Хорошие жёны / Good wives. Уровень 3
“Now I must cut it down. Fame is a very good thing, but cash is more convenient. So I want to hear your opinion,” said Jo, calling a family council.
“Don’t spoil your book, my girl. Let it wait and ripen,” was her father’s advice.
“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. The praise and blame of outsiders will be useful, even if she gets little money.”
“Yes,” said Jo, “that’s just it. I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to listen to some cool, impartial persons. They will tell me what they think of it.”
“You’ll spoil it if cut it,” said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel in the world.
“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Make it brief and dramatic’,” 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. When you get a name, you can do whatever you want with your novels,” said Amy, who was very practical.
“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “Now, Beth, what do you say?”
“I want to see it printed soon,” Beth said and smiled.
So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress took her novel and chopped it up as ruthlessly as an ogre. She wanted to please everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and – like the old man and his donkey in the fable – suited nobody.
Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, and plenty of praise and blame.
“You say, Mother, that criticism will help me. But how can it, when it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written a good book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo. “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.’ 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.’ Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I have a deep theory, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I hate to be so misjudged!”
When the first soreness was over, Jo could laugh at her poor little book.
“I’m not a genius, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly, “So when I’m ready, I’ll write another novel.”
Domestic Experiences
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. She brought much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work. She wanted to succeed, in spite of some obstacles.
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. The little house ceased to be a glorified bower. It became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders. Meg put on a big apron, and fell to work.
In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she did not get them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn’t like it.
She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more – his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked. All he asked was to keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she has done well. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg’s paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress.
Sallie was buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties. Sallie urged her to do it, offered to lend the money. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said,
“A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.”
She answered,
“I’ll take it,” and it was cut off. She paid for it.
When she got home, the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped like a pattern down the fabric. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully. When John got out his books that night, Meg’s heart sank. For the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked stern. Though he was unusually merry, she was afraid. The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand. She said nervously,
“You haven’t seen my private expense book[16] yet.”
John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so. She brought the little book slowly. The book was laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair. She said, with her panic increasing with every word,
“John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my book, for I’ve really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I meet people and I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised me to buy something. So I did, and my New Year’s money will partly pay for it. I was sorry after. I know what you will think of it.”
John laughed, and drew her round beside him,
“Don’t hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair of boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and don’t mind if she pays eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.”
That was one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye fell on it as he spoke.
“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said.
“Well, dear, what is the total?”
For a minute the room was very still, then John said slowly – but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,
“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the details you have to have to finish it off these days.”
“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly.
“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I’ve no doubt my wife will look fine,” said John dryly.
“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t do anything. I don’t mean to waste your money. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I’m tired of being poor[17].”
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did. They wounded him deeply. He denied himself many pleasures for Meg’s sake. She wanted to bite her tongue out the minute she said it. John pushed the books away and got up. He said with a little quiver in his voice,
“I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg.”
If he scolds her, or even shakes her, it won’t break her heart like those few words. She ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears,
“Oh, John, my dear, kind, hard-working boy! I didn’t mean it! It was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful. How could I say it! Oh, how could I say it!”
He was very kind. He forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach. But Meg knew that she did and said. Such a thing won’t be forgotten soon. A week of remorse nearly made Meg sick. The discovery that John countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold. He said simply, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change,
“I can’t afford it, my dear.”
Meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old greatcoat. She was crying.
They had a long talk that night. Meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty. It has made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience.
Next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to Sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor. The good-natured Mrs. Moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward. Then Meg ordered home the greatcoat. When John arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown. One can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued.
* * *Laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the Dovecote one Saturday, with an excited face.
“How’s the little mamma? Where is everybody? Why didn’t you tell me before I came home?”
“Happy as a queen, the dear! Now you go into the parlor,” with that reply Hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
Jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle. Jo’s face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion.
“Shut your eyes and hold out your arms,” she said invitingly.
“No, thank you. I’d rather not. I shall drop it or smash it.”
“Then you shan’t see your nephew,” said Jo decidedly.
“I will, I will! Only you must be responsible for damages.”
Obeying orders, Laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms. A peal
of laughter from Jo, Amy, Mrs. March, Hannah, and John caused him to open them the next minute, to find two babies instead of one.
“Twins, by Jupiter!” was all he said, then he added, “Take them quick, somebody! I’m going to laugh, and I shall drop them.”
“It’s the best joke of the season, isn’t it?” said Jo.
“I never was more staggered in my life. Isn’t it fun? Are they boys? What are you going to name them? Let’s have another look.”
“Boy and girl. Aren’t they beauties?” said the proud papa.
“Most remarkable children I ever saw. Which is which?”
“Amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, French fashion, so you can always tell. Besides, one has blue eyes and one brown. The boy’s name is John Laurence, and the girl Margaret, after mother and grandmother. We shall call her Daisey, so as not to have two Megs. I suppose the boy will be Jack, unless we find a better name,” said Amy.
“Name him Demijohn, and call him Demi for short,” said Laurie.
“Daisy and Demi, just the thing[18]!” cried Jo, clapping her hands.
Calls
“Come, Jo, it’s time.”
“Where?”
“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls[19] with me today? It was a bargain between us. It’s a lovely day, no prospect of rain. So be honorable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months.”
Jo hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any. In the present instance there was no escape. They visited a few houses and presently were walking towards Aunt March’s house.
“What a good girl you are, Amy!” said Jo. “I wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you. I think of them, but it takes too much time to do them.”
Amy smiled.
“Women must learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones. They have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive.”
“I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be. It’s a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn’t it?”
“It’s a greater not to be able to hide them.”
“But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners? Shall we continue bearing things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires?”
“I can’t argue about it. I only know that it’s the way of the world. People who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains.”
“I like them, and I shall be one if I can. In spite of the laughing the world will never get on without them. We can’t agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and I to the new. You will get on the best, but I shall have the liveliest time of it.”
“Well, compose yourself now, and don’t worry Aunt with your new ideas.”
“It’s my doom, and I can’t help it.”
They found Aunt Carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in.
“Are you going to help about the fair, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy sat down beside her.
“Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me, and I offered to tend a table. I have nothing but my time to give.”
“I’m not,” put in Jo decidedly. “I hate to be patronized. The Chesters think it’s a great favor to allow us to help with their fair.”
“I want to work. I think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.”
“Quite right and proper. I like your grateful spirit, my dear. It’s a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts. Some do not, and that is trying,” observed Aunt March, looking over her spectacles at Jo.
“I don’t like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave. I’d rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent.”
“Ahem!” coughed Aunt Carrol softly, with a look at Aunt March.
“I told you so,” said Aunt March, with a decided nod to Aunt Carrol.
“Do you speak French, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on Amy’s.
“Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March,” replied Amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably.
“How are you about languages?” asked Mrs. Carrol of Jo.
“Don’t know a word. I’m very stupid about studying anything. I hate French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of language,” was the reply.
Another look passed between the ladies, and Aunt March said to Amy,
“You are quite strong and well now, dear, I believe? Eyes don’t trouble you any more, do they?”
“Not at all, thank you, ma’am.”
“Good girl! You deserve to go, and I’m sure you will some day,” said Aunt March.
Consequences
Mrs. Chester’s fair was so very elegant that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies
of the neighborhood to be invited. Everyone was much interested in it. Amy was asked, but Jo was not. Aunt Carrol was there, and talked about something to Mrs. March in a corner. It made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.
A week later a letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs. March’s face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded to know, what it said.
“Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants…”
“Me to go with her!” burst in Jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.
“No, dear, not you. It’s Amy. I’m afraid it’s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit. Here she writes, as if quoting something you had said – ’I planned at first to ask Jo, but as ‘favors burden her’, and she ‘hates French’, I think I won’t venture to invite her. Amy is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo.”
“Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can’t I learn to keep it quiet?” groaned Jo, remembering her own words.
When she heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully,
“Dear, there is no hope of it this time. Try to bear it cheerfully, and don’t sadden Amy’s pleasure.”
“I’ll try,” said Jo. “I’ll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won’t be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment.”
“Jo, dear, I’m very selfish, but I can’t spare you, and I’m glad you are not going quite yet,” whispered Beth. She embraced her with such a loving face that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret.
By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in the family happiness. The young lady herself received the news as with great joy, and went about packing her pencils.
“It isn’t a pleasure trip to me, girls,” she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette. “It will decide my career, for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome, and will do something to prove it.”
“Suppose you haven’t?” said Jo.
“Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,” replied the aspirant for fame.
“No, you won’t. You hate hard work, and you’ll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days,” said Jo.
“Your predictions are sometimes right, but I don’t believe that one will be. I’m sure I wish it. If I can’t be an artist myself, I want to help those who are,” said Amy, smiling.
“Hum!” said Jo, with a sigh. “If you wish it you’ll have it, for your wishes are always granted – mine never.”
“Do you want to go?” asked Amy.
“Rather!”
“Well, in a year or two I’ll send for you, and we’ll dig in the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we’ve made so many times.”
“Thank you. I’ll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does,” returned Jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer gratefully.
There was not much time for preparation. The house was in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well until it was done. Then she cried till she couldn’t cry any more. Amy likewise bore up well till the steamer sailed. Then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, saying with a sob,
“Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything happens…”
“I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I’ll come and comfort you,” whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word.
So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes.
Our Foreign Correspondent
London
Dear girls,
Here I really sit at a front window of the Bath Hotel, Piccadilly. It’s not a fashionable place, but Uncle stopped here years ago, and won’t go anywhere else. However, we don’t intend to stay long. Oh, I can’t begin to tell you how I enjoy it all! I never can.
I sent a line from Halifax, when I felt pretty miserable, but after that I got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me. Everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers. Don’t laugh, Jo, gentlemen are really necessary on the ship.
Aunt and Flo were ill all the way, and liked to be let alone. So I went and enjoyed myself. Such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves! It was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly.
It was all heavenly, but I was glad to see the Irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen’s countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks. It was early in the morning, but I didn’t regret getting up to see it. The bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead. I shall never forget it.
At Queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, Mr. Lennox, and when I said something about the Lakes of Killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at me,
“Oh, have you ever heard of Kate Kearney?
She lives on the banks of Killarney;
From the glance of her eye,
Shun danger and fly,
For fatal is the glance of Kate Kearney.”
Wasn’t that nonsensical?
We only stopped at Liverpool a few hours. It’s a dirty, noisy place, and I was glad to leave it. Uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves[20], some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella. I like traveling.
I shall never get to London if I don’t hurry. The trip was riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes. The farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors. The grass is so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark!
Of course it rained when we got to London, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas. We rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers. Aunt Mary got me some new things. A white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw. Shopping in Regent Street is perfectly splendid. Things are very cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard. I shall get my gloves in Paris. Doesn’t that sound elegant and rich?
Flo and I, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while Aunt and Uncle were out, and went for a drive. We learned afterward that it wasn’t appropriate for young ladies to ride in them alone. It was so droll! We were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that Flo was frightened, and told me to stop him. But he didn’t hear me. We were quite helpless. At last, in my despair, I saw a little door in the roof, and opened it. A red eye appeared, and a beery voice said,
“Now, then, mum?”
I gave my order soberly, and, with an “Aye, aye, mum,” the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral. I poked again and said, “A little faster,” then off he went very fast, as before. We resigned ourselves to our fate.
Today was fair, and we went to Hyde Park. The Duke of Devonshire lives near. And the Duke of Wellington’s house is not far off. Such sights as I saw, my dear! There were fat dowagers in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous servants in silk stockings and velvet coats, powdered coachmen in front. Smart maids, with the rosiest children I ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer English hats and lavender kids, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps.
The horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well. But the women are stiff, and bounce. I wanted to show them an American gallop!
Don’t expect me to describe Westminster Abbey, that’s impossible. I’ll only say it is sublime! This evening we are going to the theatre.
* * *It’s very late, but I want to tell you what happened last evening. Who do you think came in, as we were at tea? Laurie’s English friends, Fred and Frank Vaughn! I was very surprised. Both are tall fellows with whiskers, Fred handsome in the English style, and Frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches. They heard from Laurie where we were, and came to ask us to their house. But Uncle doesn’t want to go, so we shall see them as soon as we can. They went to the theater with us, and we had such a good time, for Frank devoted himself to Flo, and Fred and I talked over past, present, and future fun. Tell Beth Frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health. Fred laughed when I spoke of Jo, and sent his ‘respectful compliments to the big hat’. Neither of them forgot Camp Laurence, or the fun we had there.
Aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so I must stop. I really feel like a London lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things. My head is full of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say “Ah!” and twirl their blond mustaches.
Your loving Amy
Paris
Dear girls,
In my last letter I told you about our London visit, how kind the Vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us. I enjoyed the trips to Hampton Court and the Kensington Museum more than anything else. At Hampton I saw Raphael’s works, and at the Museum, rooms full of pictures by Turner, Lawrence, Reynolds, Hogarth, and the other great people. The day in Richmond Park was charming. We had an English picnic. The Vaughns hope to meet us in Rome next winter. I shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don’t. Grace and I are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially Fred.
Well, he said that he was going to Switzerland. Aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn’t say a word. He speaks French like a Frenchman, and I don’t know what we will do without him. Uncle doesn’t know ten words, and insists on talking English very loud. Aunt’s pronunciation is old-fashioned. Flo and I find we don’t know French at all, and are very grateful to have Fred to do the ‘parley vooing’[21], as Uncle calls it.