I have been quiet on Substack so far this month, leaning into research about a wonderful pair of nineteenth century Jewish sisters, both of whom wrote autobiographies I feel compelled to read cover to cover. While that process is ongoing, and as the weather is good, I thought I’d take some walks and listen to Little Women, refreshing my mind on the characters and sisterly dynamics in Louisa May Alcott’s much loved classic.
I know I read the whole series as a young girl. Funnily enough I can remember the paperback cover of the copy of Good Wives - creamy, with the title at the top, and some kind of oval portrait on the front, as well as the plain navy blue hardback copy of Jo’s Boys that had belonged to my mum when she was a girl. She’s probably going to tell me it was dark red when she reads this, so I’m going to stick my neck out and say it was definitely either red or blue1, even as I’m ready to stand corrected, not least as it turns out the cover of Good Wives was pink, because, thank you Google, here it is in all it’s 1970s glory:
I was young (maybe around ten?) when I read the four books about the March girls, and much like the Anne of Green Gables novels, the rest of the series never quite had the power over me that the first one did, although the impact was enough that I’ve watched every movie or tv adaptation ever since. I have the same allegiance to everything Pride and Prejudice, Jane Eyre, The Secret Garden, and Heidi: to the point where I’m sure my understanding of many of these beloved characters no longer stems from the books, but has become some unreliable mash-up of different portrayals with who-knows-how-faithful an adherence to the originals.
And so back to the book I have gone, and I’ve reached Chapter 8: “Jo Meets Apollyon”2. The action is this: Jo and Meg, aged 15 & 16, are off to see a play with Laurie, also 16, and Amy, aged 12, is desperate to go too. Beth, aged 13, is way too shy and retiring to want to attend a crowded theatre. Amy wheedles, but Jo won’t hear of her joining them, and she and Meg head out with Amy’s threats of revenge ringing in Jo’s ears. When it’s discovered that Amy’s revenge has been to burn the only copy of some stories Jo is writing, a full-on sibling battle ensues. Jo plans never to speak to her youngest sister again. Her anger burns so much that she ignores Amy when she follows Jo and Laurie out ice skating on the pond, and Amy nearly drowns. Jo is filled with remorse at where her temper has led them, but thankfully a good chat with Marmee settles her down.
The dynamic between the four girls is key here, described in Chapter 4 with a nod to the novel’s title:
Meg was Amy’s confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction of opposites, Jo was gentle Beth’s. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family. The two older girls were a great deal to each other, but both took one of the younger into their keeping, and watched over them in their own way; “playing mother” as they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with the maternal instinct of little women.
It’s clear then, that while Meg and Jo are close, and Jo and Beth are close, Jo and Amy are not. Right in the first scene of the book, on the famous Christmas morning that doesn’t feel like Christmas without any presents, Jo and Amy are ‘pecking’ at each other.
“Jo does use such slang words,” observed Amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her apron pockets, and began to whistle.
“Don’t, Jo; it’s so boyish.”
“That’s why I do it.”
“I detest rude, unladylike-like girls.”
“I hate affected, niminy piminy chits.”
While Amy is the agent provocateur above, it’s Jo who isn’t kind when Amy wants to attend the play, telling her ‘little girls shouldn’t ask questions’. And while Meg ‘who never refused her (Amy) anything very long’ is inclined to let her join them, Jo is adamant. Jo and Amy certainly rub each other up the wrong way, perhaps because they have more in common than they’d recognize:
She (Jo) and Amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had quick tempers, and were apt to be violent when fairly roused. Amy teased Jo, and Jo irritated Amy, and semi-occasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward. Although the oldest, Jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble; her anger never lasted long, and, having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented, and tried to do better. Her sisters used to say, that they rather liked to get Jo into a fury, because she was such an angel afterward.
Both Jo and Amy are creative - Jo as a writer and Amy as an artist. Perhaps that ought to make the burning of Jo’s manuscript even more of an affront? How might Amy have felt if Jo destroyed her art work? Not too happy, I’d say. Having known the horror of losing a few thousand words to a power cut, I’m fully on board for Jo’s rage at Amy’s crime against her, although within the story, Alcott takes a more forgiving approach. Jo’s work is not dismissed, but there’s a sense of proportion brought to the issue after Mrs. March returns and makes Amy see how wrong she has been:
Jo’s book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise. It was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but Jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print. She had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that Amy’s bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years. It seemed a small loss to others, but to Jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
Destroying the original manuscript was a major error from Jo, especially as it was ‘a literary sprout of great promise’, but at the same time, we’re only talking about six ‘little fairy tales’ and Amy was only 12, something I suspect gets lost in screen adaptations (here’s looking a you, Florence Pugh).
Having been brought to see the errors of her ways, Amy is all apologies, but Jo can’t take her mother’s advice to ‘not let the sun go down upon your anger’. The ice skating debacle is the direct result, with Jo’s seething resentment prompting her to listen to ‘the little demon she was harboring’ and to almost abandon Amy with disastrous consequences. Amy is not the March sister death has in his sights, however, so with Laurie’s help the chapter ends well and sisterly harmony is restored.
“I let the sun go down on my anger; I wouldn’t forgive her, and today, if it hadn’t been for Laurie, it might have been too late! How could I be so wicked?” said Jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister, softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
As if she heard, Amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to Jo’s heart. Neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
I’m sure I’ll have more to say about the March sisters, and stemming from those, about the Alcott sisters, on whom Jo, Meg, Beth and Amy were loosely based. But I have one other reflection on this re-read experience so far.
It’s just occurred to me that I have always been extremely worried about anyone ice-skating anywhere outside of a proper rink, and firmly in the camp of not letting the sun go down on an argument.
I wonder what else I’ve unknowingly gleaned from Ms. Alcott??
Reader, she says it was red.
Full disclosure. I had to look up Apollyon and learned he was a dark angel of the abyss, a biblical reference. In the chapter I took this to refer both to the little demon whispering in Jo’s ear, as well as, more largely, the evil character flaw of her quick temper.