Chapter: XXVI. ARTISTIC ATTEMPTS.


                           


It takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and
genius, especially ambitious young men and women. Amy was learning this
distinction through much tribulation; for, mistaking enthusiasm for
inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.
For a long time there was a lull in the "mud-pie" business, and she
devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed
such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant
and profitable. But overstrained eyes soon caused pen and ink to be laid
aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching. While this attack lasted,
the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration; for the odor of
burning wood pervaded the house at all hours; smoke issued from attic
and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about
promiscuously, and Hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and
the dinner-bell at her door, in case of fire. Raphael's face was found
boldly executed on the under side of the moulding-board, and Bacchus on
the head of a beer-barrel; a chanting cherub adorned the cover of the
sugar-bucket, and attempts to portray Romeo and Juliet supplied
kindlings for some time.

From fire to oil was a natural transition for burnt fingers, and Amy
fell to painting with undiminished ardor. An artist friend fitted her
out with his cast-off palettes, brushes, and colors; and she daubed
away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on
land or sea. Her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken
prizes at an agricultural fair; and the perilous pitching of her vessels
would have produced sea-sickness in the most nautical observer, if the
utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not
convulsed him with laughter at the first glance. Swarthy boys and
dark-eyed Madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio,
suggested Murillo; oily-brown shadows of faces, with a lurid streak in
the wrong place, meant Rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropsical infants,
Rubens; and Turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange
lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash
in the middle, which might be the sun or a buoy, a sailor's shirt or a
king's robe, as the spectator pleased.

Charcoal portraits came next; and the entire family hung in a row,
looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coal-bin. 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 on to people's heads. Children were enticed in as models,
till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused Miss Amy
to be regarded in the light of a young ogress. Her efforts in this line,
however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which
quenched her ardor. Other models failing her for a time, she undertook
to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an
unearthly bumping and screaming, and running to the rescue, found the
young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed, with her foot held fast
in a pan-full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity.
With much difficulty and some danger she was dug out; for Jo was so
overcome with laughter while she excavated, that her knife went too far,
cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt,
at least.

       [Illustration: Her foot held fast in a panful of plaster]

After this Amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her
to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing
for ruins to copy. She caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to
book "a delicious bit," composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and
a broken mullein-stalk, or "a heavenly mass of clouds," that looked like
a choice display of feather-beds when done. She sacrificed her
complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun, to study light
and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose, trying after "points of
sight," or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called.

If "genius is eternal patience," as Michael Angelo affirms, Amy
certainly had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in
spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing
that in time she should do something worthy to be called "high art."

She was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she
had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she
never became a great artist. Here she succeeded better; for she was one
of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends
everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate
souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.
Everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact. She had an
instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right
thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and
was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "If Amy went to
court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."

One of her weaknesses was a desire to move in "our best society,"
without being quite sure what the _best_ really was. Money, position,
fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable
things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed
them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not
admirable. Never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she
cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the
opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty
now excluded her.

"My lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine
lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy
refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and
that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.

"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, in whose eyes the
stately young lady still remained "the baby."

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

"Why should they?" and Mrs. March put the question with what the girls
called her "Maria Theresa air."

"You know as well as I that it _does_ make a difference with nearly
every one, so don't ruffle up, like a dear, motherly hen, when your
chickens get pecked by smarter birds; the ugly duckling turned out a
swan, you know;" and Amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a
happy temper and hopeful spirit.

Mrs. March laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked,--

"Well, my swan, what is your plan?"

"I should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them a
drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and
make a little artistic _fête_ for them."

"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 are used to such things, and I want my
lunch to be proper and elegant, though I _do_ work for my living."

"How many young ladies are there?" asked her mother, beginning to look
sober.

"Twelve or fourteen in the class, but I dare say they won't all come."

"Bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them
about."

"Why, mother, how _can_ you think of such a thing? Not more than six or
eight will probably come, so I shall hire a beach-wagon, and borrow Mr.
Laurence's cherry-bounce." (Hannah's pronunciation of _char-à-banc_.)

"All 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 are used to such things, and
the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be
pleasanter to them, as a change, if nothing more, and much better for us
than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not
in keeping with our circumstances?"

"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; and I don't see why I can't if I'm willing to pay for it,"
said Amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into
obstinacy.

Mrs. March knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it
was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she
would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice
as much as they did salts and senna.

"Very well, Amy; if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way
through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, 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, gladly offering anything she
possessed, from her little house itself to her very best salt-spoons.
But Jo frowned upon the whole project, and would have nothing to do with
it at first.

"Why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and
turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a
sixpence for you? I thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle
to any mortal woman just because she wears French boots and rides in a
_coupé_," said Jo, who, being called from the tragical climax of her
novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.

"I _don't_ truckle, and I hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned Amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions
arose. "The girls do care for me, and I for them, and 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, to go
into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes. I do, and I
mean to make the most of every chance that comes. _You_ can go through
the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it
independence, if you like. That's not my way."

When Amy whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best
of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while Jo
carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an
unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an
argument. Amy's definition of Jo's idea of independence was such a good
hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable
turn. Much against her will, Jo at length consented to sacrifice a day
to Mrs. Grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as "a
nonsensical business."

The invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following Monday
was set apart for the grand event. Hannah was out of humor because her
week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and
ironin' warn't done reg'lar nothin' would go well anywheres." This hitch
in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the
whole concern; but Amy's motto was "Nil desperandum," and having made up
her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles.
To begin with, Hannah's cooking didn't turn out well: the chicken was
tough, the tongue too salt, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly.
Then the cake and ice cost more than Amy expected, so did the wagon; and
various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up
rather alarmingly afterward. Beth got cold and took to her bed, Meg had
an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and Jo was in such a
divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were
uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.

"If it hadn't been for mother I never should have got through," as Amy
declared afterward, and gratefully remembered when "the best joke of the
season" was entirely forgotten by everybody else.

If it was not fair on Monday, the young ladies were to come on
Tuesday,--an arrangement which aggravated Jo and Hannah to the last
degree. On Monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which
is more exasperating than a steady pour. It drizzled a little, shone a
little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late
for any one else to make up theirs. Amy was up at dawn, hustling people
out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be
got in order. The parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby; but
without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skilfully made the
best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the
carpet, covering stains on the walls with pictures framed in ivy, and
filling up empty corners with home-made statuary, which gave an artistic
air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers Jo scattered about.

The lunch looked charmingly; and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped
it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver
would 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 had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, an
aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything
would allow, and, as she wearily dressed, Amy cheered herself with
anticipations of the happy moment, when, lunch safely over, she should
drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights; for
the "cherry-bounce" and the broken bridge were her strong points.

Then came two hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor
to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock. A smart
shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young
ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came; and at two the
exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the
perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.

"No doubt about the weather to-day; they will certainly come, so we must
fly round and be ready for them," said Amy, as the sun woke her next
morning. She spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had
said nothing about Tuesday, for her interest, like her cake, was getting
a little stale.

"I can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad to-day,"
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, who was still a patroness of cats.

"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, with the magnanimity
of a martyr.

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

Shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel travelling-basket, she
departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit, and
fit her for the labors of the day. 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, well pleased with her own
forethought.

As the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady,
Amy pocketed her veil, and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to
find out where all her money had gone to. So busy was she with her card
full of refractory figures that she did not observe a new-comer, who
entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said,
"Good-morning, Miss March," and, looking up, she beheld one of Laurie's
most elegant college friends. Fervently hoping that he would get out
before she did, Amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and,
congratulating herself that she had on her new travelling dress,
returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.

They got on excellently; for Amy's chief care was soon set at rest by
learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away
in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out. In stumbling to
the door, she upset the basket, and--oh, horror!--the lobster, in all
its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a
Tudor.

"By Jove, she's forgotten her dinner!" cried the unconscious youth,
poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing
to hand out the basket after the old lady.

"Please don't--it's--it's mine," murmured Amy, with a face nearly as red
as her fish.

                [Illustration: Please don't, it's mine]

"Oh, really, I beg pardon; it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?" said
Tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that
did credit to his breeding.

Amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat,
and said, laughing,--

"Don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's to make, and to
see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"

Now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind
were touched: the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing
reminiscences, and curiosity about "the charming young ladies" diverted
his mind from the comical mishap.

"I suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with Laurie, but I sha'n't see
them; that's a comfort," thought Amy, as Tudor bowed and departed.

She did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that,
thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of
dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the
preparations which now seemed more irksome than before; 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 to-day; 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 into the porch to meet
them; it looks hospitable, and I want the poor child to have a good time
after all her trouble," said Mrs. March, suiting the action to the word.
But after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression,
for, looking quite lost 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, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a
laugh.

In came Amy, quite calm, and delightfully cordial to the one guest who
had kept her promise; the rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn,
played their parts equally well, and Miss Eliott found them a most
hilarious set; for it was impossible to entirely control the merriment
which possessed them. The remodelled lunch being gayly partaken of, the
studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, Amy
ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce!) and drove her
friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when "the party went
out."

As she came walking in, looking very tired, but as composed as ever, she
observed that every vestige of the unfortunate _fête_ had disappeared,
except a suspicious pucker about the corners of Jo's mouth.

"You've had a lovely afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother,
as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.

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

"Could you spare me some of your cake? I really need some, I have so
much company, and I can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked Meg
soberly.

"Take it all; I'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will
mould before I can dispose of it," answered Amy, thinking with a sigh of
the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.

"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, and the
whole family ate in heroic silence, till Mr. March mildly observed,
"Salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and Evelyn"--here
a general explosion of laughter cut short the "history of sallets," to
the great surprise of the learned gentleman.

"Bundle everything into a basket and send it to the Hummels: Germans
like messes. I'm sick of the sight of this; and there's no reason you
should all die of a surfeit because I've been a fool," cried Amy, wiping
her eyes.

"I thought I _should_ have died when I saw you two girls rattling about
in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell,
and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed Jo, quite
spent with laughter.

"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, and I'll
thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least."

No one did for several months; but the word "_fête_" always produced a
general smile, and Laurie's birthday gift to Amy was a tiny coral
lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch-guard.

                       [Illustration: Tail-piece]




                    [Illustration: Literary Lessons]

 The narrator tells us that it takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, and Amy is learning it the hard way. Amy tries every kind of art, from clay sculpture to pen-and-ink drawing to woodburning, then oil painting, and then charcoal portraits, and finally sketching. Each art form ends in hilarity or disaster. Amy is patient and persevering, but it doesn't seem like she's really cut out to be a great artist. However, she's also becoming a graceful, accomplished woman; everyone likes her, and she always seems to say the right thing. Amy's biggest flaw is that she tries to be a social climber. She confuses money, power, and aristocracy with real values and principles. One day, Amy asks her mother if she can invite the girls from her drawing class over to her house for lunch and an opportunity to sketch the countryside. Mrs. March agrees and suggests a modest menu. Amy insists that the girls, who are mostly more wealthy than her family, have to have a really fancy meal. Mrs. March asks how many girls there are in the group, and Amy says around a dozen, but she thinks only half of them will come. Mrs. March thinks it will be too expensive, but Amy has everything planned out and has saved her own money so that she can pay for it. Mrs. March still thinks it's a mistake to throw a party beyond their means, but she decides to let Amy learn by experience. Meg agrees to help Amy. Jo refuses at first, but finally Amy convinces her that she's defying convention just for the sake of being different, and she agrees to help. They send out the invitations, and almost all the girls accept. Hannah is cranky because the preparations for the lunch interfere with her regular household routine. Everything seems to go wrong: Hannah's cooking turns out badly, things are more expensive than Amy thought they would be, Beth is sick, Meg is busy, and Jo keeps breaking things. Amy has told the girls to come on Monday, and if the weather is bad on Monday to come on Tuesday instead. On Monday, the weather is drizzly and nobody shows up. On Tuesday, the food is getting a little stale and Amy's also tired of the idea. Tuesday morning, Mr. March comes in and says he wasn't able to buy a lobster, so they'll have to go without salad. Amy goes into town herself to get one. Buying a lobster is a pretty low-class errand and Amy doesn't want to be seen doing it, so she carries a big basket with a lid and covers her face with a veil. Amy gets her lobster and takes the bus home. There is only one other passenger, an old lady, so Amy takes off her veil. At the next stop, one of Laurie's college friends, Tudor, gets on the bus. He recognizes Amy and sits by her to chat. Amy ignores the basket with the lobster while she talks to Tudor. Unfortunately, when the old lady gets off the bus, she knocks the basket over and the lobster falls out. Tudor thinks the lobster must belong to the old lady and starts to hand it back to her. Amy blushes and explains that it's hers. Tudor makes a polite comment about what a fine lobster it is, and Amy saves the day by joking that Tudor probably wants to see the girls who are going to eat it. Amy finally gets home, although her dress has been damaged by the lobster's dressing. She gets everything ready by noon. Finally, Amy orders Mr. Laurence's carriage and goes to meet her guests. But as Mrs. March watches at the window for them coming back, they discover that only one girl has come! Jo and Beth help Hannah clear some of the place settings, so that it won't look too ridiculous when there's only one guest. Amy entertains her only guest, Miss Elliot, calmly and politely, and her family helps her as best they can. Finally, the party is over. Amy comes home alone. Her family tries to be polite and don't mention any of the problems. The Marches sit down to eat - dinner, of course, is some of the leftovers from the party. Finally Amy gives up and decides not to make her family eat leftovers for days, and sends the food to the Hummel family. Amy starts to tear up, and Jo admits that it was pretty funny that only one girl came. Mrs. March tries to be comforting. Amy says that she is satisfied - she did what she meant to do. She asks her family not to mention the episode. Nobody brings it up for a few months, but Laurie gives Amy a coral lobster charm for her birthday!

