Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit,and ‘fall into a vortex’, as she expressed it,writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul,for till that was finished she could find no peace.Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will,and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow,into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action.This cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family,who during these periods kept their distance,merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, “Does genius burn, Jo?” They did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap,and judged accordingly. If this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead,it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew,and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor.At such times the intruder silently withdrew,and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address Jo.
She did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on,she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care,or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world,full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes,meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times,and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit.The divine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture,and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People’s Course,the lecture on the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience,but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the Sphinx.
They were early, and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking,Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them.On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match,discussing Women’s Rights and making tatting. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers,artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag,and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right,her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.
It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume,tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen,with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by,and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open.Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and,with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, “want to read it?That’s a first-rate story.”
Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads,and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder,for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday,and when the author’s invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae,leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
“Prime, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.
“I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried,” returned Jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.
“I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good living out of such stories,they say.” and he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest.
“No, but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed. ”
“Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?” and Jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.
“Guess she does!She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it.”
Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it,for while Professor Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics,she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story.By the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke,she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded on paper),and was already deep in the concoction of her story,being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.
She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother,who always looked a little anxious when ‘genius took to burning’.Jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild romances for _The Spread Eagle_.Her experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now,for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes.Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it,and having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake,as a striking and appropriate denouement. The manuscript was privately dispatched,accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn’t get the prize,which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.
Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret,but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again,when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on opening it,a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap.For a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry.If the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature,I think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement,for Jo valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging,and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something,though it was only to write a sensation story.
A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed herself,she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand,the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee,and when the story came everyone read and praised it,though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty,and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way...
“You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the money.”
“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?” asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye.
“Send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered Jo promptly.
To the seaside they went, after much discussion,and though Beth didn’t come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better,while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger.So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit,bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She did earn several that year,and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen,her ‘rubbish’ turned into comforts for them all. The Duke’s Daughter paid the butcher’s bill,A Phantom Hand put down a new carpet, and the Curse of the Coventrys proved the blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.
Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side,and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand,and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful,and useful blessings of the world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction,and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.
Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged by this fact,she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune.Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends,and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it,on condition that she would cut it down one third,and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.
“Now I must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for printing it myself,or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what I can for it.Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient,so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject,” said Jo, calling a family council.
“Don’t spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen,” was her father’s advice,and he practiced what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen,and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.
“It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting,” said Mrs. March.“Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults,and help her to do better next time. We are too partial,but the praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money.”
“Yes,” said Jo, knitting her brows, “that’s just it. I’ve been fussing over the thing so long,I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool,impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it.”
“I wouldn’t leave a word out of it. You’ll spoil it if you do,for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people,and it will be all a muddle if you don’t explain as you go on,” said Meg,who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written.
“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic,and let the characters tell the story’,” interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher’s note.
“Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a good, popular book,and get as much money as you can. By-and-by, when you’ve got a name, you can afford to digress,and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels,” said Amy,who took a strictly practical view of the subject.
“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “if my people are ‘philosophical and metaphysical’, it isn’t my fault,for I know nothing about such things, except what I hear father say, sometimes.If I’ve got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth, what do you say?”
“I should so like to see it printed soon,” was all Beth said, and smiled in saying it.But there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word,and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor,which chilled Jo’s heart for a minute with a forboding fear,and decided her to make her little venture ‘soon’.
So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on her table,and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of pleasing everyone,she took everyone’s advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it,so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it.Her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description. Out, therefore it came,and with it many necessary links in the story. Meg admired the tragedy,so Jo piled up the agony to suit her, while Amy objected to the fun, and,with the best intentions in life, Jo quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story.Then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third,and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate.
Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame,both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover.
“You said, Mother, that criticism would help me. But how can it,when it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo, turning over a heap of notices,the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next.“This man says, ‘An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is sweet, pure,and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress. “The next, ‘The theory of the book is bad,full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ Now,as I had no theory of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life,I don’t see how this critic can be right. Another says,‘It’s one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.’ (I know better than that),and the next asserts that ‘Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.’ ’Tisn’t!Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound,when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I’d printed the whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged.”
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally.Yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo,who meant so well and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good,for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author’s best education,and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book,yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
“Not being a genius, like Keats, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly,“and I’ve got the joke on my side, after all,for the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced ‘charmingly natural, tender,and true’. So I’ll comfort myself with that, and when I’m ready, I’ll up again and take another.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT DOMESTIC EXPERIENCES
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper.John should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face,should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button. She brought so much love,energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles.Her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please,and bustled about like a true Martha, cumbered with many cares. She was too tired, sometimes,even to smile, John grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare.As for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went,to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself,and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t live on love alone.John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished,though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot.Nor did Meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting,when her husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry,“Shall I send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling?” The little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home,and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better.At first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children.Then John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders,and Meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.
While the cooking mania lasted she went through Mrs.Cornelius’s Receipt Book as if it were a mathematical exercise,working out the problems with patience and care.Sometimes her family were invited in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes,or Lotty would be privately dispatched with a batch of failures,which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little Hummels.An evening with John over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm,and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread pudding,hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul,although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude. Before the golden mean was found, however,Meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.
Fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves,she undertook to put up her own currant jelly.John was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra quantity of sugar,for their own currants were ripe and were to be attended to at once.As John firmly believed that ‘my wife’ was equal to anything,and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should be gratified,and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use.Home came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar,and a small boy to pick the currants for her. With her pretty hair tucked into a little cap,arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the bib,the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her success,for hadn’t she seen Hannah do it hundreds of times?The array of pots rather amazed her at first, but John was so fond of jelly,and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that Meg resolved to fill them all,and spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly. She did her best,she asked advice of Mrs. Cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what Hannah did that she left undone,she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn’t ‘jell’.
She longed to run home, bib and all, and ask Mother to lend her a hand,but John and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries,experiments, or quarrels. They had laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one,but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did so,and no one interfered, for Mrs. March had advised the plan.So Meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day,and at five o’clock sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.
Now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said,“My husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes.I shall always be prepared. There shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house,a cheerful wife, and a good dinner. John, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me.”
How charming that was, to be sure!John quite glowed with pride to hear her say it,and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife. But,although they had had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected,and Meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till now.It always happens so in this vale of tears,there is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
If John had not forgotten all about the jelly,it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year,to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly.Congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning,feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute,and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce,when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion,with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.
It is a world of disappointments, as John discovered when he reached the Dovecote.The front door usually stood hospitably open. Now it was not only shut, but locked,and yesterday’s mud still adorned the steps. The parlor windows were closed and curtained,no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white,with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess,smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest. Nothing of the sort,for not a soul appeared but a sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.
“I’m afraid something has happened. Step into the garden, Scott, while I look up Mrs. Brooke,” said John, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
Round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and Mr.Scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face.He paused discreetly at a distance when Brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear,and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
In the kitchen reigned confusion and despair. One edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot,another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning gaily on the stove. Lotty,with Teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and currant wine,for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while Mrs. Brooke,with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.
“My dearest girl, what is the matter?” cried John, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction,and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
“Oh, John, I am so tired and hot and cross and worried!I’ve been at it till I’m all worn out. Do come and help me or I shall die!” and the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast,giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word,for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor.
“What worries you dear?Has anything dreadful happened?” asked the anxious John, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew.
“Yes,” sobbed Meg despairingly.
“Tell me quick, then. Don’t cry. I can bear anything better than that. Out with it, love.”
“The... The jelly won’t jell and I don’t know what to do!”
John Brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward,and the derisive Scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal,which put the finishing stroke to poor Meg’s woe.
“Is that all?Fling it out of the window, and don’t bother any more about it. I’ll buy you quarts if you want it,but for heaven’s sake don’t have hysterics, for I’ve brought Jack Scott home to dinner, and...”
John got no further, for Meg cast him off,and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair,exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay...
“A man to dinner, and everything in a mess!John Brooke, how could you do such a thing?”
“Hush, he’s in the garden!I forgot the confounded jelly, but it can’t be helped now,” said John,surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
“You ought to have sent word, or told me this morning,and you ought to have remembered how busy I was,” continued Meg petulantly,for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
“I didn’t know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for I met him on the way out.I never thought of asking leave, when you have always told me to do as I liked.I never tried it before, and hang me if I ever do again!” added John, with an aggrieved air.
“I should hope not!Take him away at once. I can’t see him, and there isn’t any dinner.”
“Well, I like that!Where’s the beef and vegetables I sent home, and the pudding you promised?” cried John, rushing to the larder.
“I hadn’t time to cook anything. I meant to dine at Mother’s. I’m sorry, but I was so busy, ” and Meg’s tears began again.
John was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day’s work to come home tired, hungry,and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table,and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner.He restrained himself however, and the little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
“It’s a scrape, I acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand,we’ll pull through and have a good time yet. Don’t cry, dear, but just exert yourself a bit,and fix us up something to eat. We’re both as hungry as hunters, so we shan’t mind what it is.Give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese. We won’t ask for jelly.”
He meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate.Meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure,and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
“You must get yourself out of the scrape as you can. I’m too used up to ‘exert’ myself for anyone.It’s like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company.I won’t have anything of the sort in my house. Take that Scott up to Mother’s,and tell him I’m away, sick, dead, anything. I won’t see him,and you two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like. You won’t have anything else here.” and having delivered her defiance all on one breath,Meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room.
What those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but Mr.Scott was not taken ‘up to Mother’s’, and when Meg descended,after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror.Lotty reported that they had eaten “a much, and greatly laughed,and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots.”
Meg longed to go and tell Mother, but a sense of shame at her own short-comings, of loyalty to John,“who might be cruel, but nobody should know it,” restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up,she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for John to come and be forgiven.
Unfortunately, John didn’t come, not seeing the matter in that light.He had carried it off as a good joke with Scott, excused his little wife as well as he could,and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner,and promised to come again, but John was angry, though he did not show it,he felt that Meg had deserted him in his hour of need.“It wasn’t fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom,and when he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch,to be laughed at or pitied. No, by George, it wasn’t!And Meg must know it.”
He had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing Scott off,a milder mood came over him. “Poor little thing!It was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to please me. She was wrong, of course,but then she was young. I must be patient and teach her.” He hoped she had not gone home—he hated gossip and interference.For a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it,and then the fear that Meg would cry herself sick softened his heart,and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm,and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.
Meg likewise resolved to be ‘calm and kind, but firm’, and show him his duty.She longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and comforted,as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of the sort,and when she saw John coming, began to hum quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed,like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.
John was a little disappointed not to find a tender Niobe,but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none,only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark,“We are going to have a new moon, my dear.”
“I’ve no objection,” was Meg’s equally soothing remark.A few other topics of general interest were introduced by Mr. Brooke and wet-blanketed by Mrs.Brooke, and conversation languished. John went to one window, unfolded his paper,and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking. Meg went to the other window,and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life. Neither spoke.Both looked quite ‘calm and firm’, and both felt desperately uncomfortable.
“Oh, dear,” thought Meg, “married life is very trying,and does need infinite patience as well as love, as Mother says.” The word ‘Mother’ suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests.