, and rush home to tell her troubles, and ask for advice. As that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay; and, being rather excited, she succeeded so well, that no one dreamed what an effort she was making. She was very glad when it was all over, and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached, and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears. Those foolish, yet well-meant words, had opened a new world to Meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one, in which, till now, she had lived as happily as a child. Her innocent friendship with Laurie was spoilt by the silly speeches she had overheard; her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by Mrs. Moffat, who judged others by herself; and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man’s daughter was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls, who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.

  Poor Meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly, and setting everything right. Everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work. Something in the manner of her friends struck Meg at once; they treated her with more respect, she thought; took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity. All this surprised and flattered her, though she did not understand it till Miss Belle looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air,—

  “Daisy, dear,5 I’ve sent an invitation to your friend, Mr. Laurence, for Thursday. We should like to know him, and it’s only a proper compliment to you.”

  Meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply, demurely,—

  “You are very kind, but I’m afraid he won’t come.”

  “Why not, cherie?” asked Miss Belle.

  “He’s too old.”

  “My child, what do you mean? What is his age, I beg to know!” cried Miss Clara.

  “Nearly seventy, I believe,” answered Meg, counting stitches, to hide the merriment in her eyes.

  “You sly creature! of course, we meant the young man,” exclaimed Miss Belle, laughing.

  “There isn’t any; Laurie is only a little boy,” and Meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged, as she thus described her supposed lover.

  “About your age,” Nan said.

  “Nearer my sister Jo’s; I am seventeen in August,”6 returned Meg, tossing her head.

  “It’s very nice of him to send you flowers, isn’t it?” said Annie, looking wise about nothing.

  “Yes, he often does, to all of us; for their house is full, and we are so fond of them. My mother and old Mr. Laurence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together;” and Meg hoped they would say no more.

  “It’s evident Daisy isn’t out yet,” said Miss Clara to Belle, with a nod.

  “Quite a pastoral state of innocence all round,” returned Miss Belle, with a shrug.

  “I’m going out to get some little matters for my girls; can I do anything for you, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Moffat, lumbering in, like an elephant, in silk and lace.

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” replied Sallie; “I’ve got my new pink silk for Thursday,
and don’t want a thing.”

  “Nor I—” began Meg, but stopped, because it occurred to her that she did want several things, and could not have them.

  “What shall you wear?” asked Sallie.

  “My old white one again, if I can mend it fit to be seen; it got sadly torn last night,” said Meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.

  “Why don’t you send home for another?” said Sallie, who was not an observing young lady.

  “I haven’t got any other.” It cost Meg an effort to say that, but Sallie did not see it, and exclaimed, in amiable surprise,—

  “Only that? how funny—.” She did not finish her speech, for Belle shook her head at her, and broke in, saying, kindly,—

  “Not at all; where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn’t out? There’s no need of sending home, Daisy, even if you had a dozen, for I’ve got a sweet blue silk laid away, which I’ve outgrown, and you shall wear it, to please me; won’t you, dear?”

  “You are very kind, but I don’t mind my old dress, if you don’t; it does well enough for a little girl like me,” said Meg.

  “Now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style. I admire to do it, and you’d be a regular little beauty, with a touch here and there. I shan’t let any one see you till you are done, and then we’ll burst upon them like Cinderella and her godmother, going to the ball,” said Belle, in her persuasive tone.

  Meg couldn’t refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be “a little beauty” after touching up caused her to accept, and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings towards the Moffats.

  On the Thursday evening, Belle shut herself up with her maid; and, between them, they turned Meg into a fine lady. They crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve, to make them redder, and Hortense would have added “a soupcon of rouge,” if Meg had not rebelled.7 They laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe, and so low in the neck that modest Meg blushed at herself in the mirror. A set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even ear-rings, for Hortense tied them on, with a bit of pink silk, which did not show. A cluster of tea rose-buds at the bosom, and a ruche,8 reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled blue silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A laced handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a silver holder, finished her off; and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.