Little Women by Louisa May Alcott Chapter 26 Artistic Attempts It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius,
Especially ambitious young men and women.
Amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation.
For mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration,
She attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.
For a long time there was a lull in the mud pie business,
And she devoted herself to the finest pen and ink drawing,
In which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable.
But overstrained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker sketching.
While this attack lasted,
The family lived in constant fear,
For the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours.
Smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency.
Red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously,
And Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner bell on her door,
In case of fire.
Raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the molding board,
And Bacchus on the head of the beer barrel.
A chanting cherub adored the cover of the sugar bucket.
An attempt to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied kindling for some time,
From fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers,
And Amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor.
An artist's friend fitted her out with his cast-off palettes,
Brushes,
And colors,
And she dabbed away,
Producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea.
Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair,
And the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer.
If the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance,
Swarthy boys and dark-eyed madonnas,
Staring at you from one corner of the studio,
Suggested oily brown shadows of face with lurid streak in the wrong place,
Meant to be Rembrandt,
Books and ladies and dropsycle infants.
Rubens and Turner appeared in tempest of blue thunder,
Orange lightning,
Brown rain,
And purple clouds,
With a tomato-colored splash in the middle,
Which might be the sun or a buoy,
A sailor's shirt or a king's robe,
As the spectator pleased.
Charcoal portraits came next,
And the entire family hung in a row,
Looking as wild and crocky as if just evolved from a coal bin.
Softened into crayon sketches,
They did better,
For the likenesses were good,
And Amy's hair,
Joe's nose,
Meg's mouth,
And Laurie's eyes were pronounced wonderfully fine.
A return to clay and plaster followed,
And ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house,
Or tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads.
Children were enticed in as models,
Till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress.
Her efforts in this line,
However,
Were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident,
Which quenched her ardor.
Other models failing her for a time,
She undertook to cast her own pretty foot,
And the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming,
And running to the rescue.
Found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed,
With her foot held fast,
And a pan full of plaster,
Which had hardened with unexpected rapidity.
With much difficulty and some danger,
She was dug out,
For Joe was so overcome with laughter that she excavated that her knife went too far,
Cut the poor foot,
And left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt,
At least.
After this,
Amy subsided,
Till a mania for sketching for nature set her to haunting river,
Field,
And wood for picturesque studies,
And sighing for ruins to copy.
She caught endless cold sitting on damp grass to book a delicious bit,
Composed of a stone,
A stump,
One mushroom,
And a broken stalk,
Or a heavenly mass of clouds that look like a choice display of feather beds when done.
She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade,
And got a wrinkle over her nose,
Trying after points of sight,
Or whatever the squint and string performance is called.
If genius is eternal patience,
As Michelangelo affirms,
Amy had some claim to the divine attribute,
For she persevered in spite of all obstacles,
Failures,
And discouragements,
Firmly believing that in time,
She should do something worthy to be called high art.
She was learning,
Doing,
And enjoying other things meanwhile,
For she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman,
Even if she never became a great artist.
Here she succeeded better,
For she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort,
Make friends everywhere,
And take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.
Everybody liked her,
For among her good gifts was tact.
She had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper,
Always said the right thing to the right person,
And did just what suited the time and place,
And was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say,
If Amy went to court without any rehearsal before him,
She'd know exactly what to do.
One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in our best society,
Without being quite sure what the best really was.
Money,
Position,
Fashionable accomplishments,
And elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes,
And she liked to associate with those who possessed them,
Often mistaking the false for the true,
And admiring what was not admirable,
Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman.
She cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings,
So that when the opportunity came,
She might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her.
My lady,
As her friends called her,
Sincerely desired to be a genuine lady,
And was so at heart,
But had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature,
That rank does not always confer nobility,
And that true breeding makes itself felt,
In spite of external drawbacks.
I want to ask you a favor,
Mama,
Amy said,
Coming in with an important heir one day.
Well,
Little girl,
What is it?
Replied her mother,
In whose eyes the stately young lady still remained the baby.
Our drawing class breaks up next week,
And before the girls separate for the summer,
I want to ask them out here for a day.
They are wild to see the river,
Sketch the broken bridge,
And copy some of the things they admire in my book.
They have been very kind to me in many ways,
And I am grateful,
For they are all rich,
And I know I'm poor,
Yet they never made any difference.
Why should they?
And Miss March put the question,
With what the girls called her,
Maria Theresa Heir.
You know as well as I do,
It does make a difference with nearly everyone,
So don't ruffle up like a dear motherly hen,
When your chickens get pecked by smarter birds.
The ugly duckling turned out a swan,
You know.
And Amy smiled without bitterness,
For she possessed a happy temper,
And a hopeful spirit.
Miss March laughed,
And smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,
Well my swan,
What is your plan?
I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week,
To take them for a drive,
To the places they want to see,
A row on the river perhaps,
And make a little artistic fet for them.
That looks feasible.
What do you want for lunch?
Cake,
Sandwiches,
Fruit,
And coffee will all be necessary,
I suppose.
Oh dear no,
We must have cold tongue and chicken,
French chocolate and ice cream besides.
The girls are used to such things,
And I want my lunch to be proper and elegant,
Though I do work for my living.
How many young ladies are there?
Asked her mother,
Beginning to look sober.
Twelve or fourteen in the class,
But I dare say they won't all come.
Bless me child,
You'll have to charter an omnibus to carry them about.
Why mother,
How can you think of such a thing?
Not more than six or eight will probably come,
So I shall hire a beach wagon,
And borrow Mr.
Lawrence's cherry bounce.
All of this will be expensive,
Amy.
Not very,
I've calculated the cost,
And I'll pay for it myself.
Don't you think,
Dear,
That as these girls are used to such things,
And the best we can do will be nothing new,
That some simpler plan might be pleasanter to them,
As a change,
If nothing more,
And much better for us than buying,
Or borrowing what we don't need,
And attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances.
If I can't have it as I like,
I don't care to have it at all.
I know that I can carry it out perfectly well,
If you and the girls will help a little,
And I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it,
" said Amy,
With the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy.
Miss March knew that experience was an excellent teacher,
And when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons,
Which she would gladly have made easier,
If they had not objected to taking advice,
As much as they did Saltz and Sunna.
Very well,
Amy,
If your heart is set upon it,
And you see your way through without too great an outlay of money,
Time,
And temper,
I'll say no more.
Talk it over with the girls,
And whichever way you decide,
I'll do my best to help you.
Thanks,
Mother.
You are always so kind.
And away went Amy to lay her plan before her sisters.
Meg agreed at once,
And promised her aid,
Gladly offering anything she possessed from her little house itself to her very best salt spoons.
But Joe frowned upon the whole project,
And would have nothing to do with it at first.
Why in the world should you spend your money,
Worry your family,
And turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence for you?
I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal woman,
Just because she wears French boots and rides in a coup.
Said Joe,
Who being called from the tragic climax of her novel,
Was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
I don't truckle,
And I hate being patronized as much as you do,
Returned Amy,
For the two still jangled when such questions arose.
The girls do care for me,
And I for them,
And there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them,
In spite of what you call fashionable nonsense.
You don't care to make people like you,
To go into good society,
And cultivate your manners and tastes.
I do,
And I mean to make the most of every chance that comes.
You can go through the world with your elbows out,
And your nose in the air,
And call it independence if you like.
That is not my way.
When Amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind,
She usually got the best of it,
For she seldom failed to have common sense on her side.
While Joe carried her love of liberty,
And hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent,
That she naturally found herself worsted in an argument.
Amy's definition of Joe's idea of independence was such a good hit,
That both burst out laughing,
And the discussion took a more amiable turn.
Much against her will,
Joe at length consented to sacrifice a day to Miss Grundy,
And help her sister through what she regarded as a nonsensical business.
The invitations were sent,
Nearly all accepted,
And the following Monday was set apart for the grand event.
Hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged,
And prophesized that if the washing and ironing weren't done regular,
Nothing would go well anywhere.
This hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern,
But Amy's motto was,
NIL DESPERANDUM,
And having made up her mind what to do,
She proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles.
To begin with,
Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well.
The chicken was tough,
The tongue too salty,
And the chocolate wouldn't froth properly.
Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected.
So did the wagon,
And various other expenses,
Which seemed trifling on the outset,
Counted up rather alarmingly afterward.
Beth got a cold and took to her bed.
Meg had an unusual number of collars to keep her at home,
And Jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages,
Accidents,
And mistakes were uncommonly numerous,
Serious,
And trying.
If it was not fair on Monday,
The young ladies were to come on Tuesday,
An arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last degree.
On Monday morning,
The weather was in that undecided state,
Which is more exasperating than a steady pour.
It drizzled a little,
Shone a little,
Blew a little,
And it didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up theirs.
Amy was up at dawn,
Hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts,
Thought the house might be got in order.
The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby,
But without stopping to sigh for what she had not,
She skillfully made the best of what she had,
Arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet,
Covering stains on the walls,
Which gave an artistic air to the room,
As did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.
The lunch looked charming,
And as she surveyed it,
She sincerely hoped it would taste well,
And that the borrowed glass,
China,
And silver would get safely home again.
The carriages were promised,
Meg and Mother were all ready to do the honors,
Beth was able to help Hannah behind the scenes,
Jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as absent mind,
An aching head,
And a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow.
As she was warily dressed,
Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when,
Lunch safely over,
She should drive away her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights,
For the cherry bounce and the broken bridge were her strong points.
Then came the hours of suspense,
During which she vibrated from parlor to porch,
While public opinion varied like the weather crock.
A smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve,
For nobody came,
And that two of the exhausted families sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast,
That nothing might be lost.
No doubt about the weather today,
They will certainly come,
So we must fly round and be ready for them,
Said Amy,
As the sun woke up next morning.
She spoke briskly,
But in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about Tuesday,
For her interest like her cake was getting a little stale.
I can't get any lobsters,
So you'll have to do without salad today,
Said Mr.
March,
Coming in half an hour late,
With an expression of placid despair.
Use the chicken,
Then,
The toughness won't matter in a salad,
Advised his wife.
Hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute,
And the kittens got at it.
I'm very sorry,
Amy,
Added Beth,
Who was still a patroness of cats.
Then I must have a lobster,
For tongue won't do alone,
Said Amy decidedly.
Shall I rush into town and demand one,
Asked Joe?
You'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper just to try me.
I'll go myself,
Answered Amy,
Whose temper was beginning to fail.
Shrouded in a thick veil,
And armed with genteel travelling basket,
She departed,
Feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit,
And fit her for the labours of the day.
After some delay,
The object of her desire was procured,
Likewise a bottle addressing to prevent further loss of time at home,
And off she drove again,
Well pleased with her own forethought.
As the omnibus contained only one other passenger,
A sleepy old lady,
Amy pocketed her veil,
And beguiled the tedium of the way,
By trying to find out where all her money had gone.
So busy was she with her card full of refractory figures,
That she did not observe a newcomer,
Who entered without stopping the vehicle,
Till a masculine voice said,
Good morning,
Miss March,
And looking up she beheld one of Laurie's most elegant college friends.
Fervently hoping that he would get out before she did,
Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet,
And congratulated herself that she had,
On her new travelling dress,
Returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
They got on excellently,
For Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first,
And she was chatting away in a lofty strain when the old lady got out.
In stumbling to the door,
She upset the basket,
And,
Oh horror,
The lobster,
In all its vulgar size and brilliancy,
Was revealed to the high-born eyes of a tutor.
By Jove,
She's forgotten her dinner,
Cried the unconscious youth,
Poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane,
And preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.
Please don't,
It's,
It's mine,
Murmured Amy,
With a face nearly as red as her fish.
Oh really,
I beg pardon.
It's an uncommonly fine one,
Isn't it?
Said tutor,
With the great presence of mind,
And an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding.
Amy recovered herself in a breath,
Set her basket boldly on the seat,
And said laughing,
Don't you wish you were here to have some of the salad he's going to make,
And to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?
Now that was a tact,
For two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched.
The lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences,
And curiosity about the charming young ladies diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie,
But I shan't see them,
That's a comfort,
Thought Amy,
As tutor bowed and departed.
She did not mention this meeting at home,
Though she discovered that thanks to the upset,
Her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt,
But went through with the preparations,
Which now seem more irksome than before,
And at twelve o'clock all was ready again.
Feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements,
She wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success today.
So she ordered the cherry bounce,
And drove away in a state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.
There's the rumble,
They're coming!
I'll go on to the porch and meet them.
It looks hospitable,
And I want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble,
Said Miss March,
Suiting the action to the word.
But after one glance she retired,
With an indescribable expression,
For looking quite lost in the big carriage,
Sat Amy and one young lady.
Run,
Beth,
And help Hannah clear half the things off the table.
It will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,
Cried Joe,
Hurrying away to the lower regions,
Too excited to even stop to laugh.
In came Amy,
Quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise.
The rest of the family,
Being of the dramatic turn,
Played their parts equally well.
And Miss Elliot found them a most hilarious set,
For it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them.
The remodeled lunch being gaily partaken of,
The studio and garden visited,
And art discussed with enthusiasm.
Amy ordered a buggy,
Alas for the elegant cherry bounce,
And drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset,
When the party went out.
As she came walking in,
Looking very tired but as composed as ever,
She observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fet had disappeared,
Except a suspicious pucker around the corner of Joe's mouth.
You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive,
Dear,
Said her mother,
As respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
Miss Elliot is a very sweet girl,
And seemed to enjoy herself,
I thought,
Observed Beth,
With unusual warmth.
Could you spare me some of your cake?
I really need some.
I have so much company,
And can't make such delicious stuff as yours,
Asked Meg soberly.
Take it all.
I'm the only one here who likes sweet things,
And it will mold before I can dispose of it,
Answered Amy,
Thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in.
Such an end as this.
It's a pity Lori isn't here to help us,
Began Joe,
As they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.
A warning look from her mother checked any further remarks,
And the whole family ate in heroic silence,
Till Mr.
March mildly observed.
Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients,
And Evelyn.
.
.
Hear a general explosion of laughter cut short the history of salads,
To the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
Bundle everything into a basket,
And send it to the Hummels.
Germans like messes.
I'm sick of the sight of this,
And there's no reason you should all die,
Because I've been a fool,
Cried Amy,
Wiping her eyes.
I thought I should have died when I saw you two girls rattling about in the what you call it,
Like two little colonels,
In such a big nutshell,
And mother waiting in state to receive the throng,
Sighed Joe,
Quite spent with laughter.
I'm very sorry you were disappointed,
Dear,
But we all did our best to satisfy you,
Said Miss March,
In a tone full of motherly regret.
I am satisfied.
I've done what I undertook,
And it's not my fault that it failed.
I comfort myself with that,
Said Amy with a little quiver in her voice.
I thank you all very much for helping me,
And I'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month,
At least.
No one did for several months,
But the words fet and party always produced a general smile.
And Lori's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watchguard.
And that is the end of our story this evening.
Until next time,
Sweet dreams.
