Kabanata Kabanata 34 · FRIEND

. I

shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and

more tomorrow.

Tuesday Eve

Had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted

like Sancho, and at one time I really thought I should shake them all

round. Some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and I kept it up

till they were glad to sit down and keep still. After luncheon, the

girl took them out for a walk, and I went to my needlework like little

Mabel ‘with a willing mind’. I was thanking my stars that I’d learned

to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and

someone began to hum, Kennst Du Das Land, like a big bumblebee. It was

dreadfully improper, I know, but I couldn’t resist the temptation, and

lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, I peeped in.

Professor Bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, I took a

good look at him. A regular German—rather stout, with brown hair

tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes I

ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one’s ears good, after our

sharp or slipshod American gabble. His clothes were rusty, his hands

were large, and he hadn’t a really handsome feature in his face, except

his beautiful teeth, yet I liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen

was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were

off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe. He looked sober in

spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth

bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old

friend. Then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in

a loud, brisk tone, “Herein!”

I was just going to run, when I caught sight of a morsel of a child

carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.

“Me wants me Bhaer,” said the mite, slamming down her book and running

to meet him.

“Thou shalt haf thy Bhaer. Come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my

Tina,” said the Professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding

her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss

him.

“Now me mus tuddy my lessin,” went on the funny little thing. So he put

her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and

gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now

and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if

finding a word, so soberly that I nearly betrayed myself by a laugh,

while Mr. Bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look

that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more French

than German.

Another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my

work, and there I virtuously remained through all the noise and

gabbling that went on next door. One of the girls kept laughing

affectedly, and saying, “Now Professor,” in a coquettish tone, and the

other pronounced her German with an accent that must have made it hard

for him to keep sober.

Both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once I heard him

say emphatically, “No, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what I

say,” and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his

book, followed by the despairing exclamation, “Prut! It all goes bad

this day.”

Poor man, I pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one

more peep to see if he survived it. He seemed to have thrown himself

back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the

clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if

ready for another lesson, and taking little Tina who had fallen asleep

on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away. I fancy he has a

hard life of it. Mrs. Kirke asked me if I wouldn’t go down to the five

o’clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, I thought I would,

just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me. So I

made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind Mrs. Kirke, but as

she is short and I’m tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a

failure. She gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, I

plucked up courage and looked about me. The long table was full, and

every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who

seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the

word, vanishing as soon as they were done. There was the usual

assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed

in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in

politics. I don’t think I shall care to have much to do with any of

them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had

something in her.

Cast away at the very bottom of the table was the Professor, shouting

answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on

one side, and talking philosophy with a Frenchman on the other. If Amy

had been here, she’d have turned her back on him forever because, sad

to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a

manner which would have horrified ‘her ladyship’. I didn’t mind, for I

like ‘to see folks eat with a relish’, as Hannah says, and the poor man

must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.

As I went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling

their hats before the hall mirror, and I heard one say low to the

other, “Who’s the new party?”

“Governess, or something of that sort.”

“What the deuce is she at our table for?”

“Friend of the old lady’s.”

“Handsome head, but no style.”

“Not a bit of it. Give us a light and come on.”

I felt angry at first, and then I didn’t care, for a governess is as

good as a clerk, and I’ve got sense, if I haven’t style, which is more

than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings

who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys. I hate ordinary people!

Thursday

Yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my

little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire. I picked up a

few bits of news and was introduced to the Professor. It seems that

Tina is the child of the Frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the

laundry here. The little thing has lost her heart to Mr. Bhaer, and

follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which

delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a ‘bacheldore’.

Kitty and Minnie Kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all

sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings,

and the splendid tales he tells. The younger men quiz him, it seems,

call him Old Fritz, Lager Beer, Ursa Major, and make all manner of

jokes on his name. But he enjoys it like a boy, Mrs. Kirke says, and

takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his

foreign ways.

The maiden lady is a Miss Norton, rich, cultivated, and kind. She spoke

to me at dinner today (for I went to table again, it’s such fun to

watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room. She has

fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly,

so I shall make myself agreeable, for I do want to get into good

society, only it isn’t the same sort that Amy likes.

I was in our parlor last evening when Mr. Bhaer came in with some

newspapers for Mrs. Kirke. She wasn’t there, but Minnie, who is a

little old woman, introduced me very prettily. “This is Mamma’s friend,

Miss March.”

“Yes, and she’s jolly and we like her lots,” added Kitty, who is an

‘enfant terrible’.

We both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the

blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.

“Ah, yes, I hear these naughty ones go to vex you, Mees Marsch. If so

again, call at me and I come,” he said, with a threatening frown that

delighted the little wretches.

I promised I would, and he departed, but it seems as if I was doomed to

see a good deal of him, for today as I passed his door on my way out,

by accident I knocked against it with my umbrella. It flew open, and

there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand

and a darning needle in the other. He didn’t seem at all ashamed of it,

for when I explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all,

saying in his loud, cheerful way...

“You haf a fine day to make your walk. Bon voyage, Mademoiselle.”

I laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to

think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes. The German

gentlemen embroider, I know, but darning hose is another thing and not

so pretty.

Saturday

Nothing has happened to write about, except a call on Miss Norton, who

has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she

showed me all her treasures, and asked me if I would sometimes go with

her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if I enjoyed them. She put

it as a favor, but I’m sure Mrs. Kirke has told her about us, and she

does it out of kindness to me. I’m as proud as Lucifer, but such favors

from such people don’t burden me, and I accepted gratefully.

When I got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor

that I looked in, and there was Mr. Bhaer down on his hands and knees,

with Tina on his back, Kitty leading him with a jump rope, and Minnie

feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in

cages built of chairs.

“We are playing nargerie,” explained Kitty.

“Dis is mine effalunt!” added Tina, holding on by the Professor’s hair.

“Mamma always allows us to do what we like Saturday afternoon, when

Franz and Emil come, doesn’t she, Mr. Bhaer?” said Minnie.

The ‘effalunt’ sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and

said soberly to me, “I gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a

noise you shall say Hush! to us, and we go more softly.”

I promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much

as they did, for a more glorious frolic I never witnessed. They played

tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they

all piled onto the sofa about the Professor, while he told charming

fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little

‘koblods’, who ride the snowflakes as they fall. I wish Americans were

as simple and natural as Germans, don’t you?

I’m so fond of writing, I should go spinning on forever if motives of

economy didn’t stop me, for though I’ve used thin paper and written

fine, I tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need. Pray

forward Amy’s as soon as you can spare them. My small news will sound

very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, I know. Is Teddy

studying so hard that he can’t find time to write to his friends? Take

good care of him for me, Beth, and tell me all about the babies, and

give heaps of love to everyone. From your faithful Jo.

P.S. On reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather Bhaery, but I

am always interested in odd people, and I really had nothing else to

write about. Bless you!

DECEMBER

My Precious Betsey,

As this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, I direct it to you, for it

may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though

quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful! After what

Amy would call Herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral

agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend

as I could wish. They are not so interesting to me as Tina and the

boys, but I do my duty by them, and they are fond of me. Franz and Emil

are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of

German and American spirit in them produces a constant state of

effervescence. Saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in

the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a

seminary, with the Professor and myself to keep order, and then such

fun!

We are very good friends now, and I’ve begun to take lessons. I really

couldn’t help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that I must

tell you. To begin at the beginning, Mrs. Kirke called to me one day as

I passed Mr. Bhaer’s room where she was rummaging.

“Did you ever see such a den, my dear? Just come and help me put these

books to rights, for I’ve turned everything upside down, trying to

discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs I gave him not

long ago.”

I went in, and while we worked I looked about me, for it was ‘a den’ to

be sure. Books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old

flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any

tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the

other. Half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the

manuscripts. Dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and

traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of

himself, were to be seen all over the room. After a grand rummage three

of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one covered

with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.

“Such a man!” laughed good-natured Mrs. K., as she put the relics in

the rag bag. “I suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage

cut fingers, or make kite tails. It’s dreadful, but I can’t scold him.

He’s so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him

roughshod. I agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to

give out his things and I forget to look them over, so he comes to a

sad pass sometimes.”

“Let me mend them,” said I. “I don’t mind it, and he needn’t know. I’d

like to, he’s so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending

books.”

So I have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the

socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns. Nothing

was said, and I hoped he wouldn’t find it out, but one day last week he

caught me at it. Hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested

and amused me so much that I took a fancy to learn, for Tina runs in

and out, leaving the door open, and I can hear. I had been sitting near

this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what

he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as I am. The girl had gone,

and I thought he had also, it was so still, and I was busily gabbling

over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little

crow made me look up, and there was Mr. Bhaer looking and laughing

quietly, while he made signs to Tina not to betray him.

“So!” he said, as I stopped and stared like a goose, “you peep at me, I

peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, I am not pleasanting when I

say, haf you a wish for German?”

“Yes, but you are too busy. I am too stupid to learn,” I blundered out,

as red as a peony.

“Prut! We will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense. At

efening I shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you,

Mees Marsch, I haf this debt to pay.” And he pointed to my work ‘Yes,’

they say to one another, these so kind ladies, ‘he is a stupid old

fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock

heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new

when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.’ “Ah! But I

haf an eye, and I see much. I haf a heart, and I feel thanks for this.

Come, a little lesson then and now, or—no more good fairy works for me

and mine.”

Of course I couldn’t say anything after that, and as it really is a

splendid opportunity, I made the bargain, and we began. I took four

lessons, and then I stuck fast in a grammatical bog. The Professor was

very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and

then he’d look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it

was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry. I tried both ways, and

when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw

the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room. I felt myself

disgraced and deserted forever, but didn’t blame him a particle, and

was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake

myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if I’d covered

myself in glory.

“Now we shall try a new way. You and I will read these pleasant little

_marchen_ together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the

corner for making us trouble.”

He spoke so kindly, and opened Hans Anderson’s fairy tales so

invitingly before me, that I was more ashamed than ever, and went at my

lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely. I

forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it)

with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to

inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best. When I finished

reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and

cried out in his hearty way, “Das ist gut! Now we go well! My turn. I

do him in German, gif me your ear.” And away he went, rumbling out the

words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well

as hear. Fortunately the story was _The Constant Tin Soldier_, which is

droll, you know, so I could laugh, and I did, though I didn’t

understand half he read, for I couldn’t help it, he was so earnest, I

so excited, and the whole thing so comical.

After that we got on better, and now I read my lessons pretty well, for

this way of studying suits me, and I can see that the grammar gets

tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly. I like it

very much, and he doesn’t seem tired of it yet, which is very good of

him, isn’t it? I mean to give him something on Christmas, for I dare

not offer money. Tell me something nice, Marmee.

I’m glad Laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking

and lets his hair grow. You see Beth manages him better than I did. I’m

not jealous, dear, do your best, only don’t make a saint of him. I’m

afraid I couldn’t like him without a spice of human naughtiness. Read

him bits of my letters. I haven’t time to write much, and that will do

just as well. Thank Heaven Beth continues so comfortable.

JANUARY

A Happy New Year to you all, my dearest family, which of course

includes Mr. L. and a young man by the name of Teddy. I can’t tell you

how much I enjoyed your Christmas bundle, for I didn’t get it till

night and had given up hoping. Your letter came in the morning, but you

said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so I was

disappointed, for I’d had a ‘kind of feeling’ that you wouldn’t forget

me. I felt a little low in my mind as I sat up in my room after tea,

and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, I

just hugged it and pranced. It was so homey and refreshing that I sat

down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in

my usual absurd way. The things were just what I wanted, and all the

better for being made instead of bought. Beth’s new ‘ink bib’ was

capital, and Hannah’s box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure. I’ll

be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, Marmee, and read carefully

the books Father has marked. Thank you all, heaps and heaps!

Speaking of books reminds me that I’m getting rich in that line, for on

New Year’s Day Mr. Bhaer gave me a fine Shakespeare. It is one he

values much, and I’ve often admired it, set up in the place of honor

with his German Bible, Plato, Homer, and Milton, so you may imagine how

I felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own

name in it, “from my friend Friedrich Bhaer”.

“You say often you wish a library. Here I gif you one, for between

these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one. Read him well, and

he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will

help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen.”

I thanked him as well as I could, and talk now about ‘my library’, as

if I had a hundred books. I never knew how much there was in

Shakespeare before, but then I never had a Bhaer to explain it to me.

Now don’t laugh at his horrid name. It isn’t pronounced either Bear or

Beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only

Germans can give it. I’m glad you both like what I tell you about him,

and hope you will know him some day. Mother would admire his warm

heart, Father his wise head. I admire both, and feel rich in my new

‘friend Friedrich Bhaer’.

Not having much money, or knowing what he’d like, I got several little

things, and put them about the room, where he would find them

unexpectedly. They were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his

table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of

green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his

blower, so that he needn’t burn up what Amy calls ‘mouchoirs’. I made

it like those Beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black

and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes. It took his fancy

immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so

it was rather a failure after all. Poor as he is, he didn’t forget a

servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the French

laundrywoman to Miss Norton forgot him. I was so glad of that.

They got up a masquerade, and had a gay time New Year’s Eve. I didn’t

mean to go down, having no dress. But at the last minute, Mrs. Kirke

remembered some old brocades, and Miss Norton lent me lace and

feathers. So I dressed up as Mrs. Malaprop, and sailed in with a mask

on. No one knew me, for I disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the

silent, haughty Miss March (for they think I am very stiff and cool,

most of them, and so I am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress,

and burst out into a ‘nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on

the banks of the Nile’. I enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it

was fun to see them stare at me. I heard one of the young men tell

another that he knew I’d been an actress, in fact, he thought he

remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters. Meg will relish that

joke. Mr. Bhaer was Nick Bottom, and Tina was Titania, a perfect little

fairy in his arms. To see them dance was ‘quite a landscape’, to use a

Teddyism.

I had a very happy New Year, after all, and when I thought it over in

my room, I felt as if I was getting on a little in spite of my many

failures, for I’m cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take

more interest in other people than I used to, which is satisfactory.

Bless you all! Ever your loving... Jo

Chapter 34. FRIEND

Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy

with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the

effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now

took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl,

but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that

money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to

have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved

more than life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth

everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her

bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so

that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years

Jo’s most cherished castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after

long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en

Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for

public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on

bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed

awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the

least lovely of the giant’s treasures, if I remember rightly. But the

‘up again and take another’ spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so

she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but

nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.

She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even

all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a

‘thrilling tale’, and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor

of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had

a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over

many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she

dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she

was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and

dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar

smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels

rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them

took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this

reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much

embarrassment...

“Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to

see Mr. Dashwood.”

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,

and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced

with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling

that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her

manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,

blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the

occasion.

“A friend of mine desired me to offer—a story—just as an

experiment—would like your opinion—be glad to write more if this

suits.”

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,

and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers,

and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

“Not a first attempt, I take it?” observing that the pages were

numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon—sure

sign of a novice.

“No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in

the _Blarneystone Banner_.”

“Oh, did she?” and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to

take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the

buttons on her boots. “Well, you can leave it, if you like. We’ve more

of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present,

but I’ll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week.”

Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn’t suit her at

all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but

bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was

apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was

perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the

gentlemen that her little fiction of ‘my friend’ was considered a good

joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as

he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to

return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching

pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh

over the scene and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr.

Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.

Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his

manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the

first.

“We’ll take this (editors never say I), if you don’t object to a few

alterations. It’s too long, but omitting the passages I’ve marked will

make it just the right length,” he said, in a businesslike tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its

pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being

asked to cut off her baby’s legs in order that it might fit into a new

cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find

that all the moral reflections—which she had carefully put in as

ballast for much romance—had been stricken out.

“But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I

took care to have a few of my sinners repent.”

Mr. Dashwoods’s editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had

forgotten her ‘friend’, and spoken as only an author could.

“People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don’t sell

nowadays.” Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

“You think it would do with these alterations, then?”

“Yes, it’s a new plot, and pretty well worked up—language good, and so

on,” was Mr. Dashwood’s affable reply.

“What do you—that is, what compensation—” began Jo, not exactly knowing

how to express herself.

“Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this

sort. Pay when it comes out,” returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point

had escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.

“Very well, you can have it,” said Jo, handing back the story with a

satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five

seemed good pay.

“Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better

than this?” asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and

emboldened by her success.

“Well, we’ll look at it. Can’t promise to take it. Tell her to make it

short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend

like to put on it?” in a careless tone.

“None at all, if you please, she doesn’t wish her name to appear and

has no nom de plume,” said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

“Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will you

call for the money, or shall I send it?” asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a

natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

“I’ll call. Good morning, Sir.”

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful

remark, “Poor and proud, as usual, but she’ll do.”

Following Mr. Dashwood’s directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her

model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational

literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,

she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and

scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared

upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit

as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such

trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood

graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not

thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his

hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher

wages, had basely left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew

stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the

mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One

thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell

them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not

approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon

afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with

her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but

promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write

nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of

conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show

her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could

not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,

history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and

lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found

that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the

tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business

light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic

energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them

original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers

for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of

public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in

the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.

She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old

that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,

and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought

she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to

desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman’s character. She

was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence

affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and

unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her

nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which

comes soon enough to all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of

other people’s passions and feelings set her to studying and

speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young

minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own

punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don’t know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read

character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,

brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every

perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who

interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one

of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and

lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a

writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and

studied him—a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he

known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither

rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called

fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a

genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as

about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving

something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer

young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face

looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his

sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last

decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any

sorrow, ‘it sat with its head under its wing’, and he turned only his

sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time

seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to

others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many

friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and

his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than

words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the

wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him

comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart

underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets

plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.

His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy

like other people’s.

“That’s it!” said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that

genuine good will toward one’s fellow men could beautify and dignify

even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own

socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine

respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the

Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,

and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much

honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came

to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss

Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it

all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to

know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor

language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much

beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.

Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most

unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which

Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman

felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many

favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with

her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several

celebrities.

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had

worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for

genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to

recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and

women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid

admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on

‘spirit, fire, and dew’, to behold him devouring his supper with an

ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a

fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her

romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters

with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly

with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at

another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering

her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea

Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady

rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting

their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting

themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young

musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked

horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be

the most ordinary man of the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned,

that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined

her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the

philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an

intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles

beyond Jo’s comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel

were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms,

and the only thing ‘evolved from her inner consciousness’ was a bad

headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the

world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and,

according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before,

that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and

intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or

metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable,

half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being

turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a

holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him

looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.

He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated

just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat,

trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after

they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions,

not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be

lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,

attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit

his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul

would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over

that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an

opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion

with all the eloquence of truth—an eloquence which made his broken

English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for

the wise men argued well, but he didn’t know when he was beaten and

stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got

right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed

better than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was not

a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground

under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but not one

whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor

her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out

then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She

began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank,

intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man

has defined it to be, ‘truth, reverence, and good will’, then her

friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his

respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the

wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew out

of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her

lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put there

and he had forgotten to take off.

“It’s evident he doesn’t look in his glass before coming down,” thought

Jo, with a smile, as he said “Goot efening,” and sat soberly down,

quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his

headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,

hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover

it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German

read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came

the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that

night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The

Professor didn’t know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask

with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .

“Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master’s face? Haf you no

respect for me, that you go on so bad?”

“How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?”

said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt

and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then

threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.

“Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my

cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well,

you too shall wear him.”

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer

caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great

disgust, “I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not

for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I

haf no patience with those who make this harm.”

Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a

lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but the

impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear,

because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It was not,

however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it had

been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to

betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush,

for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than

people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the

newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he

asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it

occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it

troubled him. He did not say to himself, “It is none of my business.

I’ve no right to say anything,” as many people would have done. He only

remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother’s

love and father’s care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as

quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to

save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a

minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the time the

paper was turned, and Jo’s needle threaded, he was ready to say quite

naturally, but very gravely...

“Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young

girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I

would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad

trash.”

“All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for

it, I don’t see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people

make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories,” said

Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits

followed her pin.

“There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to

sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would

not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison in

the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think a

little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing.”

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in

his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for

her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and

gone harmlessly up the chimney.

“I should like much to send all the rest after him,” muttered the

Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her

hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.

Then she thought consolingly to herself, “Mine are not like that, they

are only silly, never bad, so I won’t be worried,” and taking up her

book, she said, with a studious face, “Shall we go on, Sir? I’ll be

very good and proper now.”

“I shall hope so,” was all he said, but he meant more than she

imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the

words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully

reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr. Bhaer

sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to see

how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed to have

on the Professor’s mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of

these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.

“They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is

more sensational than the last. I’ve gone blindly on, hurting myself

and other people, for the sake of money. I know it’s so, for I can’t

read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it,

and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of

them?”

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her

stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

“Yes, that’s the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I’d better

burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves

up with my gunpowder,” she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura

whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three month’s work except a heap

of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the

floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

“I think I haven’t done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my

time,” she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, “I almost

wish I hadn’t any conscience, it’s so inconvenient. If I didn’t care

about doing right, and didn’t feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I

should get on capitally. I can’t help wishing sometimes, that Mother

and Father hadn’t been so particular about such things.”

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that ‘Father and Mother were

particular’, and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians

to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to

impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build

character upon in womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not

pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as

is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs.

Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale

which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so

intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning,

for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new

style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous

costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to several

markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with

Mr. Dashwood that morals didn’t sell.

Then she tried a child’s story, which she could easily have disposed of

if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The

only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try

juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to

convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked

to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty

boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did

not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did

go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to

escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons

on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo

corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...

“I don’t know anything. I’ll wait until I do before I try again, and

meantime, ‘sweep mud in the street’ if I can’t do better, that’s

honest, at least.” Which decision proved that her second tumble down

the beanstalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had

been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked

serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did

it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would

accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was

satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she

had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the

second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her

evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and

studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on

occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was

happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons

besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her

own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.

Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The children

were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer’s hair stuck straight up all over his

head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

“Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in,” he said,

when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,

while she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when

his turn came, she said warmly, “Now, Sir, you won’t forget to come and

see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I’ll never forgive you if

you do, for I want them all to know my friend.”

“Do you? Shall I come?” he asked, looking down at her with an eager

expression which she did not see.

“Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you’d enjoy

commencement as something new.”

“That is your best friend, of whom you speak?” he said in an altered

tone.

“Yes, my boy Teddy. I’m very proud of him and should like you to see

him.”

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure

in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr.

Bhaer’s face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more

than a ‘best friend’, and simply because she particularly wished not to

look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush,

and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been

for Tina on her knee. She didn’t know what would have become of her.

Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her

face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and

his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual

expression, as he said cordially...

“I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much

success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!” And with that, he

shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the

tired look on his face and the ‘heimweh’, or homesickness, lying heavy

at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little

child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head

on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search

of something that he could not find.

“It is not for me, I must not hope it now,” he said to himself, with a

sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the

longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled

heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened

his Plato.

He did his best and did it manfully, but I don’t think he found that a

pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very

satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.

Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and

thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory

of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her

company, and best of all, the happy thought, “Well, the winter’s gone,

and I’ve written no books, earned no fortune, but I’ve made a friend

worth having and I’ll try to keep him all my life.”