Chương Chương 41 · LEARNING TO FORGET

. LEARNING TO FORGET

Amy’s lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it

till long afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers,

the lords of creation don’t take the advice till they have persuaded

themselves that it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon

it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of

it. If it fails, they generously give her the whole. Laurie went back

to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that

the old gentleman declared the climate of Nice had improved him

wonderfully, and he had better try it again. There was nothing the

young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have

dragged him back after the scolding he had received. Pride forbid, and

whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by

repeating the words that had made the deepest impression—“I despise

you.” “Go and do something splendid that will make her love you.”

Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought

himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a

man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries

till he has lived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were

quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful

mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo

wouldn’t love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by

doing something which should prove that a girl’s ‘No’ had not spoiled

his life. He had always meant to do something, and Amy’s advice was

quite unnecessary. He had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted

affections were decently interred. That being done, he felt that he was

ready to ‘hide his stricken heart, and still toil on’.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurie

resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiem

which should harrow up Jo’s soul and melt the heart of every hearer.

Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless

and moody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musical

friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish

himself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music,

or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that

the Requiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his

mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for

often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself

humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at

Nice, especially the stout Frenchman, and put an effectual stop to

tragic composition for the time being.

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,

but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for his

heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender

recollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned

traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would

only recall Jo’s oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in

the most unsentimental aspects—beating mats with her head tied up in a

bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold

water over his passion a la Gummidge—and an irresistable laugh spoiled

the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn’t be put

into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a “Bless

that girl, what a torment she is!” and a clutch at his hair, as became

a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to

immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging

readiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,

was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his

mind’s eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and

blue ribbons. He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he

took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might,

for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted

her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal

woman.

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but

gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he

sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new

ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled

state that winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and

was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.

“It’s genius simmering, perhaps. I’ll let it simmer, and see what comes

of it,” he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn’t

genius, but something far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to

some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory

life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and

body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved

music was not a composer. Returning from one of Mozart’s grand operas,

splendidly performed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own,

played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of

Mendelssohn, Beethoven, and Bach, who stared benignly back again. Then

suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last

fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...

“She is right! Talent isn’t genius, and you can’t make it so. That

music has taken the vanity out of me as Rome took it out of her, and I

won’t be a humbug any longer. Now what shall I do?”

That seemed a hard question to answer, and Laurie began to wish he had

to work for his daily bread. Now if ever, occurred an eligible

opportunity for ‘going to the devil’, as he once forcibly expressed it,

for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and Satan is proverbially

fond of providing employment for full and idle hands. The poor fellow

had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood

them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith

and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire

to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him,

and say “All’s well,” kept him safe and steady.

Very likely some Mrs. Grundy will observe, “I don’t believe it, boys

will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not

expect miracles.” I dare say you don’t, Mrs. Grundy, but it’s true

nevertheless. Women work a good many miracles, and I have a persuasion

that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by

refusing to echo such sayings. Let the boys be boys, the longer the

better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must. But

mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one,

and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and

showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues

which make men manliest in good women’s eyes. If it is a feminine

delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the

beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would

embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who

still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to

own it.

Laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for Jo would absorb

all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it

grew easier every day. He refused to believe it at first, got angry

with himself, and couldn’t understand it, but these hearts of ours are

curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in

spite of us. Laurie’s heart wouldn’t ache. The wound persisted in

healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to

forget, he found himself trying to remember. He had not foreseen this

turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it. He was disgusted with

himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture

of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a

tremendous blow so soon. He carefully stirred up the embers of his lost

love, but they refused to burst into a blaze. There was only a

comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into

a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish

passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very

tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass

away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken

to the end.

As the word ‘brotherly’ passed through his mind in one of his reveries,

he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of Mozart that was before

him...

“Well, he was a great man, and when he couldn’t have one sister he took

the other, and was happy.”

Laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next

instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, “No, I won’t! I

haven’t forgotten, I never can. I’ll try again, and if that fails, why

then...”

Leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to

Jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was

the least hope of her changing her mind. Couldn’t she, wouldn’t she—and

let him come home and be happy? While waiting for an answer he did

nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of

impatience. It came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one

point, for Jo decidedly couldn’t and wouldn’t. She was wrapped up in

Beth, and never wished to hear the word love again. Then she begged him

to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his

heart for his loving sister Jo. In a postscript she desired him not to

tell Amy that Beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and

there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay. That would be

time enough, please God, but Laurie must write to her often, and not

let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.

“So I will, at once. Poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for

her, I’m afraid,” and Laurie opened his desk, as if writing to Amy had

been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks

before.

But he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his

best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.

Tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and

business documents of various kinds were several of Jo’s letters, and

in another compartment were three notes from Amy, carefully tied up

with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead

roses put away inside. With a half-repentant, half-amused expression,

Laurie gathered up all Jo’s letters, smoothed, folded, and put them

neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring

thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the

letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear High Mass at Saint

Stefan’s, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not

overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the

rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.

The letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for Amy

was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding

manner. The correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and

fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring. Laurie sold

his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to Paris, hoping

somebody would arrive before long. He wanted desperately to go to Nice,

but would not till he was asked, and Amy would not ask him, for just

then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her

rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of ‘our boy’.

Fred Vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once

decided to answer, “Yes, thank you,” but now she said, “No, thank you,”

kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her,

and she found that something more than money and position was needed to

satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes

and fears. The words, “Fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man I

fancied you would ever like,” and Laurie’s face when he uttered them,

kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in

look, if not in words, “I shall marry for money.” It troubled her to

remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so

unwomanly. She didn’t want Laurie to think her a heartless, worldly

creature. She didn’t care to be a queen of society now half so much as

she did to be a lovable woman. She was so glad he didn’t hate her for

the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was

kinder than ever. His letters were such a comfort, for the home letters

were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did

come. It was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the

poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since Jo persisted in

being stonyhearted. She ought to have made an effort and tried to love

him. It couldn’t be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to

have such a dear boy care for them. But Jo never would act like other

girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a

brother.

If all brothers were treated as well as Laurie was at this period, they

would be a much happier race of beings than they are. Amy never

lectured now. She asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested

in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent

him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences,

and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her. As few

brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in

their sister’s pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when

short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that

Amy did any of these fond and foolish things. But she certainly did

grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for

society, and went out sketching alone a good deal. She never had much

to show when she came home, but was studying nature, I dare say, while

she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at Valrosa, or

absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight

carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over

his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a

ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur

according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether

satisfactory.

Her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to Fred, and finding

denials useless and explanations impossible, Amy left her to think what

she liked, taking care that Laurie should know that Fred had gone to

Egypt. That was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he

said to himself, with a venerable air...

“I was sure she would think better of it. Poor old fellow! I’ve been

through it all, and I can sympathize.”

With that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his

duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed Amy’s letter

luxuriously.

While these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home. But

the letter telling that Beth was failing never reached Amy, and when

the next found her the grass was green above her sister. The sad news

met her at Vevay, for the heat had driven them from Nice in May, and

they had travelled slowly to Switzerland, by way of Genoa and the

Italian lakes. She bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the

family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was

too late to say goodbye to Beth, she had better stay, and let absence

soften her sorrow. But her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at

home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for

Laurie to come and comfort her.

He did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both,

but he was in Germany, and it took some days to reach him. The moment

he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow

pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy

and sorrow, hope and suspense.

He knew Vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he

hurried along the shore to La Tour, where the Carrols were living en

pension. The garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to

take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be

in the chateau garden. If monsieur would give himself the pain of

sitting down, a flash of time should present her. But monsieur could

not wait even a ‘flash of time’, and in the middle of the speech

departed to find mademoiselle himself.

A pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts

rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the

tower falling far across the sunny water. At one corner of the wide,

low wall was a seat, and here Amy often came to read or work, or

console herself with the beauty all about her. She was sitting here

that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy

eyes, thinking of Beth and wondering why Laurie did not come. She did

not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the

archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden. He stood a

minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen

before, the tender side of Amy’s character. Everything about her mutely

suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black

ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her

face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to

Laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only

ornament. If he had any doubts about the reception she would give him,

they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for

dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of

unmistakable love and longing...

“Oh, Laurie, Laurie, I knew you’d come to me!”

I think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood

together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down

protectingly over the light one, Amy felt that no one could comfort and

sustain her so well as Laurie, and Laurie decided that Amy was the only

woman in the world who could fill Jo’s place and make him happy. He did

not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth,

were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.

In a minute Amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears,

Laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry

well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future. As

he sat down beside her, Amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the

recollection of her impulsive greeting.

“I couldn’t help it, I felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to

see you. It was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as I was

beginning to fear you wouldn’t come,” she said, trying in vain to speak

quite naturally.

“I came the minute I heard. I wish I could say something to comfort you

for the loss of dear little Beth, but I can only feel, and...” He could

not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did

not quite know what to say. He longed to lay Amy’s head down on his

shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took

her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better

than words.

“You needn’t say anything, this comforts me,” she said softly. “Beth is

well and happy, and I mustn’t wish her back, but I dread the going

home, much as I long to see them all. We won’t talk about it now, for

it makes me cry, and I want to enjoy you while you stay. You needn’t go

right back, need you?”

“Not if you want me, dear.”

“I do, so much. Aunt and Flo are very kind, but you seem like one of

the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little

while.”

Amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that

Laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she

wanted—the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she

needed.

“Poor little soul, you look as if you’d grieved yourself half sick! I’m

going to take care of you, so don’t cry any more, but come and walk

about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still,” he said,

in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that Amy liked, as he tied

on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the

sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts. He felt more at ease upon

his legs, and Amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon,

a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully

for her alone.

The quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed

expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but

the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of

their words, as it rippled by below. For an hour this new pair walked

and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which

gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell

warned them away, Amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and

sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.

The moment Mrs. Carrol saw the girl’s altered face, she was illuminated

with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, “Now I understand it all—the

child has been pining for young Laurence. Bless my heart, I never

thought of such a thing!”

With praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed

no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged Laurie to stay and begged

Amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much

solitude. Amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal

occupied with Flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it

with more than her usual success.

At Nice, Laurie had lounged and Amy had scolded. At Vevay, Laurie was

never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the

most energetic manner, while Amy admired everything he did and followed

his example as far and as fast as she could. He said the change was

owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a

like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.

The invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked

wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies. They seemed to get

clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.

The fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and

moody mists. The warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring

ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts. The lake seemed to wash away

the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly

down upon them saying, “Little children, love one another.”

In spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that

Laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word. It took him a little

while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he

had firmly believed, his last and only love. He consoled himself for

the seeming disloyalty by the thought that Jo’s sister was almost the

same as Jo’s self, and the conviction that it would have been

impossible to love any other woman but Amy so soon and so well. His

first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon

it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion

blended with regret. He was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one

of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be

grateful when the pain was over. His second wooing, he resolved, should

be as calm and simple as possible. There was no need of having a scene,

hardly any need of telling Amy that he loved her, she knew it without

words and had given him his answer long ago. It all came about so

naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would

be pleased, even Jo. But when our first little passion has been

crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so

Laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance

the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and

sweetest part of his new romance.

He had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the

chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous

manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was

settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words. They had been

floating about all the morning, from gloomy St. Gingolf to sunny

Montreux, with the Alps of Savoy on one side, Mont St. Bernard and the

Dent du Midi on the other, pretty Vevay in the valley, and Lausanne

upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake

below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged

gulls.

They had been talking of Bonnivard, as they glided past Chillon, and of

Rousseau, as they looked up at Clarens, where he wrote his Heloise.

Neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each

privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own. Amy had

been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell

between them, and when she looked up, Laurie was leaning on his oars

with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for

the sake of saying something...

“You must be tired. Rest a little, and let me row. It will do me good,

for since you came I have been altogether lazy and luxurious.”

“I’m not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like. There’s room

enough, though I have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won’t

trim,” returned Laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.

Feeling that she had not mended matters much, Amy took the offered

third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar. She

rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both

hands, and Laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went

smoothly through the water.

“How well we pull together, don’t we?” said Amy, who objected to

silence just then.

“So well that I wish we might always pull in the same boat. Will you,

Amy?” very tenderly.

“Yes, Laurie,” very low.

Then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little

tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected

in the lake.