Луиза Мэй Олкотт
Маленькие женщины / Little Women. Уровень 3

© Миронова О. В., адаптация текста, комментарии, словарь, 2021

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2021

Part I

Chapter one
Playing pilgrims

“Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

“It's so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.

“I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff.

“We've got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth from her corner.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said, “You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering at war.”

“But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar. The army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintran for myself. I've wanted it so long,” said Jo, who was a bookworm.

“I planned to spend mine on new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh.

“I shall get a nice box of drawing pencils; I really need them,” said Amy decidedly.

“Mother didn't say anything about our money. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo.

“I know I do – teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone again.

“You don't have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. “How would you like to be shut up[1] for hours with a nervous old lady, who is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to cry?”

“I think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all.” Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh.

“I don't believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy. “You don't have to go to school with girls, who laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice.”

“Don't peck at one another, children. Even though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”

“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy.

Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

“Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!”

“That's why I do it.”

“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”

“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”

“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the “pecking” ended for that time.

“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to behave better, Josephine. You should remember that you are a young lady.”

“I'm not! I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! I'm dying to go and fight with Papa, but I can only stay home and knit, like an old woman!”

Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too prim. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang.”

“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth.

“You're a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her.

We will take this moment to give the reader a little sketch of the four sisters. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, with large eyes and soft brown hair. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown. She had sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything. Her long, thick hair was usually bundled into a net. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner and a timid voice. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility'. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. Pale and slender, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, she was carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners.

The clock struck six and Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. The sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls – it reminded them that Mother was coming.

“They are quite worn out. Marmee[2] must have a new pair.”

“I thought I'd get her a pair with my dollar,” said Beth.

“No, I shall!” cried Amy.

“I'm the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I'm the man of the family[3] now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers.”

“I'll tell you what we'll do,” said Beth, “let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”

“What will we get?” exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought for a minute, then Meg announced, “I shall give her a nice pair of gloves.”

“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo.

“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.

“I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy.

“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.

“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open them.” answered Jo.

“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, and the girls turned to welcome their Mother. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman.

“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me.”

Mrs. March got her wet things off and put her warm slippers on. She sit down in the easy chair[4], and drew Amy to her lap.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, “I've got a treat for you after supper.”

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands. Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and a special message to you girls,” said Mrs. March.

“Hurry, Amy!” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.

“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.

“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can. Now come and hear the letter.”

Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. This one was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news.

“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them every day, and pray for them every night. A year seems very long, but while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days are not wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, and when I come back I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women.”

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish girl! But I'll truly try to be better.”

“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it.”

“I'll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else,” said Jo.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears and began to knit.

Chapter two
A Merry Christmas

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. She remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She woke Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and made her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared. Beth and Amy woke up and found their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, “Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,” whispered Beth.

And then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed,” replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket

“There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.

The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and made whatever they needed to put on a play.

This Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the operatic tragedy about love and magic began.

When the performance was finished, applause followed. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with “Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.”

This was a surprise, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.

“Santa Claus,” said Beth.

“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest.

“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.

“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March. “He is an odd old gentleman. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted,” said Jo, as the plates went round. “Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence. Then he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman. He brought the flowers himself.”

“We'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?”

Chapter three
The Laurence boy

“Jo! Jo! Where are you?” cried Meg at the foot of the stairs.

“Here!” answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, Meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the Heir of Redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on a sofa.

“A note of invitation from Mrs. Gardiner for tomorrow night!” cried Meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.

“‘Mrs. Gardiner would be happy to see Miss March and Miss Josephine at a little dance on New Year's Eve.' Marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?”

“What's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?” answered Jo with her mouth full.

“If I only had a silk!” sighed Meg. “Mother says I may when I'm eighteen perhaps.”

“I'm sure our pops look like silk. Yours is as good as new.”

“I shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and Marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as I'd like.”

“Mine are spoiled with lemonade, and I can't get any new ones, so I shall have to go without,” said Jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.

“You must have gloves, or I won't go,” cried Meg decidedly. “Gloves are more important than anything else. You can't dance without them, and if you don't I should be so mortified.”

“Then I'll stay still. I don't care much for company dancing.”

“You can't ask Mother for new ones, they are so expensive. Can't you make them do?”

“I can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are. I'll go without. I don't care what people say!” cried Jo, taking up her book. “Now go and answer your note, and let me finish this story.”

So Meg went away to look over her dress.

On New Year's Eve the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of ‘getting ready for the party'. After various lesser mishaps, they were finished. They looked very well in their simple suits, Meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin. Jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament. Each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect “quite easy and fine”. Meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it[5], and Jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.

“Have a good time, dearies!” said Mrs. March. “Don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when I send Hannah for you.”

“If you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?” asked Jo, once they were out of the gates.

“No, winking isn't ladylike. I'll lift my eyebrows if anything is wrong, and nod if you are all right.”

Down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties.

Mrs. Gardiner greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters. Then the dancing began. Jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess. Unfortunately, another person had chosen the same refuge, and she found herself face to face with the ‘Laurence boy'.

“Dear me, I didn't know anyone was here!” stammered Jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.

But the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, “Don't mind me, stay if you like.”

“Shan't I disturb you?”

“Not a bit. I only came here because I don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know.”

“So did I. Don't go away, please, unless you'd rather.”

The boy sat down again. Trying to be polite and easy, Jo said, “I think I've had the pleasure of seeing you before. You live near us, don't you?”

“Next door.” And he looked up and laughed.

That put Jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, “We did have such a good time over your nice Christmas present.”

“Grandpa sent it.”

“But you put it into his head, didn't you, now?”

“How is your cat, Miss March?” asked the boy.

“Nicely, thank you, Mr. Laurence. But I am not Miss March, I'm only Jo,” returned the young lady.

“I'm not Mr. Laurence, I'm only Laurie.”

“Laurie Laurence, what an odd name.”

“My first name is Theodore, but I don't like it, for the fellows called me Dora, so I made them say Laurie instead.”

“I hate my name, too, so sentimental! I wish everyone would say Jo instead of Josephine. How did you make the boys stop calling you Dora?”

“I thrashed ‘em.”

“I can't thrash Aunt March, so I suppose I shall have to bear it.” And Jo resigned herself with a sigh.

“Don't you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.

“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively. In a place like this I'm sure to upset something. Don't you dance?”

“Sometimes. You see I've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”

“Abroad!” cried Jo. “Oh, tell me about it!”

Laurie told her how he had been at school in Vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about Switzerland with their teachers.

“Don't I wish I'd been there!” cried Jo. “Did you go to Paris?

“We spent last winter there.”

“Can you talk French?”

“We were not allowed to speak anything else at Vevay.”

“Do say some! I can read it, but can't pronounce.”

“Quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?”

“How nicely you do it! Let me see… you said, ‘Who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?”

“Oui, mademoiselle.”

“It's my sister Margaret, and you knew it was! Do you think she is pretty?”

“Yes, she makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.”

“Curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than I am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly. Wonder how old he is?”

It was on the tip of Jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself[6] in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.

“I suppose you are going to college soon?”

Laurie smiled. “I won't go before seventeen, anyway.”

“Aren't you but fifteen?” asked Jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.

“Sixteen, next month.”

“How I wish I was going to college! You don't look as if you liked it.”

“I hate it! And I don't like the way fellows do either, in this country.”

“What do you like?”

“To live in Italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way.”

Jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but changed the subject by saying, “That's a splendid polka! Why don't you go and try it?”

“If you will come too,” he answered.

“I can't, for I told Meg I wouldn't, because…”

“Because, what?”

“You won't tell?”

“Never!”

“Well, I have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so I burn my frocks, and I scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and Meg told me to keep still so no one would see it. You may laugh, if you want to. It is funny, I know.”

But Laurie didn't laugh. He only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled Jo when he said very gently, “Never mind that. I'll tell you how we can manage. There's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us. Please come.”

Jo thanked him and gladly went. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for Laurie danced well. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath. That's when Meg appeared in search of her sister. She beckoned, and Jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.

“I've sprained my ankle. That stupid high heel turned. I can hardly stand, and I don't know how I'm ever going to get home,” she said, rocking to and fro[7] in pain.

“I'm sorry. But I don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night,” answered Jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.

“I can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much. I dare say I can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send.”

“I'll ask Laurie. He will go,” said Jo.

“Mercy, no! Don't ask or tell anyone. I can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for Hannah and tell me the minute she comes. “

Jo was looking round for help when Laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said.

“It's so early! You can't mean to go yet?” began Jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.

“I always go early, I do, truly! Please let me take you home. It's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say.”

They settled in the carriage. Laurie went on the box so Meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party. By the time Jo had finished telling Meg about her adventures, they were at home.

Chapter four
Burdens

“Oh, dear, how hard it does seem to go on,” sighed Meg the morning after the party. The holidays were over.

“I wish it was Christmas or New Year's all the time. Wouldn't it be fun?” answered Jo, yawning.

“We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much[8] as we do now. But it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties.” said Meg. “Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not? I will grow old and ugly and sour, because I'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do. It's a shame!”

She went down, wearing an injured look.

During breakfast everyone seemed rather out of sorts[9]. Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy cried because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was. Mrs. March was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once[10].

“Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I must get this off by the early mail, and you distract me,” cried Mrs. March, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.

There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who walked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and walked out again.

“Cuddle your cats and get over your headache, Bethy. Goodbye, Marmee. Let's go, Meg!” And Jo walked out of the room.

Once outside, Jo turned to Meg.

“More ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen.”

“Don't use such dreadful expressions,” replied Meg

“I like good strong words that mean something,” replied Jo.

“Call yourself any names you like, but I am not a wretch and I don't choose to be called so.”

“You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury[11] all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with.”

“How ridiculous you are, Jo!” But Meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herself[12].

Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for the day, each going a different way.

When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward their own support, at least. Margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her small salary. She found poverty harder to bear. She seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward everyone sometimes.

Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame and needed an active person to wait upon her. Jo accepted the place since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it longer, but Aunt March always cleared up quickly, and she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.

Part of the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular bookworm.

Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid. What it was, she had no idea as yet. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs. But the training she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed.

Beth was too bashful to go to school. It had been tried, but she suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with her father. Even when he went away, Beth went faithfully on by herself. She had six dolls she dressed every morning, for Beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever.

Beth often ‘wept a little weep' as Jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, but the keys wouldn't keep in tune.

If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, “My nose.” When she was a baby, Jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and Amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever. It was rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point.

“Little Raphael,” as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories.

Meg was Amy's confidant, and by some strange attraction of opposites Jo was Beth's. The two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way.

“Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a terrible day,” said Meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.

“I had a queer time with Aunt today, and, as I got the best of it, I'll tell you about it,” began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. “When she started to nod off, I whipped the Vicar of Wakefield out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on Aunt. I'd just got to where they all tumbled into the water when I forgot and laughed out loud. Aunt woke up and, told me to read a bit and show what frivolous work I preferred to Belsham. I did my very best and she told me to finish the chapter.”

“Did she like it?” asked Meg.

“Oh, bless you, no! But she let old Belsham rest,” added Jo.

“That reminds me,” said Meg, “that I've got something to tell. It isn't funny, like Jo's story. At the Kings' today one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and Papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking very loud. I felt so sorry for them and was rather glad I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family.”

“I think being disgraced in school is worse than anything bad boys can do,” said Amy, shaking her head. “Susie Perkins drew a picture of Mr. Davis today, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, ‘Young ladies, my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were laughing over it when all of a sudden he saw us, and ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he did? He took her by the ear – the ear!”

“Tell another story, Mother, one with a moral to it. I like to think about them afterward,” said Jo, after a minute's silence.

Mrs. March smiled and began at once.

“Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented. These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, ‘If only we had this,' or ‘If we could only do that,' forgetting how much they already had. So they asked an old woman what they could do to make them happy, and she said, ‘When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'” Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, than a certain feeble old lady, a third that nothing was as valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings they already had.”

“Now, Marmee, that is very good of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!” cried Meg.

“I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort Father used to tell us,” said Beth thoughtfully.

“We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it!'” added Jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon.

Chapter five
Being neighborly

“What are you going to do now, Jo?” asked Meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came through the house, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.

“Going out for exercise,” answered Jo. “I like adventures, and I'm going to find some.”

Jo went outside and began to dig paths with great energy. The snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden. Now, the garden separated the Marches' house from that of Mr. Laurence. A low hedge parted the two estates. On one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it. On the other side was a stately stone mansion. It seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house. Few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.

To Jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace. She wanted to know more about it, and to know the Laurence boy.

“That boy is suffering for society and fun,” she said to herself. “His grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone. I've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!”

The idea amused Jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing Meg by her queer performances. And when the snowy afternoon came, Jo resolved to try what could be done. She saw Mr. Lawrence drive off, and then went to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey. All quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.

“There he is,” thought Jo, “Poor boy! All alone. It's a shame! I'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him.”

Up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile. Jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out…

“How do you do? Are you sick?”

Laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven…

“Better, thank you. I've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week.”

“I'm sorry. What do you amuse yourself with?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't you read?”

“Not much. They won't let me.”

“Have someone come and see you then.”

“There isn't anyone I'd like to see. Boys are loud, and my head hurts.”

“Isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you? Girls are quiet.”

“Don't know any.”

“You know us,” began Jo, then laughed and stopped.

“So I do! Will you come, please?” cried Laurie.

“I'm not quiet and nice, but I'll come, if Mother will let me. I'll go ask her. Shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till I come.”

With that, Jo marched into the house.

Laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready. Presently there came a loud ring, then a decided voice, asking for ‘Mr. Laurie', and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.

“All right, let her in, it's Miss Jo,” said Laurie. Jo appeared, looking rosy. Laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully…

“How kind you are! Yes, that's what it wanted. Now please take the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company.”

“No, I came to amuse you. Shall I read aloud?” said Jo, looking at the books in the room.

“Thank you! I've read all those, and if you don't mind, I'd rather talk,” answered Laurie.

“Not a bit. I'll talk all day. Beth says I never know when to stop.”

“Is Beth the rosy one, who stays at home?” asked Laurie with interest.

“Yes, that's Beth.”

“The pretty one is Meg, and the curly-haired one is Amy, I believe?”

“How did you find that out?”

Laurie colored up[13], but answered frankly, “Why, you see I often hear you calling to one another, and when I'm alone up here, I can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times.”

And Laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.

“I wish that instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us. Wouldn't your grandpa let you?”

“I think he would, if your mother asked him,” said Laurie, brightening more and more.

“We are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you won't be a bother. We know all of our neighbors but you.”

Then they got to talking about books, and to Jo's delight, she found that Laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.

“If you like them so much, come down and see ours. Grandfather is out, so you needn't be afraid,” said Laurie, getting up.

“I'm not afraid of anything,” returned Jo.

They came to the library, where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted. It was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and cabinets, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace.

“What richness!” sighed Jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair. “Theodore Laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world,” she added impressively.

“A fellow can't live on books,” said Laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite.

Before he could more, a bell rang, and Jo jumped up, “It's your grandpa!”

“Well, what if it is? You are not afraid of anything, you know,” returned the boy.

“I think I am a little bit afraid of him, but I don't know why I should be. Marmee said I might come, and I don't think you're any the worse for it,” said Jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.

“I'm a great deal better for it. I'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me. It was so pleasant, I couldn't bear to stop,” said Laurie gratefully.

“The doctor to see you, sir,” and the maid beckoned as she spoke.

“Would you mind if I left you for a minute? I suppose I must see him,” said Laurie.

“Don't mind me. I'm happy as a cricket here,” answered Jo.

Laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way. She was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, “I'm sure now that I shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own. He isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but I like him.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old Mr. Laurence.

Poor Jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder. A second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones. The old gentleman said, after the dreadful pause, “So you're not afraid of me, hey?”

“Not much, sir.”

“And you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?”

“Not quite, sir.”

“And I've got a tremendous will, have I?”

“I only said I thought so.”

“But you like me in spite of it?”

“Yes, I do, sir.”

“You've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face. He was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and I was proud to be his friend.”

“Thank you, sir,” And Jo was quite comfortable after that.

“What have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?” was the next question, sharply put.

“Only trying to be neighborly, sir.” And Jo told how her visit came about.

“You think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?”

“Yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps. We are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid Christmas present you sent us,” said Jo eagerly.

“Tut, tut, tut! That was the boy's affair. How is the poor woman?”

“Doing nicely, sir.”

“I shall come and see your mother some fine day. There's the tea bell. Come down and go on being neighborly.”

“If you'd like to have me, sir.”

“Shouldn't ask you, if I didn't.” And Mr. Laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.

“What would Meg say to this?” thought Jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home.

“Hey! Why, what the dickens has come to the fellow[14]?” said the old gentleman, as Laurie came running downstairs and stopped at the sight of Jo arm in arm with his grandfather.

“I didn't know you'd come, sir,” he began, as Jo gave him a triumphant little glance.

“That's evident, by the way you ran downstairs. Come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman.”

“She's right, the lad is lonely. I'll see what these little girls can do for him,” thought Mr. Laurence, as he looked and listened. He liked Jo.

They found Mr. Laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but Jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open.

“Do you play?” she asked, turning to Laurie with a respectful expression.

“Sometimes,” he answered modestly.

“Please do now. I want to hear it, so I can tell Beth.”

“Won't you first?”

“Don't know how. Too stupid to learn, but I love music dearly.”

So Laurie played and Jo listened. He played remarkably well and she wished Beth could hear him.

“That will do, that will do, young lady. Too many sugarplums are not good for him. His music isn't bad, but I hope he will do as well in more important things. I hope you'll come again. My respects to your mother. Good night, Doctor Jo.”

He shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him. When they got into the hall, Jo asked Laurie if she had said something wrong. He shook his head.

“No, it was me. He doesn't like to hear me play.”

“Why not?”

“I'll tell you some day.”

“Take care of yourself, won't you?”

“Yes, but you will come again, I hope?”

“If you promise to come and see us after you are well.”

“I will.”

“Good night, Laurie!”

“Good night, Jo, good night!”

Chapter six
Beth finds the palace beautiful

The big house seemed like a palace, and Beth found it very hard to pass the lions[15]. Old Mr. Laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, nobody was afraid of him, except Beth.

Though yearning for the grand piano, Beth could not pluck up courage to go to the ‘Mansion of Bliss', as Meg called it. She went once with Jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said “Hey!” so loud, that he frightened her. She ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the piano. No persuasions or enticements could overcome her fear, until, this became knows to Mr. Laurence. He then set about[16] mending matters.

During one of the brief visits he made, he slowly led the conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that Beth found it impossible to stay in her corner. As if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to Mrs. March…

“Wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and practice on a piano now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?”

Beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep from clapping them. Before Mrs. March could reply, Mr. Laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile…

“They needn't see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time.”

He rose. “Please, tell the young ladies what I say, and if they don't care to come, why, never mind.”

Beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, “Oh sir, they do care, very very much!”

“Are you the musical girl?” he asked.

“I'm Beth. I love it dearly, and I'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed,” she added, fearing to be rude.

“Not a soul, my dear. The house is empty half the day, so come and play as much as you like.”

“How kind you are, sir!”

Beth blushed like a rose and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her. The old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead.

“I had a little girl once, with eyes like these. God bless you, my dear! Good day, madam.”

And away he went, in a great hurry.

Next day, Beth made her way to the drawing room where the piano stood. Quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano. With trembling fingers, Beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the music.

After that, she went to play nearly every day. She never knew that Mr. Laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked. She never saw Laurie guard the hall to warn the servants away. She never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her. So she enjoyed herself heartily.

One day, the girls called to Beth.

“Here's a letter from the old gentleman! Come quick, and read it!”

Beth hurried to them. Her sisters took her to the parlor, all pointing and all saying at once, “Look there! Look there!” Beth did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise. There stood a little cabinet piano. A letter was lying on the lid.

“For me?” gasped Beth.

“Yes, all for you, my precious! Isn't it splendid of him? Don't you think he's the dearest old man in the world? We didn't open the letter, but we are dying to know what he says,” cried Jo.

“You read it! I can't! Oh, it is too lovely!” and Beth hid her face in Jo's apron, quite upset by her present.

Jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw were…

“Miss March: “Dear Madam – “

“How nice it sounds! I wish someone would write to me so!” said Amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.

“‘I thank you for the slippers you gave me,'” continues Jo. “I like to pay my debts, so I know you will allow ‘the old gentleman' to send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he lost. With hearty thanks and best wishes, your grateful friend and humble servant, ‘JAMES LAURENCE'.”

“Try it, honey. Let's hear the sound of it,” said Hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.

So Beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard.

Chapter seven
Amy's valley of humiliation

Amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying a brown-paper parcel. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes and was going to treat circulated through her friends and became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot. Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her watch till recess, and Jenny Snow promptly buried the hatchet[17] and offered to furnish answers to some sums. But Amy instantly crushed ‘that Snow girl's’ hopes by the withering telegram, “You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any.”

Alas, alas! The revengeful Snow turned the tables[18] with disastrous success. During the lesson, under pretense of asking an important question, she informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article.

Soon as he heard the word ‘limes', his face flushed.

“Young ladies, attention, if you please!”

Fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were fixed upon him.

“Miss March, come to the desk.”

Amy rose, but the limes weighed upon her conscience.

“Bring with you the limes you have in your desk.”

Amy laid themt down before Mr. Davis.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window.”

Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro six dreadful times. As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a portentous “Hem!” and said, in his most impressive manner…

“Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has happened, but I never allow my rules to be broken, and I never break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand.”

Amy started, and put both hands behind her.

“Your hand, Miss March!”

Amy threw back her head defiantly, stretched out her hand and bore without flinching several blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.

“You will now stand on the platform till recess,” said Mr. Davis.

That was dreadful. Taking her place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, motionless. During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot.

The fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last.

“You can go, Miss March,” said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.

He did not soon forget the reproachful glance Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, snatched her things, and left the place “forever,” as she passionately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home, and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not say much but looked disturbed, and comforted her daughter.

“Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth,” said Mrs. March that evening. “I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else.”

Chapter eight
Jo meets Apollyon

“Girls, where are you going?” asked Amy, coming into their room one Saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.

“Never mind. Little girls shouldn't ask questions,” returned Jo sharply.

“You are going somewhere with Laurie, I know you are. You were whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you stopped when I came in. Aren't you going with him?”

“Yes, we are. Now do be still, and stop bothering.”

Amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw Meg slip a fan into her pocket.

“I know! I know! You're going to the theater to see the Seven Castles!” she cried, adding resolutely, “and I shall go, for Mother said I might see it, and I've got my rag money, and it was mean not to tell me in time.”

“Just listen to me a minute, and be a good child,” said Meg soothingly. “Mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece. Next week you can go with Beth and Hannah, and have a nice time.”

“I don't like that half as well as going with you and Laurie. Please let me. I've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, I'm dying for some fun. Do, Meg! I'll be ever so good,” pleaded Amy, looking as pathetic as she could.

“Suppose we take her. I don't believe Mother would mind, if we bundle her up well,” began Meg.

“If she goes I shan't, and if I don't, Laurie won't like it, and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in Amy. I should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted,” said Jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy herself.

Her tone and manner angered Amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, “I shall go. Meg says I may, and if I pay for myself, Laurie hasn't anything to do with it.”

“You can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit alone, so Laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our pleasure. Or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper when you weren't asked. You shan't stir a step, so you may just stay where you are,” scolded Jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.

Sitting on the floor with one boot on, Amy began to cry and Meg to reason with her, when Laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing. Just as the party was setting out, Amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone, “You'll be sorry for this, Jo March, see if you ain't.”

When they got home, they found Amy reading in the parlor. She assumed an injured air[19] as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question. Perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if Beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing description of the play. Going up to put away her best hat, Jo's first look was toward the bureau. Everything was in its place and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, Jo decided that Amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.

There Jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced a tempest. Meg, Beth, and Amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when Jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding breathlessly, “Has anyone taken my book?”

Meg and Beth said, “No.” at once, and looked surprised. Amy poked the fire and said nothing. Jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a minute.

“Amy, you've got it!”

“No, I haven't.”

“That's a fib!” cried Jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than Amy.

“Scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again,” cried Amy, getting excited in her turn.

“Why not?”

“I burned it up.”

“What! My little book I was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before Father got home? Have you really burned it?” said Jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched Amy nervously.

“Yes, I did! I told you I'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and I have, so…”

Amy got no farther, for Jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook Amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger…

“You wicked, wicked girl! I never can write it again, and I'll never forgive you as long as I live.”

Meg flew to rescue Amy, and Beth to pacify Jo, but Jo was quite beside herself[20], and with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.

The storm cleared up below, for Mrs. March came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought Amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister.

The next day Jo still looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day. It was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, Aunt March had an attack of the fidgets, Meg was sensitive, Beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and Amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people set them a virtuous example.

“Everybody is so hateful, I'll ask Laurie to go skating. He is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, I know,” said Jo to herself, and off she went.

Amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation.

“There! She promised I should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have. But it's no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me.”

“Don't say that. You were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book, but I think she might do it now, and I guess she will, if you try her at the right minute,” said Meg. “Go after them. Don't say anything till Jo has got good-natured with Laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and I'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart.”

“I'll try,” said Amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill.

It was not far to the river, but both were ready before Amy reached them. Jo saw her coming, and turned her back. Laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.

“Keep near the shore. It isn't safe in the middle.” Jo heard, but Amy was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word. Jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear…

“No matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself.”

Laurie had vanished round the bend, Jo was just at the turn, and Amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river. For a minute Jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart, then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see Amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made Jo's heart stand still with fear. Something rushed swiftly by her, and Laurie's voice cried out…

“Bring a rail. Quick, quick!”

How she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying Laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and lying flat, held Amy up by his arm and hockey stick till Jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.

“Now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can. Pile our things on her, while I get off these confounded skates,” cried Laurie, wrapping his coat round Amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed so intricate before.

Shivering, dripping, and crying, they got Amy home, and after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot fire. During the bustle Jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles. When Amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and Mrs. March sitting by the bed, she called Jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.

“Are you sure she is safe?” whispered Jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice.

“Quite safe, dear. She is not hurt, and won't even take cold, I think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly,” replied her mother cheerfully.

“Laurie did it all. I only let her go. Mother, if she should die, it would be my fault.” And Jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.

“It's my dreadful temper! I try to cure it, I think I have, and then it breaks out worse than ever. Oh, Mother, what shall I do? What shall I do?” cried poor Jo, in despair.

“Watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault. I've been trying to cure my temper for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it. I am angry nearly every day of my life, Jo, but I have learned not to show it, and I still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so.”

“Mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go out of the room sometimes, when Aunt March scolds or people worry you?” asked Jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.

“Yes, I've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and when I feel that they mean to break out against my will, I just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and wicked,” answered Mrs. March with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up Jo's disheveled hair.

“How did you learn to keep still? That is what troubles me, for the sharp words fly out before I know what I'm about to say, and the more I say the worse I get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings and say dreadful things. Tell me how you do it, Marmee dear.”

“My good mother used to help me…”

“As you do us…” interrupted Jo, with a grateful kiss.

“But I lost her when I was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for I was too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else. Then your father came, and I was so happy that I found it easy to be good. He helped and comforted me, and showed me that I must try to practice all the virtues I would have my little girls possess. I hope you will be a great deal better, dear. Remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper.”

“I will try, Mother, I truly will. But you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out. I used to see Father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight and went away. Was he reminding you then?” asked Jo softly.

“Yes. I asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me a lot of times by that little gesture and kind look.”

Amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, Jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.

“I let the sun go down on my anger. I wouldn't forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.

As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo's heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.

Chapter nine
Meg goes to vanity fair

“I do 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 tarlaton.”

“It will look nice 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 chest, 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 for Sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring, doesn't it? The violet silk would be so nice. Oh, dear!”

“Never mind, you've got the tarlaton 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 doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to do. My blue housedress 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 doesn't look like Sallie's. I didn't like to say anything, but I was sadly disappointed in my umbrella. I told Mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a 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.

“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 new 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.

The next day was fine, and Meg departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure. 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, 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.

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 dress 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, chattered, 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 fern 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.

That evening she danced to her heart's content and had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of 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 made 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 momma, 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 tonight, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one.”

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. 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.

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. 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, 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.”

“Why? 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,” 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 yet? 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 anyone 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 toward 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. 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 earrings, 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, reconciled Meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart. A lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and Miss Belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.

“Mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?” cried Hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.

“Come and show yourself,” said Miss Belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting.

As Meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was ‘a little beauty'. Her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.

“While I dress, do you drill her, Nan, in the management of her skirt and those French heels, or she will trip herself up. Take your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, Clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,” said Belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.

“You don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice,” said Sallie, trying not to care that Meg was prettier than herself.

Margaret got safely down stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the Moffats and a few early guests were assembled. She very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect. Several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden. Several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest. She heard Mrs. Moffat reply to one of them…

“Daisy March – father a colonel in the army – one of our first families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the Laurences; sweet creature, I assure you; my Ned is quite wild about her.”

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Примечания

1

to be shut up – быть запертой

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2

Marmee – мамочка

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3

the man of the family – глава семьи

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4

the easy chair – кресло

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5

she would not own it – она не признавалась себе в этом

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6

checked herself – остановила себя

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7

to and fro – туда и обратно

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8

half so much – хотя бы в половину

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9

out of sorts – не в порядке

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10

must go at once – должно быть отправлено как можно быстрее

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11

in the lap of luxury – в роскоши

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12

in spite of herself – наперекор себе

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13

colored up – покраснел

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14

what the dickens has come to the fellow – какой черт в него вселился

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15

to pass the lions – «пройти львов», перешагнуть через преграду

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16

set about – начал

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17

buried the hatchet – похоронил топор вражды

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18

turned the tables – обернуть в другое русло

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19

assumed an injured air – приняла обиженный вид

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20

was quite beside herself – была сильно расстроена

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