Chapter: XXXIV. A FRIEND




Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with
the daily work that earned her bread, and made it sweeter for the
effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now
took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl;
but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that
money conferred power: money and power, therefore, she resolved to have;
not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than
self.

The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth everything she
wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom; going
abroad herself, and always having _more_ than enough, so that she might
indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years Jo's most cherished
castle in the air.

The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
long travelling and much up-hill work lead to this delightful _château
en Espagne_. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger bean-stalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble, and the
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the
"up again and take another" spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack; so
she scrambled up, on the shady side this time, and got more booty, but
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the money-bags.

She took to writing sensation stories; for in those dark ages, even
all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a
"thrilling tale," and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
of the "Weekly Volcano." She had never read "Sartor Resartus," but she
had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful
over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
dressed herself in her best, and, trying to persuade herself that she
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of
cigar-smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their
heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of
them took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by
this reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment,--

"Excuse me, I was looking for the 'Weekly Volcano' office; I wished to
see Mr. Dashwood."

Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and, carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced,
with a nod, and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
manuscript, and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.

"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an
experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this
suits."

While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,
and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and
casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.

"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon,--sure
sign of a novice.

"No, sir; she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the
'Blarneystone Banner.'"

"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to
take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've more
of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present;
but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."

Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at
all; but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was
apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both; for it was
perfectly evident, from the knowing glances exchanged among the
gentlemen, that her little fiction of "my friend" was considered a good
joke; and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never to
return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching
pinafores vigorously; and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh
over the scene, and long for next week.

When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced; Mr.
Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable; and Mr.
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners:
so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.

"We'll take this" (editors never say I), "if you don't object to a few
alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will
make it just the right length," he said, in a business-like tone.

Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its
pages and paragraphs; but, feeling as a tender parent might on being
asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new
cradle, she looked at the marked passages, and was surprised to find
that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as
ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.

"But, sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
took care to have a few of my sinners repent."

Mr. Dashwood's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her "friend," and spoken as only an author could.

"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't sell
nowadays;" which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.

"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"

"Yes; it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so
on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.

"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly
knowing how to express herself.

"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point
had escaped him; such trifles often do escape the editorial mind, it is
said.

"Very well; you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story, with a
satisfied air; for, after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five
seemed good pay.

"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than
this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.

"Well, we'll look at it; can't promise to take it. Tell her to make it
short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your friend
like to put to it?" in a careless tone.

"None at all, if you please; she doesn't wish her name to appear, and
has no _nom de plume_," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.

"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week; will you
call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who felt a
natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.

"I'll call. Good morning, sir."

As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark,
"Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."

Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature; but, thanks to the life-preserver thrown her by a friend,
she came up again, not much the worse for her ducking.

Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
scenery; and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit
as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such trifles
as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood graciously
permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it
necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the
fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely
left him in the lurch.

She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the mountains
next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One thing
disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at
home. She had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and
preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward. It was
easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories; Mr.
Dashwood had, of course, found it out very soon, but promised to be
dumb; and, for a wonder, kept his word.

She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write
nothing of which she should be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of
conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her
earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.

But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales; and, as thrills could
not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history
and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic
asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found that her
innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world
which underlies society; so, regarding it in a business light, she set
about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy. Eager to
find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if
not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents,
incidents, and crimes; she excited the suspicions of public librarians
by asking for works on poisons; she studied faces in the street, and
characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her; she delved in the
dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as
good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well
as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought she was prospering
finely; but, unconsciously, she was beginning to desecrate some of the
womanliest attributes of a woman's character. She was living in bad
society; and, imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for
she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and
was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature
acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to
all of us.

She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of
other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating
about her own,--a morbid amusement, in which healthy young minds do not
voluntarily indulge. Wrong-doing always brings its own punishment; and,
when Jo most needed hers, she got it.

I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
brave, and strong; but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every
perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who interested
her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one of their
conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely
characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer. Jo
took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him,--a
proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the
worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.

Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither
rich nor great, young nor handsome; in no respect what is called
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant; and yet he was as attractive as a
genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about
a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving something
away; a stranger, yet every one was his friend; no longer young, but as
happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked
beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake.
Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and, at last,
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had any
sorrow, "it sat with its head under its wing," and he turned only his
sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but Time
seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many
friendly words and cheery laughs; his eyes were never cold or hard, and
his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than
words.

His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable; his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
underneath; his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full;
his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy
like other people's.

"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that
genuine good-will towards one's fellow-men could beautify and dignify
even a stout German teacher, who shovelled in his dinner, darned his own
socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.

Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came
to see him, and, in a conversation with Miss Norton, divulged the
pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked it all the better
because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud to know that he was
an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor language-master in
America; and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the
spice of romance which this discovery gave it.

Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the _entrée_ into literary society,
which Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary
woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many
favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with
her, one night, to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.

                   [Illustration: A select symposium]

Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
worshipped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for
genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to
recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and
women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid
admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on
"spirit, fire, and dew," to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a
fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters
with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with
one of the Madame de Staëls of the age, who looked daggers at another
Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after out-manœuvring her in
efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea Johnsonianly
and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech
impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and
glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to
oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was
charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen
of the British nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of
the party.

Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely _désillusionée_,
that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined
her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the
philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversation was miles beyond
Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel were
unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms; and the
only thing "evolved from her inner consciousness," was a bad headache
after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the world was
being picked to pieces, and put together on new, and, according to the
talkers, on infinitely better principles than before; that religion was
in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be
the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any
sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came
over her, as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time
and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.

She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him
looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.
He shook his head, and beckoned her to come away; but she was
fascinated, just then, by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and
kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to
rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.

Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man, and slow to offer his own opinions,
not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be
lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,
attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his
brows, and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul
would be led astray by the rockets, to find, when the display was over,
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.

He bore it as long as he could; but when he was appealed to for an
opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation, and defended religion
with all the eloquence of truth,--an eloquence which made his broken
English musical, and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for
the wise men argued well; but he didn't know when he was beaten, and
stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got
right again to Jo; the old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed
better than the new; God was not a blind force, and immortality was not
a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid ground
under her feet again; and when Mr. Bhaer paused, out-talked, but not one
whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.

She did neither; but she remembered this scene, and gave the Professor
her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out
then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent. She
began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank,
intellect, or beauty; and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man
has defined it to be, "truth, reverence, and good-will," then her friend
Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.

This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his
respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship; and, just when the
wish was sincerest, she came near losing everything. It all grew out of
a cocked hat; for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo her
lesson, with a paper soldier-cap on his head, which Tina had put there,
and he had forgotten to take off.

"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought
Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite
unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his
head-gear, for he was going to read her the "Death of Wallenstein."

      [Illustration: He doesn't prink at his glass before coming]

She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,
hearty laugh, when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover
it for himself, and presently forgot all about it; for to hear a German
read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading came
the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that night,
and the cocked-hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The Professor
didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last, to ask, with an
air of mild surprise that was irresistible,--

"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no
respect for me, that you go on so bad?"

"How can I be respectful, sir, when you forget to take your hat off?"
said Jo.

Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt
and removed the little cocked-hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw
back his head, and laughed like a merry bass-viol.

"Ah! I see him now; it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my cap.
Well, it is nothing; but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too
shall wear him."

But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes, because Mr. Bhaer
caught sight of a picture on the hat, and, unfolding it, said, with an
air of great disgust,--

"I wish these papers did not come in the house; they are not for
children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I haf no
patience with those who make this harm."

Jo glanced at the sheet, and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a
lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it; but the
impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure, but fear,
because, for a minute, she fancied the paper was the "Volcano." It was
not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that, even if it
had been, and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name
to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush;
for, though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more than
people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among the
newspaper offices more than once; but as she never spoke of it, he asked
no questions, in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it
occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it
troubled him. He did not say to himself, "It is none of my business;
I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done; he only
remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother's
love and father's care; and he was moved to help her with an impulse as
quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to
save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his mind in a
minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face; and by the time the
paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready to say quite
naturally, but very gravely,--

"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not like to think that good
young girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but
I would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad
trash."

"All may not be bad, only silly, you know; and if there is a demand for
it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said
Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits
followed her pin.

"There is a demand for whiskey, but I think you and I do not care to
sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would
not feel that the living _was_ honest. They haf no right to put poison
in the sugar-plum, and let the small ones eat it. No; they should think
a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."

Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in
his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her; for her
cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke, and gone
harmlessly up the chimney.

"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.

Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her
hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that; they
are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried;" and taking up her
book, she said, with a studious face,--

"Shall we go on, sir? I'll be very good and proper now."

"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined;
and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words
"Weekly Volcano" were printed in large type on her forehead.

As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully
re-read every one of her stories. Being a little short-sighted, Mr.
Bhaer sometimes used eye-glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling to
see how they magnified the fine print of her book; now she seemed to
have got on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also; for the
faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully, and filled her
with dismay.

"They _are_ trash, and will soon be worse than trash if I go on; for
each is more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting
myself and other people, for the sake of money; I know it's so, for I
can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of
it; and what _should_ I do if they were seen at home, or Mr. Bhaer got
hold of them?"

Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her
stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.

         [Illustration: Jo stuffed the whole bundle into the stove]

"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense; I'd better
burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves up
with my gunpowder," she thought, as she watched the "Demon of the Jura"
whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.

But when nothing remained of all her three months' work except a heap of
ashes, and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the
floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.

"I think I haven't done much harm _yet_, and may keep this to pay for my
time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost
wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care
about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I
should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that father and
mother hadn't been so particular about such things."

Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that "father and mother
_were_ particular," and pity from your heart those who have no such
guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like
prison-walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations
to build character upon in womanhood.

Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not
pay for her share of the sensation; but, going to the other extreme, as
is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs. Sherwood,
Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More; and then produced a tale which might
have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral
was it. She had her doubts about it from the beginning; for her lively
fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new style as she
would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous costume of the
last century. She sent this didactic gem to several markets, but it
found no purchaser; and she was inclined to agree with Mr. Dashwood,
that morals didn't sell.

Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of
if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it. The
only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try
juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to
convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked to
write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys
as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls, because they did not go
to a particular Sabbath-school, nor all the good infants, who did go, as
rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of
angels, when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their
lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials; and Jo corked up her
inkstand, and said, in a fit of very wholesome humility,--

"I don't know anything; I'll wait till I do before I try again, and,
meantime, 'sweep mud in the street,' if I can't do better; that's
honest, at least;" which decision proved that her second tumble down the
bean-stalk had done her some good.

While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had
been as busy and uneventful as usual; and if she sometimes looked
serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did
it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would
accept and profit by his reproof; but she stood the test, and he was
satisfied; for, though no words passed between them, he knew that she
had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the
second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her
evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and
studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on
occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.

He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was
happy; for, while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
beside German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
own life.

It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.
Kirke till June. Every one seemed sorry when the time came; the children
were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all over his
head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.

"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said,
when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard, in the corner,
while she held a little levee on that last evening.

She was going early, so she bade them all good-by over night; and when
his turn came, she said warmly,--

"Now, sir, you won't forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our
way, will you? I'll never forgive you if you do, for I want them all to
know my friend."

"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager
expression which she did not see.

"Yes, come next month; Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
Commencement as something new."

"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said, in an altered
tone.

"Yes, my boy Teddy; I'm very proud of him, and should like you to see
him."

Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in
the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr. Bhaer's
face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more than a
"best friend," and, simply because she particularly wished not to look
as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush; and the
more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been for Tina
on her knee, she didn't know what would have become of her. Fortunately,
the child was moved to hug her; so she managed to hide her face an
instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and his own
changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he
said cordially,--

"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much
success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" and with that, he shook
hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.

But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire, with the
tired look on his face, and the "_heimweh_," or homesickness, lying
heavy at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo, as she sat with the
little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his
head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in
search of something that he could not find.

"It is not for me; I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a
sigh that was almost a groan; then, as if reproaching himself for the
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two towzled
heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened
his Plato.

He did his best, and did it manfully; but I don't think he found that a
pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very
satisfactory substitutes for wife and child and home.

Early as it was, he was at the station, next morning, to see Jo off;
and, thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant
memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to
keep her company, and, best of all, the happy thought,--

"Well, the winter's gone, and I've written no books, earned no fortune;
but I've made a friend worth having, and I'll try to keep him all my
life."




          [Illustration: He put the sisters into the carriage]

 While she lives in New York and works at Mrs. Kirke's boarding house as a governess, Jo still finds time to write. Motivated by the desire to contribute to her family, especially to provide comforts for Beth in her illness, Jo tries to earn as much money as she can from writing. When Jo won a prize for her short story, she became really enthusiastic about writing; but after the disaster with her novel, she stopped for a while. Now Jo is back to writing regularly, trying to make her way as an authoress. She decides to write sensational stories - whatever will sell. Jo takes one of her sensation stories to Mr. Dashwood, the editor of a paper called the Weekly Volcano. Jo finds Mr. Dashwood in a smoky, dingy office with two other seedy-looking men. She tells him that she's bringing a manuscript for a friend of hers. Mr. Dashwood flips through Jo's manuscript and notices that she has some writing experience because of the way it's formatted. He tells her that she can leave it with him and come back next week for his answer. Jo doesn't want to leave the manuscript behind, but she doesn't know what else to do, so she agrees. When Jo goes back, Mr. Dashwood, alone this time, tells her that he will publish the story if she agrees to some editorial changes. Jo is surprised to discover that he's taken out the moral of the story, but Mr. Dashwood tells her that morals don't sell very well. Mr. Dashwood agrees to pay Jo $25-$30 for the story, which is a lot more than she was earning before. Mr. Dashwood tries to learn Jo's name, but she asks him to publish the story anonymously. They arrange for her to keep submitting stories to the Weekly Volcano. Mr. Dashwood advises her to make them short and exciting. Jo spends a lot of time and energy working on her stories. They are "sensation fiction" - pure entertainment and very unrealistic, about terrible crimes in haunting Gothic locations. Jo is a little uncomfortable because she hasn't told anyone, not even her family, that she is writing sensation fiction. She starts to get more and more involved in the details of her writing and researches methods of murder, details of crimes, and other immoral and un-feminine things. While Jo is being slowly corrupted by the fiction she's writing, she is also starting to realize what a good man Mr. Bhaer really is. The narrator thinks this might be the effect of studying character, especially in Shakespeare. Jo tries to figure out why everyone likes Mr. Bhaer so much. He is poor, plain-looking, and strange, but universally admired. She decides that it is because he is such a generous, positive person. When one of Mr. Bhaer's friends comes to visit him from Vienna, Jo learns that he is actually Professor Bhaer, a prominent German intellectual, widely respected for his learning and knowledge. Jo's friend Miss Norton takes Mr. Bhaer and Jo to many cultural and intellectual events in the city. One evening, they go to a symposium together. The symposium is being held in honor of some of the intellectual celebrities of the day, including a poet, a novelist, a theologian, and some scientists. Jo is disappointed to learn that they are only human - the poet is a greedy eater, the novelist drinks too much, the theologian is flirtatious, and the scientists gossip. At a refreshment break, Jo and Mr. Bhaer find themselves caught up in a philosophical conversation that downplays the importance of religion. Jo isn't sure what to think - the philosophy is dazzling, but feels wrong to her somehow. Mr. Bhaer tries to be polite, but finally feels morally obligated to argue with the philosophers. He defends traditional religious values and belief in God. Jo feels relieved. This conversation is only one of many incidents that strengthen Jo's respect for the professor. She wants him to like her, and she wants to be worthy of his respect. One evening, the professor comes in to give Jo her German lesson, having forgotten that he is still wearing a paper hat that Tina made. Jo laughs at the hat and the professor takes it off. When he looks at it, he realizes that it's made from a copy of a sensational newspaper - not the Weekly Volcano, but something pretty similar. He denounces the paper and says that things like it are morally corrupting for children and young people. You know, the kind of stuff people say today about video games and TV. Jo feels ashamed, because she writes similar material. The professor sees her blush and starts to realize what she has been writing; he's met her downtown sometimes around the newspaper offices. Trying to influence Jo, Mr. Bhaer continues to talk about the bad influence of sensation stories. Jo objects and says that sensation stories are only silly, not actively bad, and reminds him that there is a demand for them. Mr. Bhaer disagrees and tells Jo that there is a demand for lots of things, but that doesn't make them right. He burns the paper. Jo and Mr. Bhaer go back to their German lesson. That evening, Jo re-reads the stories she has written. She decides that Mr. Bhaer is right; the stories are too sensational, and they have corrupted her and her readers. Jo burns all the stories that she wrote for the Weekly Volcano. She thinks about whether she should keep the money she earned from them. Eventually, she decides that it's OK because she didn't do much harm yet, and her family can use the money. Jo wishes to herself that she didn't have a conscience - it's pretty inconvenient. Next, Jo tries writing heavily moralistic stories, but Mr. Dashwood won't publish them, and neither will anyone else. After that, Jo tries writing children's stories, but she can't find anyone to publish these the way that she's written them, either. Jo decides to stop writing for a little while; if she can't write anything good, she's not going to do it at all. What she doesn't realize is that Professor Bhaer has been observing her moral dilemma and is proud of her for her decision. Jo stays with Mrs. Kirke through the winter and spring and leaves the boarding house in June. Everyone is sorry to see her go. Jo invites Mr. Bhaer to come and see her in her hometown. He is pleased by the invitation, but when she mentions Laurie's upcoming graduation he gets depressed. Mr. Bhaer sees Jo off at the station, where she is glad to think that, even if she didn't earn a fortune or publish a great book, she has made a true friend.

