Chapter 30 – Consequences

Louisa May Alcott2016年06月22日'Command+D' Bookmark this page

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Mrs. Chester’s fair was so very elegant and select that it was
considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to
be invited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the
matter. Amy was asked, but Jo was not, which was fortunate for all
parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her
life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on
easily. The ‘haughty, uninteresting creature’ was let severely
alone, but Amy’s talent and taste were duly complimented by the
offer of the art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and
secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.

Everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair
opened, then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which
it is almost impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty
women, old and young, with all their private piques and prejudices,
try to work together.

May Chester was rather jealous of Amy because the latter was a
greater favorite than herself, and just at this time several
trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling. Amy’s
dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed May’s painted vases – that
was one thorn. Then the all conquering Tudor had danced four times
with Amy at a late party and only once with May – that was thorn
number two. But the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and
gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some
obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the March girls had made
fun of her at the Lambs’. All the blame of this should have fallen
upon Jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape
detection, and the frolicsome Lambs had permitted the joke to
escape. No hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and Amy’s
dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as
she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, Mrs. Chester,
who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter,
said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look . . .

"I find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young
ladies about my giving this table to anyone but my girls. As
this is the most prominent, and some say the most attractive
table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it
is thought best for them to take this place. I’m sorry, but I
know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a
little personal disappointment, and you shall have another table
if you like."

Mrs. Chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to
deliver this little speech, but when the time came, she found
it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with Amy’s unsuspicious
eyes looking straight at her full of surprise and trouble.

Amy felt that there was something behind this, but could
not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that
she did, "Perhaps you had rather I took no table at all?"

"Now, my dear, don’t have any ill feeling, I beg. It’s merely a
matter of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the
lead, and this table is considered their proper place. I think it
very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to
make it so pretty, but we must give up our private wishes, of
course, and I will see that you have a good place elsewhere.
Wouldn’t you like the flower table? The little girls undertook it,
but they are discouraged. You could make a charming thing of it, and
the flower table is always attractive you know."

"Especially to gentlemen," added May, with a look which enlightened
Amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor. She colored
angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm,
and answered with unexpected amiability . . .

"It shall be as you please, Mrs. Chester. I’ll give up my
place here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."

"You can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer,"
began May, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at
the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations Amy
had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged. She meant it
kindly, but Amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly . . .

"Oh, certainly, if they are in your way," and sweeping her
contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling
that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.

"Now she’s mad. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t asked you to speak, Mama,"
said May, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.

"Girls’ quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling
a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.

The little girls hailed Amy and her treasures with delight,
which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and
she fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not
artistically. But everything seemed against her. It was late, and
she was tired. Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help
her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed
and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion
in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order. The
evergreen arch wouldn’t stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled
and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets
were filled. Her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia
tear on the Cupid’s cheek. She bruised her hands with hammering, and
got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her with
apprehensions for the morrow. Any girl reader who has suffered like
afflictions will sympathize with poor Amy and wish her well through
her task.

There was great indignation at home when she told her story
that evening. Her mother said it was a shame, but told her she
had done right. Beth declared she wouldn’t go to the fair at all,
and Jo demanded why she didn’t take all her pretty things and leave
those mean people to get on without her.

"Because they are mean is no reason why I should be. I hate
such things, and though I think I’ve a right to be hurt, I don’t
intend to show it. They will feel that more than angry speeches
or huffy actions, won’t they, Marmee?"

"That’s the right spirit, my dear. A kiss for a blow is always
best, though it’s not very easy to give it sometimes," said her
mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between
preaching and practicing.

In spite of various very natural temptations to resent and
retaliate, Amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent
on conquering her enemy by kindness. She began well, thanks to a
silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely.
As she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were
in the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up her pet production,
a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among
his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully
illuminated different texts. As she turned the pages rich in dainty
devices with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that
made her stop and think. Framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet,
blue and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another
up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the words, "Thou shalt
love thy neighbor as thyself."

"I ought, but I don’t," thought Amy, as her eye went from the
bright page to May’s discontented face behind the big vases, that
could not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled. Amy
stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some
sweet rebuke for all heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit.
Many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious
ministers in street, school, office, or home. Even a fair table
may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words
which are never out of season. Amy’s conscience preached her a
little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many
of us do not always do, took the sermon to heart, and straightway
put it in practice.

A group of girls were standing about May’s table, admiring
the pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen. They
dropped their voices, but Amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing
one side of the story and judging accordingly. It was not pleasant,
but a better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance
offered for proving it. She heard May say sorrowfully . . .

"It’s too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and
I don’t want to fill up with odds and ends. The table was just
complete then. Now it’s spoiled."

"I dare say she’d put them back if you asked her," suggested

"How could I after all the fuss?" began May, but she did not
finish, for Amy’s voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly . . .

"You may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want
them. I was just thinking I’d offer to put them back, for they
belong to your table rather than mine. Here they are, please take
them, and forgive me if I was hasty in carrying them away last night."

As she spoke, Amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a
smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a
friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.

"Now, I call that lovely of her, don’t you?" cried one girl.

May’s answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose
temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added,
with a disagreeable laugh, "Very lovely, for she knew she wouldn’t
sell them at her own table."

Now, that was hard. When we make little sacrifices we like
to have them appreciated, at least, and for a minute Amy was sorry
she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward.
But it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to
rise, and her table to blossom under her skillful hands, the girls
were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the
atmosphere amazingly.

It was a very long day and a hard one for Amy, as she sat behind
her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted
very soon. Few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets
began to droop long before night.

The art table was the most attractive in the room. There was
a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying
to and fro with important faces and rattling money boxes. Amy
often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt
at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do. It
might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young
girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of
Laurie and his friends made it a real martyrdom.

She did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale
and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she
made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done. Her
mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea. Beth helped her dress,
and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while Jo astonished
her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting
darkly that the tables were about to be turned.

"Don’t do anything rude, pray Jo; I won’t have any fuss made,
so let it all pass and behave yourself," begged Amy, as she departed
early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor
little table.

"I merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every
one I know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible.
Teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we’ll have a good time yet."
returned Jo, leaning over the gate to watch for Laurie. Presently
the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.

"Is that my boy?"

"As sure as this is my girl!" and Laurie tucked her hand under
his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.

"Oh, Teddy, such doings!" and Jo told Amy’s wrongs with sisterly zeal.

"A flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and
I’ll be hanged if I don’t make them buy every flower she’s got, and
camp down before her table afterward," said Laurie, espousing her
cause with warmth.

"The flowers are not at all nice, Amy says, and the fresh ones
may not arrive in time. I don’t wish to be unjust or suspicious, but
I shouldn’t wonder if they never came at all. When people do one
mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed Jo in a
disgusted tone.

"Didn’t Hayes give you the best out of our gardens? I told him to."

"I didn’t know that, he forgot, I suppose, and, as your grandpa was
poorly, I didn’t like to worry him by asking, though I did want some."

"Now, Jo, how could you think there was any need of asking?
They are just as much yours as mine. Don’t we always go halves
in everything?" began Laurie, in the tone that always made Jo
turn thorny.

"Gracious, I hope not! Half of some of your things wouldn’t
suit me at all. But we mustn’t stand philandering here. I’ve got
to help Amy, so you go and make yourself splendid, and if you’ll
be so very kind as to let Hayes take a few nice flowers up to the
Hall, I’ll bless you forever."

"Couldn’t you do it now?" asked Laurie, so suggestively that
Jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called
through the bars, "Go away, Teddy, I’m busy."

Thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night,
for Hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a loverly basket
arranged in his best manner for a centerpiece. Then the March family
turned out en masse, and Jo exerted herself to some purpose, for
people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring
Amy’s taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much. Laurie
and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought
up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner
the liveliest spot in the room. Amy was in her element now, and out
of gratitude, if nothing more, was as spritely and gracious as possible,
coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was
it’s own reward, after all.

Jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when Amy was
happily surrounded by her guard of honor, Jo circulated about the
Hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon
the subject of the Chester change of base. She reproached herself
for her share of the ill feeling and resolved to exonerate Amy as
soon as possible. She also discovered what Amy had done about the
things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity. As
she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her sister’s
things, but saw no sign of them. "Tucked away out of sight, I dare
say," thought Jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented
any insult offered her family.

"Good evening, Miss Jo. How does Amy get on?" asked May with
a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be

"She has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she
is enjoying herself. The flower table is always attractive, you
know, ‘especially to gentlemen’." Jo couldn’t resist giving that
little slap, but May took it so meekly she regretted it a minute
after, and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained

"Is Amy’s illumination anywhere about? I took a fancy to
buy that for Father," said Jo, very anxious to learn the fate of
her sister’s work.

"Everything of Amy’s sold long ago. I took care that the
right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money
for us," returned May, who had overcome sundry small temptations,
as well as Amy had, that day.

Much gratified, Jo rushed back to tell the good news, and
Amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of May’s
word and manner.

"Now, gentlemen, I want you to go and do your duty by the
other tables as generously as you have by mine, especially the
art table," she said, ordering out ‘Teddy’s own’, as the girls
called the college friends.

"’Charge, Chester, charge!’ is the motto for that table, but
do your duty like men, and you’ll get your money’s worth of art
in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible Jo, as the
devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.

"To hear is to obey, but March is fairer far than May," said
little Parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender,
and getting promptly quenched by Laurie, who said . . .

"Very well, my son, for a small boy!" and walked him off, with
a paternal pat on the head.

"Buy the vases," whispered Amy to Laurie, as a final heaping
of coals of fire on her enemy’s head.

To May’s great delight, Mr. Laurence not only bought the vases,
but pervaded the hall with one under each arm. The other gentlemen
speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and
wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers,
painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate

Aunt Carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and
said something to Mrs. March in a corner, which made the latter
lady beam with satisfaction, and watch Amy with a face full of
mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause
of her pleasure till several days later.

The fair was pronounced a success, and when May bade Amy
goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate
kiss, and a look which said ‘forgive and forget’. That satisfied
Amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on
the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in each. "The
reward of merit for a magnanimous March," as Laurie announced
with a flourish.

"You’ve a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness
of character than I ever gave you credit for, Amy. You’ve behaved
sweetly, and I respect you with all my heart," said Jo
warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.

"Yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive. It must
have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your
heart on selling your own pretty things. I don’t believe I could
have done it as kindly as you did," added Beth from her pillow.

"Why, girls, you needn’t praise me so. I only did as I’d
be done by. You laugh at me when I say I want to be a lady, but
I mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and I try to do
it as far as I know how. I can’t explain exactly, but I want to
be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil
so many women. I’m far from it now, but I do my best, and hope in
time to be what Mother is."

Amy spoke earnestly, and Jo said, with a cordial hug, "I
understand now what you mean, and I’ll never laugh at you again.
You are getting on faster than you think, and I’ll take lessons
of you in true politeness, for you’ve learned the secret, I believe.
Try away, deary, you’ll get your reward some day, and
no one will be more delighted than I shall."

A week later Amy did get her reward, and poor Jo found it
hard to be delighted. A letter came from Aunt Carrol, and Mrs.
March’s face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it
that Jo and Beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad
tidings were.

"Aunt Carrol is going abroad next month, and wants . . ."

"Me to go with her!" burst in Jo, flying out of her chair
in an uncontrollable rapture.

"No, dear, not you. It’s Amy."

"Oh, Mother! She’s too young, it’s my turn first. I’ve
wanted it so long. It would do me so much good, and be so altogether
splendid. I must go!"

"I’m afraid it’s impossible, Jo. Aunt says Amy, decidedly,
and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."

"It’s always so. Amy has all the fun and I have all the work.
It isn’t fair, oh, it isn’t fair!" cried Jo passionately.

"I’m afraid it’s partly your own fault, dear. When Aunt spoke
to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too
independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you
had said – ‘I planned at first to ask Jo, but as ‘favors burden her’,
and she ‘hates French’, I think I won’t venture to invite her. Amy
is more docile, will make a good companion for Flo, and receive
gratefully any help the trip may give her."

"Oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue! Why can’t I learn to
keep it quiet?" groaned Jo, remembering words which had been
her undoing. When she had heard the explanation of the quoted
phrases, Mrs. March said sorrowfully . . .

"I wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this
time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don’t sadden Amy’s pleasure
by reproaches or regrets."

"I’ll try," said Jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick
up the basket she had joyfully upset. "I’ll take a leaf out of
her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not
grudge her one minute of happiness. But it won’t be easy, for
it is a dreadful disappointment," and poor Jo bedewed the little
fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.

"Jo, dear, I’m very selfish, but I couldn’t spare you, and
I’m glad you are not going quite yet," whispered Beth, embracing
her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face
that Jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her
want to box her own ears, and humbly beg Aunt Carrol to burden
her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.

By the time Amy came in, Jo was able to take her part in
the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps,
but without repinings at Amy’s good fortune. The young lady
herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about
in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and
pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes,
money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art
than herself.

"It isn’t a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively,
as she scraped her best palette. "It will decide my career,
for if I have any genius, I shall find it out in Rome,
and will do something to prove it."

"Suppose you haven’t?" said Jo, sewing away, with red eyes,
at the new collars which were to be handed over to Amy.

"Then I shall come home and teach drawing for my living,"
replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure.
But she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away
at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she
gave up her hopes.

"No, you won’t. You hate hard work, and you’ll marry some
rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your
days," said Jo.

"Your predictions sometimes come to pass, but I don’t believe
that one will. I’m sure I wish it would, for if I can’t be
an artist myself, I should like to be able to help those who are,"
said Amy, smiling, as if the part of Lady Bountiful would suit
her better than that of a poor drawing teacher.

"Hum!" said Jo, with a sigh. "If you wish it you’ll have it,
for your wishes are always granted – mine never."

"Would you like to go?" asked Amy, thoughtfully patting her
nose with her knife.


"Well, in a year or two I’ll send for you, and we’ll dig in
the Forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we’ve made so
many times."

"Thank you. I’ll remind you of your promise when that joyful
day comes, if it ever does," returned Jo, accepting the vague but
magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.

There was not much time for preparation, and the house was
in a ferment till Amy was off. Jo bore up very well till the
last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her
refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn’t cry any more.
Amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed. Then
just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came
over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and
those who loved her best, and she clung to Laurie, the last
lingerer, saying with a sob . . .

"Oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should
happen . . ."

"I will, dear, I will, and if anything happens, I’ll come
and comfort you," whispered Laurie, little dreaming that he would
be called upon to keep his word.

So Amy sailed away to find the Old World, which is always
new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend
watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle
fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand
to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling
on the sea.


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