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Chapter 18 – Class Day

Louisa May AlcottNov 05, 2016'Command+D' Bookmark this page

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The clerk of the weather evidently has a regard for young people, and
sends sunshine for class days as often as he can. An especially
lovely one shone over Plumfield as this interesting anniversary came
round, bringing the usual accompaniments of roses, strawberries,
white-gowned girls, beaming youths, proud friends, and stately
dignitaries full of well-earned satisfaction with the yearly harvest.
As Laurence College was a mixed one, the presence of young women as
students gave to the occasion a grace and animation entirely wanting
where the picturesque half of creation appear merely as spectators.
The hands that turned the pages of wise books also possessed the
skill to decorate the hall with flowers; eyes tired with study shone
with hospitable warmth on the assembling guests; and under the white
muslins beat hearts as full of ambition, hope, and courage as those
agitating the broadcloth of the ruling sex.

College Hill, Parnassus, and old Plum swarmed with cheery faces, as
guests, students, and professors hurried to and fro in the pleasant
excitement of arriving and receiving. Everyone was welcomed
cordially, whether he rolled up in a fine carriage, or trudged afoot
to see the good son or daughter come to honour on the happy day that
rewarded many a mutual sacrifice. Mr Laurie and his wife were on the
reception committee, and their lovely house was overflowing. Mrs Meg,
with Daisy and Jo as aides, was in demand among the girls, helping on
belated toilettes, giving an eye to spreads, and directing the
decorations. Mrs Jo had her hands full as President’s lady, and the
mother of Ted; for it took all the power and skill of that energetic
woman to get her son into his Sunday best.

Not that he objected to be well arrayed; far from it; he adored good
clothes, and owing to his great height already revelled in a
dress-suit, bequeathed him by a dandy friend. The effect was very
funny; but he would wear it in spite of the jeers of his mates, and
sighed vainly for a beaver, because his stern parent drew the line
there. He pleaded that English lads of ten wore them and were ‘no end
nobby’; but his mother only answered, with a consoling pat of the
yellow mane:

‘My child, you are absurd enough now; if I let you add a tall hat,
Plumfield wouldn’t hold either of us, such would be the scorn and
derision of all beholders. Content yourself with looking like the
ghost of a waiter, and don’t ask for the most ridiculous head-gear in
the known world.’

Denied this noble badge of manhood, Ted soothed his wounded soul by
appearing in collars of an amazing height and stiffness, and ties
which were the wonder of all female eyes. This freak was a sort of
vengeance on his hard-hearted mother; for the collars drove the
laundress to despair, never being just right, and the ties required
such art in the tying that three women sometimes laboured long
before – like Beau Brummel – he turned from a heap of ‘failures’ with
the welcome words: ‘That will do.’ Rob was devoted on these trying
occasions, his own toilet being distinguished only by its speed,
simplicity, and neatness. Ted was usually in a frenzy before he was
suited, and roars, whistles, commands, and groans were heard from the
den wherein the Lion raged and the Lamb patiently toiled. Mrs Jo bore
it till boots were hurled and a rain of hair-brushes set in, then,
fearing for the safety of her eldest, she would go to the rescue, and
by a wise mixture of fun and authority finally succeed in persuading
Ted that he was ‘a thing of beauty’, if not ‘a joy for ever’. At last
he would stalk majestically forth, imprisoned in collars compared to
which those worn by Dickens’s afflicted Biler were trifles not worth
mentioning. The dresscoat was a little loose in the shoulders, but
allowed a noble expanse of glossy bosom to be seen, and with a
delicate handkerchief negligently drooping at the proper angle, had a
truly fine effect. Boots that shone, and likewise pinched, appeared
at one end of the ‘long, black clothes-pin’ – as Josie called
him – -and a youthful but solemn face at the other, carried at an
angle which, if long continued, would have resulted in spinal
curvature. Light gloves, a cane, and – oh, bitter drop in the cup of
joy! – an ignominious straw hat, not to mention a choice floweret in
the buttonhole, and a festoon of watchguard below, finished off this
impressive boy.

‘How’s that for style?’ he asked, appearing to his mother and cousins
whom he was to escort to the hall on this particular occasion.

A shout of laughter greeted him, followed by exclamations of horror;
for he had artfully added the little blond moustache he often wore
when acting. It was very becoming, and seemed the only balm to heal
the wound made by the loss of the beloved hat.

‘Take it off this moment, you audacious boy! What would your father
say to such a prank on this day when we must all behave our best?’
said Mrs Jo, trying to frown, but privately thinking that among the
many youths about her none were so beautiful and original as her long
son.

‘Let him wear it, Aunty; it’s so becoming. No one will ever guess he
isn’t eighteen at least,’ cried Josie, to whom disguise of any sort
was always charming.

‘Father won’t observe it; he’ll be absorbed in his big-wigs and the
girls. No matter if he does, he’ll enjoy the joke and introduce me as
his oldest son. Rob is nowhere when I’m in full fig’; and Ted took
the stage with a tragic stalk, like Hamlet in a tail-coat and choker.

‘My son, obey me!’ and when Mrs Jo spoke in that tone her word was
law. Later, however, the moustache appeared, and many strangers
firmly believed that there were three young Bhaers. So Ted found one
ray of joy to light his gloom.

Mr Bhaer was a proud and happy man when, at the appointed hour, he
looked down upon the parterre of youthful faces before him, thinking
of the ‘little gardens’ in which he had hopefully and faithfully
sowed good seed years ago, and from which this beautiful harvest
seemed to have sprung. Mr March’s fine old face shone with the
serenest satisfaction, for this was the dream of his life fulfilled
after patient waiting; and the love and reverence in the countenances
of the eager young men and women looking up at him plainly showed
that the reward he coveted was his in fullest measure. Laurie always
effaced himself on these occasions as much as courtesy would permit;
for everyone spoke gratefully in ode, poem, and oration of the
founder of the college and noble dispenser of his beneficence. The
three sisters beamed with pride as they sat among the ladies,
enjoying, as only women can, the honour done the men they loved;
while ‘the original Plums’, as the younger ones called themselves,
regarded the whole affair as their work, receiving the curious,
admiring, or envious glances of strangers with a mixture of dignity
and delight rather comical to behold.

The music was excellent, and well it might be when Apollo waved the
baton. The poems were – as usual on such occasions – of varied
excellence, as the youthful speakers tried to put old truths into new
words, and made them forceful by the enthusiasm of their earnest
faces and fresh voices. It was beautiful to see the eager interest
with which the girls listened to some brilliant brother-student, and
applauded him with a rustle as of wind over a bed of flowers. It was
still more significant and pleasant to watch the young men’s faces
when a slender white figure stood out against the background of
black-coated dignitaries, and with cheeks that flushed and paled, and
lips that trembled till earnest purpose conquered maiden fear, spoke
to them straight out of a woman’s heart and brain concerning the
hopes and doubts, the aspirations and rewards all must know, desire,
and labour for. This clear, sweet voice seemed to reach and rouse all
that was noblest in the souls of these youths, and to set a seal upon
the years of comradeship which made them sacred and memorable for
ever.

Alice Heath’s oration was unanimously pronounced the success of the
day; for without being flowery or sentimental, as is too apt to be
the case with these first efforts of youthful orators, it was
earnest, sensible, and so inspiring that she left the stage in a
storm of applause, the good fellows being as much fired by her
stirring appeal to ‘march shoulder to shoulder’, as if she had
chanted the ‘Marseillaise’ then and there. One young man was so
excited that he nearly rushed out of his seat to receive her as she
hastened to hide herself among her mates, who welcomed her with faces
full of tender pride and tearful eye. A prudent sister detained him,
however, and in a moment he was able to listen with composure to the
President’s remarks.

They were worth listening to, for Mr Bhaer spoke like a father to the
children whom he was dismissing to the battle of life; and his
tender, wise, and helpful words lingered in their hearts long after
the praise was forgotten. Then came other exercises peculiar to
Plumfield, and the end. Why the roof did not fly off when the sturdy
lungs of the excited young men pealed out the closing hymn will for
ever be a mystery; but it remained firm, and only the fading garlands
vibrated as the waves of music rolled up and died away, leaving sweet
echoes to haunt the place for another year.

Dinners and spreads consumed the afternoon, and at sunset came a
slight lull as everyone sought some brief repose before the
festivities of the evening began. The President’s reception was one
of the enjoyable things in store, also dancing on Parnassus, and as
much strolling, singing, and flirting, as could be compressed into a
few hours by youths and maidens just out of school.

Carriages were rolling about, and gay groups on piazzas, lawns, and
window-seats idly speculated as to who the distinguished guests might
be. The appearance of a very dusty vehicle loaded with trunks at Mr
Bhaer’s hospitably open door caused much curious comment among the
loungers, especially as two rather foreign-looking gentlemen sprang
out, followed by two young ladies, all four being greeted with cries
of joy and much embracing by the Bhaers. Then they all disappeared
into the house, the luggage followed, and the watchers were left to
wonder who the mysterious strangers were, till a fair collegian
declared that they must be the Professor’s nephews, one of whom was
expected on his wedding journey.

She was right; Franz proudly presented his blonde and buxom bride,
and she was hardly kissed and blessed when Emil led up his bonny
English Mary, with the rapturous announcement:

‘Uncle, Aunt Jo, here’s another daughter! Have you room for my wife,
too?’

There could be no doubt of that; and Mary was with difficulty rescued
from the glad embraces of her new relatives, who, remembering all the
young pair had suffered together, felt that this was the natural and
happy ending of the long voyage so perilously begun.

‘But why not tell us, and let us be ready for two brides instead of
one?’ asked Mrs Jo, looking as usual rather demoralizing in a wrapper
and crimping-pins, having rushed down from her chamber, where she was
preparing for the labours of the evening.

‘Well, I remembered what a good joke you all considered Uncle
Laurie’s marriage, and I thought I’d give you another nice little
surprise,’ laughed Emil. ‘I’m off duty, and it seemed best to take
advantage of wind and tide, and come along as convoy to the old boy
here. We hoped to get in last night, but couldn’t fetch it, so here
we are in time for the end of the jollification, anyway.’

‘Ah, my sons, it is too feeling-full to see you both so happy and
again in the old home. I haf no words to outpour my gratitude, and
can only ask of the dear Gott in Himmel to bless and keep you all,’
cried Professor Bhaer, trying to gather all four into his arms at
once, while tears rolled down his cheeks, and his English failed him.

An April shower cleared the air and relieved the full hearts of the
happy family; then of course everyone began to talk – Franz and
Ludmilla in German with uncle, Emil and Mary with the aunts; and
round this group gathered the young folk, clamouring to hear all
about the wreck, and the rescue, and the homeward voyage. It was a
very different story from the written one; and as they listened to
Emil’s graphic words, with Mary’s soft voice breaking in now and then
to add some fact that brought out the courage, patience, and
self-sacrifice he so lightly touched upon, it became a solemn and
pathetic thing to see and hear these happy creatures tell of that
great danger and deliverance.

‘I never hear the patter of rain now that I don’t want to say my
prayers; and as for women, I’d like to take my hat off to every one
of ’em, for they are braver than any man I ever saw,’ said Emil, with
the new gravity that was as becoming to him as the new gentleness
with which he treated everyone.

‘If women are brave, some men are as tender and self-sacrificing as
women. I know one who in the night slipped his share of food into a
girl’s pocket, though starving himself, and sat for hours rocking a
sick man in his arms that he might get a little sleep. No, love, I
will tell, and you must let me!’ cried Mary, holding in both her own
the hand he laid on her lips to silence her.

‘Only did my duty. If that torment had lasted much longer I might
have been as bad as poor Barry and the boatswain. Wasn’t that an
awful night?’ And Emil shuddered as he recalled it.

‘Don’t think of it, dear. Tell about the happy days on the Urania,
when papa grew better and we were all safe and homeward bound,’ said
Mary, with the trusting look and comforting touch which seemed to
banish the dark and recall the bright side of that terrible
experience.

Emil cheered up at once, and sitting with his arm about his ‘dear
lass’, in true sailor fashion told the happy ending of the tale.

‘Such a jolly old time as we had at Hamburg! Uncle Hermann couldn’t
do enough for the captain, and while mamma took care of him, Mary
looked after me. I had to go into dock for repairs; fire hurt my
eyes, and watching for a sail and want of sleep made ’em as hazy as a
London fog. She was pilot and brought me in all right, you see, only
I couldn’t part company, so she came aboard as first mate, and I’m
bound straight for glory now.’

‘Hush! that’s silly, dear,’ whispered Mary, trying in her turn to
stop him, with English shyness about tender topics. But he took the
soft hand in his, and proudly surveying the one ring it wore, went on
with the air of an admiral aboard his flagship.

‘The captain proposed waiting a spell; but I told him we weren’t like
to see any rougher weather than we’d pulled through together, and if
we didn’t know one another after such a year as this, we never
should. I was sure I shouldn’t be worth my pay without this hand on
the wheel; so I had my way, and my brave little woman has shipped for
the long voyage. God bless her!’

‘Shall you really sail with him?’ asked Daisy, admiring her courage,
but shrinking with cat-like horror from the water.

‘I’m not afraid,’ answered Mary, with a loyal smile. ‘I’ve proved my
captain in fair weather and in foul, and if he is ever wrecked again,
I’d rather be with him than waiting and watching ashore.’

‘A true woman, and a born sailor’s wife! You are a happy man, Emil,
and I’m sure this trip will be a prosperous one,’ cried Mrs Jo,
delighted with the briny flavour of this courtship. ‘Oh, my dear boy,
I always felt you’d come back, and when everyone else despaired I
never gave up, but insisted that you were clinging to the main-top
jib somewhere on that dreadful sea’; and Mrs Jo illustrated her faith
by grasping Emil with a truly Pillycoddian gesture.

‘Of course I was!’ answered Emil heartily; ‘and my "main-top jib" in
this case was the thought of what you and Uncle said to me. That
kept me up; and among the million thoughts that came to me during
those long nights none was clearer than the idea of the red strand,
you remember – English navy, and all that. I liked the notion, and
resolved that if a bit of my cable was left afloat, the red stripe
should be there.’

‘And it was, my dear, it was! Captain Hardy testifies to that, and
here is your reward’; and Mrs Jo kissed Mary with a maternal
tenderness which betrayed that she liked the English rose better than
the blue-eyed German Kornblumen, sweet and modest though it was.

Emil surveyed the little ceremony with complacency, saying, as he
looked about the room which he never thought to see again: ‘Odd,
isn’t it, how clearly trifles come back to one in times of danger? As
we floated there, half-starved, and in despair, I used to think I
heard the bells ringing here, and Ted tramping downstairs, and you
calling, "Boys, boys, it’s time to get up!" I actually smelt the
coffee we used to have, and one night I nearly cried when I woke from
a dream of Asia’s ginger cookies. I declare, it was one of the
bitterest disappointments of my life to face hunger with that spicy
smell in my nostrils. If you’ve got any, do give me one!’

A pitiful murmur broke from all the aunts and cousins, and Emil was
at once borne away to feast on the desired cookies, a supply always
being on hand. Mrs Jo and her sister joined the other group, glad to
hear what Franz was saying about Nat.

‘The minute I saw how thin and shabby he was, I knew that something
was wrong; but he made light of it, and was so happy over our visit
and news that I let him off with a brief confession, and went to
Professor Baumgarten and Bergmann. From them I learned the whole
story of his spending more money than he ought and trying to atone
for it by unnecessary work and sacrifice. Baumgarten thought it
would do him good, so kept his secret till I came. It did him good,
and he’s paid his debts and earned his bread by the sweat of his
brow, like an honest fellow.’

‘I like that much in Nat. It is, as I said, a lesson, and he learns
it well. He proves himself a man, and has deserved the place Bergmann
offers him,’ said Mr Bhaer, looking well pleased as Franz added some
facts already recorded.

‘I told you, Meg, that he had good stuff in him, and love for Daisy
would keep him straight. Dear lad, I wish I had him here this
moment!’ cried Mrs Jo, forgetting in delight the doubts and anxieties
which had troubled her for months past.

‘I am very glad, and suppose I shall give in as I always do,
especially now that the epidemic rages so among us. You and Emil have
set all their heads in a ferment, and Josie will be demanding a lover
before I can turn round,’ answered Mrs Meg, in a tone of despair.

But her sister saw that she was touched by Nat’s trials, and hastened
to add the triumphs, that the victory might be complete, for success
is always charming.

‘This offer of Herr Bergmann is a good one, isn’t it?’ she asked,
though Mr Laurie had already satisfied her on that point when Nat’s
letter brought the news.

‘Very fine in every way. Nat will get capital drill in Bachmeister’s
orchestra, see London in a delightful way, and if he suits come home
with them, well started among the violins. No great honour, but a
sure thing and a step up. I congratulated him, and he was very jolly
over it, saying, like the true lover he is: "Tell Daisy; be sure and
tell her all about it." I’ll leave that to you, Aunt Meg, and you can
also break it gently to her that the old boy had a fine blond beard.
Very becoming; hides his weak mouth, and gives a noble air to his big
eyes and "Mendelssohnian brow", as a gushing girl called it. Ludmilla
has a photo of it for you.’

This amused them; and they listened to many other interesting bits of
news which kind Franz, even in his own happiness, had not forgotten
to remember for his friend’s sake. He talked so well, and painted
Nat’s patient and pathetic shifts so vividly, that Mrs Meg was half
won; though if she had learned of the Minna episode and the fiddling
in beer-gardens and streets, she might not have relented so soon. She
stored up all she heard, however, and, womanlike, promised herself a
delicious talk with Daisy, in which she would allow herself to melt
by degrees, and perhaps change the doubtful ‘We shall see’ to a
cordial ‘He has done well; be happy, dear’.

In the midst of this agreeable chat the sudden striking of a clock
recalled Mrs Jo from romance to reality, and she exclaimed, with a
clutch at her crimping-pins:

‘My blessed people, you must eat and rest; and I must dress, or
receive in this disgraceful rig. Meg, will you take Ludmilla and Mary
upstairs and see to them? Franz knows the way to the dining-room.
Fritz, come with me and be made tidy, for what with heat and emotion,
we are both perfect wrecks.’

 

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