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.”
Domestic Experiences
Like most other young matrons, Meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper. She brought much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work. She wanted to succeed, in spite of some obstacles.
They were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn’t live on love alone. John did not find Meg’s beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot. The little house ceased to be a glorified bower. It became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better. John took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders. Meg put on a big apron, and fell to work.
In the autumn, new trials and experiences came to Meg. Sallie Moffat renewed her friendship. It was pleasant, for in dull weather Meg often felt lonely. Seeing Sallie’s pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she did not get them. Sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but Meg declined them, knowing that John wouldn’t like it.
She knew her husband’s income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more – his money. She knew where it was, was free to take what she liked. All he asked was to keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man’s wife. Till now she has done well. But that autumn the serpent got into Meg’s paradise, and tempted her like many a modern Eve, not with apples, but with dress.
Sallie was buying silks, and Meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties. Sallie urged her to do it, offered to lend the money. In an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said,
“A bargain, I assure, you, ma’am.”
She answered,
“I’ll take it,” and it was cut off. She paid for it.
When she got home, the words ‘fifty dollars’ seemed stamped like a pattern down the fabric. She put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully. When John got out his books that night, Meg’s heart sank. For the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband. The kind, brown eyes looked stern. Though he was unusually merry, she was afraid. The house bills were all paid, the books all in order. John praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the ‘bank’, when Meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand. She said nervously,
“You haven’t seen my private expense book[16] yet.”
John never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so. She brought the little book slowly. The book was laid down before him. Meg got behind his chair. She said, with her panic increasing with every word,
“John, dear, I’m ashamed to show you my book, for I’ve really been dreadfully extravagant lately. I meet people and I must have things, you know, and Sallie advised me to buy something. So I did, and my New Year’s money will partly pay for it. I was sorry after. I know what you will think of it.”
John laughed, and drew her round beside him,
“Don’t hide. I won’t beat you if you have got a pair of boots. I’m rather proud of my wife’s feet, and don’t mind if she pays eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones.”
That was one of her last ‘trifles’, and John’s eye fell on it as he spoke.
“It’s worse than boots, it’s a silk dress,” she said.
“Well, dear, what is the total?”
For a minute the room was very still, then John said slowly – but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure,
“Well, I don’t know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the details you have to have to finish it off these days.”
“It isn’t made or trimmed,” sighed Meg, faintly.
“Twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but I’ve no doubt my wife will look fine,” said John dryly.
“I know you are angry, John, but I can’t do anything. I don’t mean to waste your money. I try to be contented, but it is hard, and I’m tired of being poor[17].”
The last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did. They wounded him deeply. He denied himself many pleasures for Meg’s sake. She wanted to bite her tongue out the minute she said it. John pushed the books away and got up. He said with a little quiver in his voice,
“I was afraid of this. I do my best, Meg.”
If he scolds