In spite of her small
vanities, Margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced
her sisters, especially Jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because
her advice was so gently given.
"Girls,"
said Meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little
night-capped ones in the room beyond, "Mother wants us to read and love
and mind these books, and we must begin at once. We used to be faithful about
it, but since Father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have
neglected many things. You can do as you please, but I shall keep my book on
the table here and read a little every morning as soon as I wake, for I know it
will do me good and help me through the day."
Then she opened her
new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to
cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless
face.
"How good Meg
is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and
they'' explain things if we don't understand," whispered Beth, very much
impressed by the pretty books and her sisters, example.
"I'm glad mine
is blue," said Amy. and then the rooms were very still while the pages
were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads
and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.
"Where is
Mother?" asked Meg, as she and Jo ran down to thank her for their gifts,
half an hour later.
"Goodness only knows.
some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was
needed. There never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes
and firin'," replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was
born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.
"She will be
back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said
Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under
the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time. "why, where is Amy's
bottle of cologne?" she added, as the little flask did not appear.
"She took it out
a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such
notion," replied Jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness
off the new army slippers.
"How nice my
handkerchiefs look, don't they? Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I
marked them all myself," said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven
letters which had cost her such labor.
"Bless the
child! She's gone and put `Mother' on them instead of `M. March'. How
funny!" cried Jo, taking one up.
"Isn't that
right? I thought it was better to do it so, because Meg's initials are M.M.,
and I don't want anyone to use these but Marmee," said Beth;, looking
troubled.
"It's all right,
dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake
now. It will please her very much, I know," said Meg, with a frown for Jo
and a smile for Beth.
"There's Mother.
Hide the basket, quick!" cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in
the hall.
Amy came in hastily,
and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her.
"Where have you
been, and what are you hiding behind you?" asked Meg, surprised to see, by
her hood and cloak, that lazy Amy had been out so early.
"Don't laugh at
me, Jo! I didn't mean anyone should know till the time came. I only meant to
change the little bottle for a big one, and I gave all my money to get it, and
I'm truly trying not to be selfish any more."
As she spoke, Amy
showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest
and humble in her little effort to forget herself that Meg hugged her on the
spot, and Jo pronounced her `a trump', while Beth ran to the window, and picked
her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.
"You see I felt
ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning,
so I ran round the corner and changed it the minute I was up, and I'm so glad,
for mine is the handsomest now."
Another bang of the
street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager
for breakfast.
"Merry
Christmas, Marmee! Many of them! Thank you for our books. We read some, and
mean to every day," they all cried in chorus.
"Merry
Christmas, little daughters! I'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep
on. But I want to say one word before we sit down. Not far away from here lies
a poor woman with a little newborn baby. Six children are huddled into one bed
to keep from freezing, for they have no fire. There is nothing to eat over
there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold.
My girls, will you give them your breakfast as a Christmas present?"
They were all
unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke,
only a minute, for Jo exclaimed impetuously, "I'm so glad you came before
we began!"
"May I go and
help carry the things to the poor little children?" asked Beth eagerly.
"I shall take
the cream and the muffings," added Amy, heroically giving up the article
she most liked.
Meg was already
covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate.
"I thought you'd
do it," said Mrs. March, smiling as if satisfied. "You shall all go
and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast,
and make it up at dinnertime."
They were soon ready,
and the procession set out. Fortunately it was early, and they went through
back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party.
A poor, bare,
miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick
mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one
old quilt, trying to keep warm.
How the big eyes
stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.
"Ach, mein Gott!
It is good angels come to us!" said the poor woman, crying for joy.
"Funny angels in
hoods and mittens," said Jo, and set them to laughing.
In a few minutes it
really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there. Hannah, who had
carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and
her own cloak. Mrs. March gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with
promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had
been her own. The girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the
fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to
understand the funny broken English.
"Das ist
gut!" "Die Engel-kinder!" cried the poor things as they ate and
warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze. The girls had never been
called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially Jo, who
had been considered a `Sancho' ever since she was born. That was a very happy
breakfast, though they didn't get any of it. And when they went away, leaving
comfort behind, I think there were not in all the city four merrier people than
the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves
with bread and milk on Christmas morning.
"That's loving
our neighbor better than ourselves, and I like it," said Meg, as they set
out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the
poor Hummels.
Not a very splendid
show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and
the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which
stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.
"She's coming!
Strike up, Beth! Open the door, Amy! Three cheers for Marmee!" cried Jo,
prancing about while Meg went to conduct Mother to the seat of honor.
Beth played her
gayest march, amy threw open the door, and Meg enacted escort with great
dignity. Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes
full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied
them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her
pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom,
and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.
There was a good deal
of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which
makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long
afterward, and then all fell to work.
The morning charities
and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to
preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to
the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private
performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother
of invention, made whatever they needed. Very clever were some of their
productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter
boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with
tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful
diamond shaped bits left inn sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut
out. The big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.
No gentleman were
admitted, so Jo played male parts to her heart's content and took immense
satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew
a lady who knew an actor. These boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once
used by an artist for some picture, were Jo's chief treasures and appeared on
all occasions. The smallness of the company made it necessary for the two
principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some
credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts,
whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides. It was
excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many
hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable
society.
On christmas night, a
dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the
blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There
was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp
smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the
excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart,
and the OPERATIC TRAGEDY began.
"A gloomy
wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in
pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance. This cave was made
with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small
furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it.
The stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as
real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover. A moment
was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then Hugo, the villain, stalked in
with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious
cloak, and the boots. After pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his
forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred to Roderigo,
his love for Zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the
other. The gruff tones of Hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his
feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the
moment he paused for breath. bowing with the air of one accustomed to public
praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered Hagar to come forth with a
commanding, "What ho, minion! I need thee!"
Out came Meg, with
gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and
cabalistic signs upon her cloak. Hugo demanded a potion to make Zara adore him,
and one destroy Roderigo. Hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and
proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter.
Hither, hither, from
thy home,
Airy sprite, I bid
thee come!
Born of roses, fed on
dew,
Charms and potions
canst thou brew? Bring me here, with elfin speed,
The fragrant philter
which I need.
Make it sweet and
swift and strong, Spirit, answer now my song!
A soft strain of
music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in
cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its
head. Waving a wand, it sang...
Hither I come,
From my airy home,
Afar in the silver
moon.
Take the magic spell,
And use it well,
Or its power will
vanish soon!
And dropping a small,
gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished. Another chant from
Hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly
black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at Hugo
and disappeared with a mocking laugh. Having warbled his thanks and put the
potions in his boots, Hugo departed, and Hagar informed the audience that as he
had killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and intends
to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him. Then the curtain fell, and the
audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play.
A good deal of
hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident
what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up, no one murmured at the
delay. It was truly superb. A tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a
window with a lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared Zara in
a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for Roderigo. He came in gorgeous
array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots,
of course. Kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting
tones. Zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly. Then came
the grand effect of the play. Roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps
to it, threw up one end, and invited Zara to descend. Timidly she crept from
her lattice, put her hand on Roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap
gracfully down when "Alas! Alas for Zara!" she forgot her train. It
caught in the window, the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and
buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins.
A universal shriek
arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head
emerged, exclaiming, "I told you so! I told you so!" With wonderful
presence of mind, Don Pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his
daughter, with a hasty aside...
"Don't laugh!
Act as if it was all right!" and, ordering Roderigo up, banished him form
the kingdom with wrath and scorn. Though decidedly shaken by the fall from the
tower upon him, Roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir. This
dauntless example fired Zara. She also defied her sire, and he ordered them
both to the deepest dungeons of the castle. A stout little retainer came in
with chains and led them away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting
the speech he ought to have made.
Act third was the
castle hall, and here Hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish
Hugo. She hears him coming and hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of
wine and bid the the timid little servant, "Bear them to the captives in
their cells, and tell them I shall come anon." The servant takes Hugo
aside to tell him something, and Hagar changes the cups for two others which
are harmless. Ferdinando, the `minion', carries them away, and Hagar puts back
the cup which holds the poison meant for Roderigo. Hugo, getting thirsty after
a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal of clutching
and stamping, falls flat and dies, while Hagar informs him what she has done in
a song of exquisite power and melody.
This was a truly
thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden
tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the effect of the
villain's death. He was called before the curtain, and with great propriety
appeared, leading Hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all
the rest of the performance put together.
Act fourth displayed
the despairing Roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been
told that Zara has deserted him. Just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely
song is sung under his window, informing him that Zara is true but in danger,
and he can save her if he will. A key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and
in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and
rescue his lady love.
Act fifth opened with
a stormy scene between Zara and Don Pedro. He wishes her to go into a convent,
but she won't hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when
Roderigo dashes in and demands her hand. Don Pedro refuses, because he is not
rich. They shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and Rodrigo is
about to bear away the exhausted Zara, when the timid servant enters with a
letter and a bag from Hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared. The latter
informs the party that she bequeths untold wealth to the young pair and an
awful doom to Don Pedro, if he doesn't make them happy. The bag is opened, and
several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified
with the glitter. This entirely softens the stern sire. He consents without a
murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers
kneeling to receive Don Pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic
grace.
Tumultuous applause
followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress
circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience.
Roderigo and Don Pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt,
though many were speechless with laughter. the excitement had hardly subsided
when Hannah appeared, with "Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies
walk down to supper."
This was a surprise
even to the actors, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in
rapturous amazement. It was like Marmee to get up a little treat for them, but
anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty.
There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and
fruit and distracting french bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four
great bouquets of hot house flowers.
It quite took their
breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who
looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.
"Is it
fairies?" asked Amy.
"Santa
Claus," said Beth.
"Mother did
it." And Meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white
eyebrows.
"Aunt March had
a good fit and sent the supper," cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.
"All wrong. Old
Mr. Laurence sent it," replied Mrs. March.
"The Laurence
boy's grandfather! What in the world put such a thing into his head? We don't
know him!' exclaimed Meg.
"Hannah told one
of his servants about your breakfast party. He is an odd old gentleman, but
that pleased him. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note
this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly
feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I
could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the
bread-and-milk breakfast."
"That boy; put
it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get
acquainted. He looks as if he'd like to know us but he's bashful, and Meg is so
prim she won't let me speak to him when we pass," said Jo, as the plates
went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of
satisfaction.
"You mean the
people who live in the big house next door, don't you?" asked one of the
girls. "My mother knows old Mr. Laurence, but says he's very proud and
doesn't like to mix with his neighbors. He keeps his grandson shut up, when he
isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard. We
invited him to our party, but he didn't come. Mother says he's very nice,
though he never speaks to us girls."
"Our cat ran
away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were
getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw Meg coming, and
walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he
does," said Jo decidedly.
"I like his
manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so I've no objection to your
knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes. He brought the flowers himself, and
I should have asked him in, if I had been sure what was going on upstairs. He
looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none
of his own."
"It's a mercy
you didn't , Mother!" laughed Jo, looking at her boots. "But we'll
have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't
that be jolly?"
"I never had
such a fine bouquet before! How pretty it is!" And Meg examined her flowers
with great interest.
"They are
lovely. But Beth's roses are sweeter to me," said Mrs. March, smelling the
half-dead posy in her belt.
Beth nestled up to
her, and whispered softly, "I wish I could send my bunch to Father. I'm
afraid he isn't having such a merry Christmas as we are."