Artistic Attempts^[9]

People need a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this distinction. She attempted every branch of art. For a long time, she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing^[10]. Here she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handwork proved both pleasant and profitable. But over-strained eyes caused her to put the pen and ink aside for a bold and to study poker-sketching^[11]. She then transitioned from fire to oil and fell to painting. Then came charcoal portraits.

Softened into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good, and Amy’s hair, Jo’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.

After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass. She sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade. She got a wrinkle over her nose trying after ‘points of sight’.

If ‘genius is eternal patience’, as Michelangelo affirms, Amy had some claim to the divine attribute^[12]. She persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements. She is firmly believing that in time she will do something worthy to be called ‘high art’.

“I want to ask a favor of you, Mamma,” Amy said, coming in with an important air one day.

“Well, little girl, what is it?” replied her mother.

“Our drawing class breaks up next week. 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. I am grateful, for they are all rich and I know I am poor, yet they never made any difference. I want 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.”

“That looks feasible. What do you want for lunch? Cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, I suppose?”

“Oh, dear, no! We must have cold tongue and chicken, French chocolate and ice cream, besides. The girls like such things, and I want my lunch to be proper and elegant.”

“How many young ladies are there?” asked her mother. She began to look sober.

“Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won’t all come.”

“Bless me, child.”

“Why, not more than six or eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach wagon and borrow Mr. Laurence’s cherry-bounce^[13].”

“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 like such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them?”

“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. I don’t see why I can’t if I’m willing to pay for it,” said Amy.

Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher.

“Very well, Amy, if you want it, 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. But Jo frowned upon the whole project. She wanted to do nothing at first.

“Why do you want to spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for some girls who don’t care a sixpence for you?” said Jo.

“I don’t truckle, and I hate the situation when someone patronizes as much as you do!” returned Amy. “The girls care for me, and I for them. 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 – I do, and I mean to make the most of every chance that comes.”

The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted. The following Monday was set apart for the grand event. If not on Monday, the young ladies will come on Tuesday. This arrangement aggravated Jo and Hannah (the March family maid and cook, their only servant) to the last degree.

The lunch looked charming. Amy surveyed it. It will taste well. Amy will borrow glass, china, and silver, and after the event, everything will 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 was trying to be as lively and amiable as possible. Amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, after the lunch is safely over, she will drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights.

At eleven nobody came, and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast.

“No doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come. So we must be ready for them,”

said Amy, as the sun woke her next morning.

“I can’t get any lobsters, so you won’t have any salad today,” said Mr. March, coming in half an hour later, 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.

“Then I must have a lobster, for tongue alone won’t do,” said Amy decidedly.

“Shall I rush into town and demand one?” asked Jo.

“You’d come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to bother me. I’ll go myself,” answered Amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.

She departed. After some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again. Once she was back at home, she went through with the preparations, 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 state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.

“There’s the rumble, they’re coming! I’ll go onto the porch and meet them,” said Mrs. March. But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression. 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 Jo.

In came Amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise. The rest of the family played their parts equally well. Miss Eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them. The lunch was eaten, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy ordered a buggy, and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when ‘the party went out’. As she came walking in, she was looking very tired but as composed as ever.

“You’ve had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear,” said her mother respectfully.

“Miss Eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, I thought,” observed Beth, with unusual warmth.

“Could you give me some of your cake? I really need some, I have a company, and I can’t make such delicious stuff as yours,” asked Meg.

“Take it all. I’m the only one here who likes sweet things. It will mold before I can dispose of it,” answered Amy, with a sigh.

“It’s a pity Laurie isn’t here to help us,” began Jo, 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. The whole family ate in heroic silence.

“Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels. I’m sick of the sight of this, and there’s no reason you must all die of a surfeit because I’ve been a fool,” cried Amy, wiping her eyes.

“I’m very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you,” said Mrs. 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. I’ll thank you still more if you won’t talk about it for a month, at least.”

Literary Lessons

Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but anyway.

Every few weeks she shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit^[14], and ‘fall into a vortex’. Her ‘scribbling suit’ consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she wiped her pen, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair.

She did not think herself a genius by any means, but liked to write. She sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh. The divine usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her ‘vortex’, hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.

One day she escorted Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea. It was a lecture on the Pyramids. They arrived early, and Jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets, discussing Women’s Rights. Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand. A somber spinster was eating peppermints out of a paper bag. An old gentleman was taking his nap behind a yellow bandanna. On her right, her only neighbor was a young man with a newspaper.

Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her, and with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, “Do you want to read it? That’s a first-rate story.”

Jo accepted it with a smile. She liked the lads. Soon she found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature.

“Good, isn’t it?” asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.

“I think you and I can write better if we try,” returned Jo.

“I will be happy if I can. She makes good money of such stories, they say.”

And he pointed to the name of Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.

“Do you know her?” asked Jo, with sudden interest.

“No, but I read all her stories, and I know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed.”

“Do you say she makes good money out of stories like this?” and Jo looked more respectfully at the points that adorned the page.

“Of course! She knows just what folks like, and they pay her well for it.”

Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it. The Professor was talking about Cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics. Jo wrote down the address of the paper, and boldly resolved to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story. The lecture ended and the audience awoke.

Jo said nothing of her plan at home, but continued to work next day. Jo never tried this style before. Her story was as full of desperation and despair, She chose location in Lisbon, an earthquake was the end of the story. The manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note. If the tale doesn’t get the prize, which the writer dares expect, she will be very glad to receive any sum.

Six weeks is a long time to wait, but Jo waited. At last, a letter arrived. A check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it was a snake. Then she read her letter and began to cry.

She was very proud. She electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other. She has won the prize! Of course there was a great jubilee, and then everyone read the story and praised it. Her father told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling. But he shook his head, and said,

“You can do better than this, Jo. Don’t think about the money.”

“I think the money is the best part of it. What will you do with such a fortune?” asked Amy.

“I’ll send Beth and Mother to the seaside for a month or two,” answered Jo promptly.

To the seaside they went, after much discussion. Though Beth didn’t come home plump and rosy, she was much better, while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger. So Jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money. She earned some money that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house. By the magic of a pen, her ‘rubbish’ turned into comforts for them all. “The Duke’s Daughter” paid the butcher’s bill, “A Phantom Hand” bought a new carpet, and the “Curse of the Coventrys” blessed the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.

Jo ceased to envy richer girls. She could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.

Her stories were not very popular, but they found a market. So she resolved to write a novel. She copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers. What was the result? She must cut it down one third^[15], and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.

“Now I must cut it down. Fame is a very good thing, but cash is more convenient. So I want to hear your opinion,” said Jo, calling a family council.

“Don’t spoil your book, my girl. Let it wait and ripen,” was her father’s advice.

“It seems to me that Jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting,” said Mrs. March. “Criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time. The praise and blame of outsiders will be useful, even if she gets little money.”

“Yes,” said Jo, “that’s just it. I really don’t know whether it’s good, bad, or indifferent. It will be a great help to listen to some cool, impartial persons. They will tell me what they think of it.”

“You’ll spoil it if cut it,” said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel in the world.

“But Mr. Allen says, ‘Make it brief and dramatic’,” interrupted Jo, turning to the publisher’s note.

“Do as he tells you. He knows what will sell, and we don’t. Make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can. When you get a name, you can do whatever you want with your novels,” said Amy, who was very practical.

“Well,” said Jo, laughing, “Now, Beth, what do you say?”

“I want to see it printed soon,” Beth said and smiled.

So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress took her novel and chopped it up as ruthlessly as an ogre. She wanted to please everyone, she took everyone’s advice, and – like the old man and his donkey in the fable – suited nobody.

Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, and plenty of praise and blame.

“You say, Mother, that criticism will help me. But how can it, when it’s so contradictory that I don’t know whether I’ve written a good book or broken all the ten commandments?” cried poor Jo. “This man says, ‘An exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.’ ‘All is sweet, pure, and healthy.’” continued the perplexed authoress. “The next, ‘The theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.’ I had no theory of any kind, don’t believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life. I don’t see how this critic can be right. Another says, ‘It’s one of the best American novels which has appeared for years.’ (I know better than that), and the next asserts that ‘Though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.’ Some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that I have a deep theory, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I hate to be so misjudged!”

When the first soreness was over, Jo could laugh at her poor little book.

“I’m not a genius, it won’t kill me,” she said stoutly, “So when I’m ready, I’ll write another novel.”