CHAPTER TWO
A MERRY CHRISTMAS
Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. No
stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much
disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it
was crammed so full of goodies. Then she remembered her mother’s
promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-
covered book. She knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of
the best life ever lived, and Jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any
pilgrim going on a long journey. She woke Meg with a “Merry Christmas,”
and bade her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book
appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their
mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes. Presently
Beth and Amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-
colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while
the east grew rosy with the coming day.
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’ll 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 in 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 for 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 to 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 gracefully 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 from 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 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 bequeaths 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.”
