© Миронова О. В., адаптация текста, комментарии, словарь, 2021

© ООО «Издательство АСТ», 2021

Part I

Chapter one
Playing pilgrims

“Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

“It's so dreadful to be poor!” sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.

“I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all,” added little Amy, with an injured sniff.

“We've got Father and Mother, and each other,” said Beth from her corner.

Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said, “You know the reason Mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering at war.”

“But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar. The army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from Mother or you, but I do want to buy Undine and Sintran for myself. I've wanted it so long,” said Jo, who was a bookworm.

“I planned to spend mine on new music,” said Beth, with a little sigh.

“I shall get a nice box of drawing pencils; I really need them,” said Amy decidedly.

“Mother didn't say anything about our money. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it,” cried Jo.

“I know I do – teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home,” began Meg, in the complaining tone again.

“You don't have half such a hard time as I do,” said Jo. “How would you like to be shut up^[1] for hours with a nervous old lady, who is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to cry?”

“I think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all.” Beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh.

“I don't believe any of you suffer as I do,” cried Amy. “You don't have to go to school with girls, who laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice.”

“Don't peck at one another, children. Even though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say.”

“Jo does use such slang words!” observed Amy.

Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.

“Don't, Jo. It's so boyish!”

“That's why I do it.”

“I detest rude, unladylike girls!”

“I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!”

“Birds in their little nests agree,” sang Beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the “pecking” ended for that time.

“Really, girls, you are both to be blamed,” said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. “You are old enough to behave better, Josephine. You should remember that you are a young lady.”

“I'm not! I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns! It's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! I'm dying to go and fight with Papa, but I can only stay home and knit, like an old woman!”

Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

“As for you, Amy,” continued Meg, “you are altogether too prim. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant. But your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang.”

“If Jo is a tomboy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?” asked Beth.

“You're a dear, and nothing else,” answered Meg warmly, and no one contradicted her.

We will take this moment to give the reader a little sketch of the four sisters. Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, with large eyes and soft brown hair. Fifteen-year-old Jo was very tall, thin, and brown. She had sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything. Her long, thick hair was usually bundled into a net. Elizabeth, or Beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner and a timid voice. Her father called her ‘Little Miss Tranquility'. Amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least. Pale and slender, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, she was carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners.

The clock struck six and Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. The sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls – it reminded them that Mother was coming.

“They are quite worn out. Marmee^[2] must have a new pair.”

“I thought I'd get her a pair with my dollar,” said Beth.

“No, I shall!” cried Amy.

“I'm the oldest,” began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided, “I'm the man of the family^[3] now Papa is away, and I shall provide the slippers.”

“I'll tell you what we'll do,” said Beth, “let's each get her something for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves.”

“What will we get?” exclaimed Jo.

Everyone thought for a minute, then Meg announced, “I shall give her a nice pair of gloves.”

“Army shoes, best to be had,” cried Jo.

“Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed,” said Beth.

“I'll get a little bottle of cologne. She likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils,” added Amy.

“How will we give the things?” asked Meg.

“Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open them.” answered Jo.

“Glad to find you so merry, my girls,” said a cheery voice at the door, and the girls turned to welcome their Mother. She was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman.

“Well, dearies, how have you got on today? There was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that I didn't come home to dinner. Has anyone called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look tired to death. Come and kiss me.”

Mrs. March got her wet things off and put her warm slippers on. She sit down in the easy chair^[4], and drew Amy to her lap.

As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, “I've got a treat for you after supper.”

A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped her hands. Jo tossed up her napkin, crying, “A letter! A letter! Three cheers for Father!”

“Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and sends all sorts of loving wishes for Christmas, and a special message to you girls,” said Mrs. March.

“Hurry, Amy!” cried Jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.

“When will he come home, Marmee?” asked Beth, with a little quiver in her voice.

“Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can. Now come and hear the letter.”

Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home. This one was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news.

“Give them all of my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them every day, and pray for them every night. A year seems very long, but while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days are not wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, and when I come back I may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women.”

Everybody sniffed when they came to that part. Amy hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, “I am a selfish girl! But I'll truly try to be better.”

“We all will,” cried Meg. “I think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if I can help it.”

“I'll try and be what he loves to call me, ‘a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else,” said Jo.

Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears and began to knit.

Chapter two
A Merry Christmas

Jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of Christmas morning. She remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book. She woke Meg with a “Merry Christmas,” and made her see what was under her pillow. A green-covered book appeared. Beth and Amy woke up and found their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue.

“Girls,” said Meg seriously, “Mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once.”

Then she opened her new book and began to read. Jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also.

“How good Meg is! Come, Amy, let's do as they do. I'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,” whispered Beth.

And then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned.

“Where is Mother?” asked Meg, half an hour later.

“Goodness only knows. Some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed,” replied Hannah, who had lived with the family since Meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.

“She will be back soon, I think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready,” said Meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket

“There's Mother. Hide the basket, quick!” cried Jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall.

“Merry Christmas, Marmee! Thank you for our books. We read some, and mean to every day,” they all cried in chorus.

Mrs. March was both surprised and touched, and smiled as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them. The slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with Amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.

The rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities. Being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and made whatever they needed to put on a play.

This Christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy. There was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from Amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment. Presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the operatic tragedy about love and magic began.

When the performance was finished, applause followed. The excitement had hardly subsided when Hannah appeared, with “Mrs. March's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper.”

This was a surprise, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement. There was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting French bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.

It quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.

“Is it fairies?” asked Amy.

“Santa Claus,” said Beth.

“Mother did it.” And Meg smiled her sweetest.

“Aunt March had a good fit and sent the supper,” cried Jo, with a sudden inspiration.

“All wrong. Old Mr. Laurence sent it,” replied Mrs. March. “He is an odd old gentleman. He knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped I would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day. I could not refuse.”

“That boy put it into his head, I know he did! He's a capital fellow, and I wish we could get acquainted,” said Jo, as the plates went round. “Our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence. Then he saw Meg coming, and walked off. I mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, I'm sure he does,” said Jo decidedly.

“I like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman. He brought the flowers himself.”

“We'll have another play sometime that he can see. Perhaps he'll help act. Wouldn't that be jolly?”