CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CALLS
“Come, Jo, it’s time.”
“For what?”
“You don’t mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make
half a dozen calls with me today?”
“I’ve done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but I don’t
think I ever was mad enough to say I’d make six calls in one day, when a
single one upsets me for a week.”
“Yes, you did, it was a bargain between us. I was to finish the crayon of
Beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our
neighbors’ visits.”
“If it was fair, that was in the bond, and I stand to the letter of my bond,
Shylock. There is a pile of clouds in the east, it’s not fair, and I don’t go.”
“Now, that’s shirking. It’s a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride
yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your duty, and
then be at peace for another six months.”
At that minute Jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was
mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself
because she could use a needle as well as a pen. It was very provoking to be
arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her
best array on a warm July day. She hated calls of the formal sort, and never
made any till Amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise. In the
present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors
rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put
away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation,
told Amy the victim was ready.
“Jo March, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint! You don’t intend
to make calls in that state, I hope,” cried Amy, surveying her with
amazement.
“Why not? I’m neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty
walk on a warm day. If people care more for my clothes than they do for
me, I don’t wish to see them. You can dress for both, and be as elegant as
you please. It pays for you to be fine. It doesn’t for me, and furbelows only
worry me.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Amy, “now she’s in a contrary fit, and will drive me
distracted before I can get her properly ready. I’m sure it’s no pleasure to
me to go today, but it’s a debt we owe society, and there’s no one to pay it
but you and me. I’ll do anything for you, Jo, if you’ll only dress yourself
nicely, and come and help me do the civil. You can talk so well, look so
aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that
I’m proud of you. I’m afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me.”
“You’re an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in
that way. The idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being
afraid to go anywhere alone! I don’t know which is the most absurd. Well,
I’ll go if I must, and do my best. You shall be commander of the expedition,
and I’ll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?” said Jo, with a sudden change
from perversity to lamblike submission.
“You’re a perfect cherub! Now put on all your best things, and I’ll tell
you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression. I
want people to like you, and they would if you’d only try to be a little more
agreeable. Do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your
bonnet. It’s becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit. Take your
light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief. We’ll stop at Meg’s, and
borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one.”
While Amy dressed, she issued her orders, and Jo obeyed them, not
without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her
new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an
irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar,
wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief,
whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was
to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with
three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to Amy
with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly…
“I’m perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, I die
happy.”
“You’re highly satisfactory. Turn slowly round, and let me get a careful
view.” Jo revolved, and Amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back,
with her head on one side, observing graciously, “Yes, you’ll do. Your head
is all I could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing. Hold
back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves
do pinch. There’s one thing you can do well, Jo, that is, wear a shawl. I
can’t, but it’s very nice to see you, and I’m so glad Aunt March gave you
that lovely one. It’s simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are
really artistic. Is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have I looped my
dress evenly? I like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my
nose isn’t.”
“You are a thing of beauty and a joy forever,” said Jo, looking through
her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the golden
hair. “Am I to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please,
ma’am?”
“Hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house. The sweeping style
suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully. You haven’t
half buttoned one cuff, do it at once. You’ll never look finished if you are
not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole.”
Jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up
her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as ‘pretty as
picters’, Hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.
“Now, Jo dear, the Chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so I
want you to put on your best deportment. Don’t make any of your abrupt
remarks, or do anything odd, will you? Just be calm, cool, and quiet, that’s
safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes,” said Amy, as
they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been
inspected by Meg, with a baby on each arm.
“Let me see. ‘Calm, cool, and quiet’, yes, I think I can promise that. I’ve
played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and I’ll try it off. My
powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child.”
Amy looked relieved, but naughty Jo took her at her word, for during the
first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly
draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the
sphinx. In vain Mrs. Chester alluded to her ‘charming novel’, and the
Misses Chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions.
Each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure “Yes” or “No”
with the chill on. In vain Amy telegraphed the word ‘talk’, tried to draw her
out, and administered covert pokes with her foot. Jo sat as if blandly
unconscious of it all, with deportment like Maud’s face, ‘icily regular,
splendidly null’.
“What a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest Miss March is!” was
the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed
upon their guests. Jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but Amy
looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid
the blame upon Jo.
“How could you mistake me so? I merely meant you to be properly
dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone.
Try to be sociable at the Lambs’. Gossip as other girls do, and be interested
in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up. They move in the
best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and I wouldn’t fail to
make a good impression there for anything.”
“I’ll be agreeable. I’ll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures
over any trifle you like. I rather enjoy this, and now I’ll imitate what is
called ‘a charming girl’. I can do it, for I have May Chester as a model, and
I’ll improve upon her. See if the Lambs don’t say, ‘What a lively, nice
creature that Jo March is!”
Amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when Jo turned freakish there
was no knowing where she would stop. Amy’s face was a study when she
saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies
with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the
chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder. Amy was taken possession of
by Mrs. Lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long
account of Lucretia’s last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen
hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her.
So situated, she was powerless to check Jo, who seemed possessed by a
spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady. A knot of heads
gathered about her, and Amy strained her ears to hear what was going on,
for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter
made her wild to share the fun. One may imagine her suffering on
overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation.
“She rides splendidly. Who taught her?”
“No one. She used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting
straight on an old saddle in a tree. Now she rides anything, for she doesn’t
know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because
she trains them to carry ladies so well. She has such a passion for it, I often
tell her if everything else fails, she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living
so.”
At this awful speech Amy contained herself with difficulty, for the
impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which
was her especial aversion. But what could she do? For the old lady was in
the middle of her story, and long before it was done, Jo was off again,
making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders.
“Yes, Amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and
of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to
put dirt in his mouth before he would start. Nice animal for a pleasure party,
wasn’t it?”
“Which did she choose?” asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who
enjoyed the subject.
“None of them. She heard of a young horse at the farm house over the
river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because
he was handsome and spirited. Her struggles were really pathetic. There
was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the
horse. My dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her
head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!”
“Did she ride the horse?”
“Of course she did, and had a capital time. I expected to see her brought
home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the
party.”
“Well, I call that plucky!” and young Mr. Lamb turned an approving
glance upon Amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the
girl look so red and uncomfortable.
She was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a
sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress. One of the
young ladies asked Jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the
picnic and stupid Jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought
two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, “Oh, Amy
painted it. You can’t buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we
like. It’s a great comfort to have an artistic sister.”
“Isn’t that an original idea?” cried Miss Lamb, who found Jo great fun.
“That’s nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances. There’s
nothing the child can’t do. Why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for Sallie’s
party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky
blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,” added Jo, with an air
of pride in her sister’s accomplishments that exasperated Amy till she felt
that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase at her.
“We read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,”
observed the elder Miss Lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady,
who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.
Any mention of her ‘works’ always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either
grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque
remark, as now. “Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that
rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it. Are you going to New
York this winter?”
As Miss Lamb had ‘enjoyed’ the story, this speech was not exactly
grateful or complimentary. The minute it was made Jo saw her mistake, but
fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her
to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that
left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.
“Amy, we must go. Good-by, dear, do come and see us. We are pining for
a visit. I don’t dare to ask you, Mr. Lamb, but if you should come, I don’t
think I shall have the heart to send you away.”
Jo said this with such a droll imitation of May Chester’s gushing style
that Amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire
to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Didn’t I do well?” asked Jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away.
“Nothing could have been worse,” was Amy’s crushing reply. “What
possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots,
and all the rest of it?”
“Why, it’s funny, and amuses people. They know we are poor, so it’s no
use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and
have things as easy and fine as they do.”
“You needn’t go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty
in that perfectly unnecessary way. You haven’t a bit of proper pride, and
never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak,” said Amy
despairingly.
Poor Jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the
stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.
“How shall I behave here?” she asked, as they approached the third
mansion.
“Just as you please. I wash my hands of you,” was Amy’s short answer.
“Then I’ll enjoy myself. The boys are at home, and we’ll have a
comfortable time. Goodness knows I need a little change, for elegance has a
bad effect upon my constitution,” returned Jo gruffly, being disturbed by her
failure to suit.
An enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children
speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving Amy to entertain the
hostess and Mr. Tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, Jo devoted
herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing. She listened to
college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a
murmur, agreed heartily that “Tom Brown was a brick,” regardless of the
improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle
tank, she went with an alacrity which caused Mamma to smile upon her, as
that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by
filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most
faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired Frenchwoman.
Leaving her sister to her own devices, Amy proceeded to enjoy herself to
her heart’s content. Mr. Tudor’s uncle had married an English lady who was
third cousin to a living lord, and Amy regarded the whole family with great
respect, for in spite of her American birth and breeding, she possessed that
reverence for titles which haunts the best of us—that unacknowledged
loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation
under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie,
some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young
country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother,
who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding
when he rebelled. But even the satisfaction of talking with a distant
connection of the British nobility did not render Amy forgetful of time, and
when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself
from this aristocratic society, and looked about for Jo, fervently hoping that
her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should
bring disgrace upon the name of March.
It might have been worse, but Amy considered it bad. For Jo sat on the
grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog
reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of
Laurie’s pranks to her admiring audience. One small child was poking
turtles with Amy’s cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over
Jo’s best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were
enjoying themselves, and when Jo collected her damaged property to go,
her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, “It was such fun to
hear about Laurie’s larks.”
“Capital boys, aren’t they? I feel quite young and brisk again after that.”
said Jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly
to conceal the bespattered parasol.
“Why do you always avoid Mr. Tudor?” asked Amy, wisely refraining
from any comment upon Jo’s dilapidated appearance.
“Don’t like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and
doesn’t speak respectfully of his mother. Laurie says he is fast, and I don’t
consider him a desirable acquaintance, so I let him alone.”
“You might treat him civilly, at least. You gave him a cool nod, and just
now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to Tommy Chamberlain,
whose father keeps a grocery store. If you had just reversed the nod and the
bow, it would have been right,” said Amy reprovingly.
“No, it wouldn’t,” returned Jo, “I neither like, respect, nor admire Tudor,
though his grandfather’s uncle’s nephew’s niece was a third cousin to a
lord. Tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever. I think well of
him, and like to show that I do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown
paper parcels.”
“It’s no use trying to argue with you,” began Amy.
“Not the least, my dear,” interrupted Jo, “so let us look amiable, and drop
a card here, as the Kings are evidently out, for which I’m deeply grateful.”
The family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and Jo
uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that
the young ladies were engaged.
“Now let us go home, and never mind Aunt March today. We can run
down there any time, and it’s really a pity to trail through the dust in our
best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross.”
“Speak for yourself, if you please. Aunt March likes to have us pay her
the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call. It’s a little
thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and I don’t believe it will hurt your
things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them.
Stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet.”
“What a good girl you are, Amy!” said Jo, with a repentant glance from
her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless
still. “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, so I wait for
a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell
best in the end, I fancy.”
Amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air,
“Women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have
no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive. If you’d remember
that, and practice it, you’d be better liked than I am, because there is more
of you.”
“I’m a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but I’m willing to own
that you are right, only it’s easier for me to risk my life for a person than to
be pleasant to him when I don’t feel like it. 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. I don’t mind saying that I don’t
approve of Tudor any more than you do, but I’m not called upon to tell him
so. Neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable
because he is.”
“But I think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and
how can they do it except by their manners? Preaching does not do any
good, as I know to my sorrow, since I’ve had Teddie to manage. But there
are many little ways in which I can influence him without a word, and I say
we ought to do it to others if we can.”
“Teddy is a remarkable boy, and can’t be taken as a sample of other
boys,” said Amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have
convulsed the ‘remarkable boy’ if he had heard it. “If we were belles, or
women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us
to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don’t approve of them,
and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn’t have a particle of
effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical.”
“So we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely
because we are not belles and millionaires, are we? That’s a nice sort of
morality.”
“I can’t argue about it, I only know that it’s the way of the world, and
people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains. I
don’t like reformers, and I hope you never try to be one.”
“I do like them, and I shall be one if I can, for in spite of the laughing the
world would 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. I should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting,
I think.”
“Well, compose yourself now, and don’t worry Aunt with your new
ideas.”
“I’ll try not to, but I’m always possessed to burst out with some
particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her. 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, with a conscious
look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces. Jo was
not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but Amy, who had
virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a
most angelic frame of mind. This amiable spirit was felt at once, and both
aunts ‘my deared’ her affectionately, looking what they afterward said
emphatically, “That child improves every day.”
“Are you going to help about the fair, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, as Amy
sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the
young.
“Yes, Aunt. Mrs. Chester asked me if I would, and I offered to tend a
table, as I have nothing but my time to give.”
“I’m not,” put in Jo decidedly. “I hate to be patronized, and the Chesters
think it’s a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair. I
wonder you consented, Amy, they only want you to work.”
“I am willing to work. It’s for the freedmen as well as the Chesters, and I
think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun. Patronage
does not trouble me when it is well meant.”
“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, who sat apart,
rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.
If Jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance
for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but
unfortunately, we don’t have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what
goes on in the minds of our friends. Better for us that we cannot as a general
thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time
and temper. By her next speech, Jo deprived herself of several years of
pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.
“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.
Mercifully unconscious of what she had done, Jo sat with her nose in the
air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.
“Do you speak French, dear?” asked Mrs. Carrol, laying a hand on
Amy’s.
“Pretty well, thanks to Aunt March, who lets Esther talk to me as often as
I like,” 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, can’t bear
French, it’s such a slippery, silly sort of language,” was the brusque 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. I’m very well, and mean to do great things
next winter, so that I may be ready for Rome, whenever that joyful time
arrives.”
“Good girl! You deserve to go, and I’m sure you will some day,” said
Aunt March, with an approving pat on the head, as Amy picked up her ball
for her.
Crosspatch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin,
squalled Polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to
peep into Jo’s face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it
was impossible to help laughing.
“Most observing bird,” said the old lady.
“Come and take a walk, my dear?” cried Polly, hopping toward the china
closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.
“Thank you, I will. Come Amy.” and Jo brought the visit to an end,
feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her
constitution. She shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but Amy kissed
both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression
of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused Aunt March to say, as
they vanished…
“You’d better do it, Mary. I’ll supply the money.” and Aunt Carrol to
reply decidedly, “I certainly will, if her father and mother consent.”
