Chapter IX: Europe (2)

Here we go again! now in an utterly different scene from Tours.
We left at 5 P.M., and in half an hour were here on the banks of
the Loire in a queer little inn where we are considered duchesses
at least, owing to our big trunks and A.'s good French. I am the
Madame, May Mam'selle, and A. the companion.

Last evening being lovely, we went after dinner up to the castle
where Charles VIII. was born in 1470. The Arab chief,
Abd-el-Kader, and family were kept prisoners here, and in the old
garden is a tomb with the crescent over it where some of them
were buried. May was told about the terrace where the Huguenots
hung thick and the court enjoyed the sight till the Loire,
choked up with dead bodies, forced them to leave. We saw the
little low door where Anne of Brittany's first husband Charles
VIII. "bumped his head" and killed himself, as he was running
through to play bowls with his wife.

It has been modernized and is now being restored as in old times,
so the interior was all in a toss. But we went down the winding
road inside the tower, up which the knights and ladies used to
ride. Father would have enjoyed the _pleached_ walks, for they
are cut so that looking down on them, it is like a green floor,
and looking up it is a thick green wall. There also Margaret of
Anjou and her son were reconciled to Warwick. Read Murray, I beg,
and see all about it. We sat in the twilight on the terrace and
saw what Fred would have liked, a little naked boy ride into the
river on one horse after another, and swim them round in the deep
water till they were all clean and cool.

This morning at 7 o'clock we drove to Chenonceaux, the chateau
given by Henry II. to Diane de Poictiers. It was a lovely day,
and we went rolling along through the most fruitful country I
ever saw. Acre on acre of yellow grain, vineyards miles long,
gardens and orchards full of roses and cherries. The Cher is a
fine river winding through the meadows, where haymakers were at
work and fat cattle feeding. It was a very happy hour, and the
best thing I saw was May's rapturous face opposite, as she sat
silently enjoying everything, too happy to talk.

The château built over the water is very interesting; Catherine
de Medicis took it away from Diane when the king died, and her
room is still seen as she left it; also a picture of Diane, a
tall simpering woman in a tunic, with hounds, stag, cupids, and
other rubbish round her. The gallery of pictures was fine; for
here were old, old portraits and bas-reliefs, Agnes Sorel,
Montaigne, Rabelais, many kings and queens, and among them
Lafayette and dear old Ben Franklin.

There is a little theatre where Rousseau's plays were acted. This
place at the time of the Revolution belonged to the grandmother
of George Sand, and she was so much respected that no harm was
done to it. So three cheers for Madame Dupin! Among the pictures
were Ninon D'Enclos, and Madame Sevigné holding a picture of her
beloved daughter. The Guidos, etc. I don't care for so much as
they were all grimy and convulsive, and I prefer pictures of
people who really lived, to these impossible Venuses and
repulsive saints,--bad taste, but I can't help it. The walls were
hung with stamped leather and tapestry, carved chairs in which
queens had sat, tables at which kings had eaten, books they had
read, and glasses that had reflected their faces were all about,
and I just revelled. The old kitchen had a fireplace quaint
enough to suit Pa, with immense turn-spits, cranes, andirons,
etc. The chapel, balcony, avenue, draw-bridge, and all the other
pleasing bits were enjoyed, and I stole a sprig of jasmine from
the terrace which I shall press for Mamma. Pray take extra care
of the photographs, for if lost, we cannot replace them, and I
want to make a fine album of pictures with flowers and
descriptions after I get home.... But all goes well and we enjoy
much every day. Love to all,

LU.

_To her Mother._

BLOIS, June 24, 1870.

DEAR MARMEE,--On this, Lizzie's and Johnny's birthday, I'll begin
a letter to you. We found at the Poste Restante here two "Moods"
and a paper for me, one book from L., and one from N. I think
the pictures horrid, and sent them floating down the Loire as
soon as possible, and put one book at the bottom of my trunk and
left the other where no one will find it. I couldn't read the
story, and try to forget that I ever wrote it.

Blois is a noisy, dusty, soldierly city with nothing to admire
but the river, nearly dry now with this four months' drought, and
the old castle where Francis I., Louis XII., Catherine de
Medicis, and other great folks lived. It has been very splendidly
restored by the Government, and the ceilings are made with beams
blazoned with coats-of-arms, the walls hung with cameos, painted
with the same design as the stamped leather in old times, and the
floors inlaid with colored tiles. Brown and gold, scarlet, blue,
and silver, quaint dragons and flowers, porcupines and
salamanders, crowns and letters, glittered everywhere. We saw the
guard-room and the very chimney where the Duc de Guise was
leaning when the king Henry III. sent for him; the little door
where the king's gentlemen fell upon and stabbed him with forty
wounds; the cabinet where the king and his mother plotted the
deed; the chapel where the monks prayed for success; and the
great hall where the body lay covered with a cloak till the king
came and looked at it and kicked his dead enemy, saying, "I did
not think he was so tall." We also saw the cell where the brother
of the duke was murdered the next day, and the attic entire where
their bodies were burnt, after which the ashes were thrown into
the Loire by order of the king; the window out of which Marie de
Medicis lowered herself when her son Louis XIII. imprisoned her
there; the recess where Catherine de Medicis died; and many other
interesting places. What a set of rascals these old kings and
queens were!

The _Salle des États_ was very gorgeous, and here in a week or so
are to be tried the men who lately fired at the Emperor. It will
be a grand, a fine sight when the great arched hall is full. I
got a picture of the castle, and one of a fireplace for Pa. It is
a mass of gold and color, with the porcupine of Louis XIII. and
the ermine of his wife Anne of Brittany, their arms, in medallion
over it.

At 5 P.M. we go on to Orleans for a day, where I shall get some
relics of Joan of Arc for Nan. We shall pass Sunday at Bourges
where the great church is, and then either to Geneva or the Jura,
for a few weeks of rest.

GENEVA, June 29, 1870.

It seems almost like getting home again to be here where I never
thought to come again when I went away five years ago. We are at
the Metropole Hotel right on the lake with a glimpse of Mount
Blanc from our windows. It is rather fine after the grimy little
inns of Brittany, and we enjoy a sip of luxury and put on our
best gowns with feminine satisfaction after living in old
travelling suits for a fortnight.

I began my letter at Blois, where we spent a day or two. At
Orleans we only passed a night, but we had time to see the famous
statue of the Maid, put up in gratitude by the people of the city
she saved. It is a fine statue of Joan in her armor on horseback,
with her sword drawn. Round the base of the statue are bronzed
bas-reliefs of her life from the girl with her sheep, to the
martyr at the stake. They were very fine, but don't show much in
the photograph which I got for Nan, remembering the time when she
translated Schiller's play for me.

At Bourges we saw the great cathedral, but didn't like it as well
as that in Tours. We only spent a night there, and A. bought an
antique ring of the time of Francis I.,--an emerald set in
diamonds. It cost $9, and is very quaint and handsome.

Moulins we reached Sunday noon, and at 3 o'clock went to vespers
in the old church, where we saw a good deal of mumbo-jumbo by
red, purple, and yellow priests, and heard a boy with a lovely
voice sing in the hidden choir like a little angel among the
clouds. A. had a fancy to stay a week, if we could find rooms out
of town in some farm-house; for the handsome white cattle have
captivated her, and we were rather tired. So the old lady at the
hotel said she had a little farm-house out in the fields, and we
should go see it with her in basket _chay_. After dinner we all
piled in and went along a dusty road to a little dirty
garden-house with two rooms and a few cabbages and rose-bushes
round it. She said we could sleep and eat at the hotel and come
down here for the day. That didn't suit at all, so we declined;
and on Monday morning we set out for Lyons. It was a very
interesting trip under, over, and through the mountains with two
engines and much tunnelling and up-and-down grading. May was
greatly excited at the queer things we did, and never knew that
cars could turn such sharp corners. We wound about so that we
could see the engine whisking out of sight round one corner while
we were turning another, and the long train looked like a snake
winding through the hills. The tunnels were so long that lamps
were lighted, and so cold we put on our sacks while passing in
the darkness. The scenery was very fine; and after we left Lyons,
where we merely slept, the Alps began to appear, and May and I
stared in blissful silence; for we had two tall old men opposite,
and a little priest, so young that we called him the Rev. boy. He
slept and said his prayers most of the time, stealing sly looks
at May's hair, A.'s pretty hands, and my buckled shoes, which
were like his own and seemed to strike him as a liberty on my
part. The old boys were very jolly, especially the one with three
chins, who smiled paternally upon us and tried to talk. But we
were very English and mum, and he thought we didn't understand
French, and confided to his friend that he didn't see "how the
English could travel and know not the French tongue." They sang,
gabbled, slept, and slapped one another at intervals, and were
very amusing till they left, and another very handsome Booth-like
priest took their places.

_To her Father._

BEX, July 14, 1870.

DEAR PA,--As I have not written to you yet, I will send you a
picture-letter and tell you about the very interesting old Count
Sz-- who is here. This morning he asked us to go to the hills and
see some curious trees which he says were planted from acorns and
nuts brought from Mexico by Atala. We found some very ancient
oaks and chestnuts, and the enthusiastic old man told us the
story about the Druids who once had a church, amphitheatre, and
sacrificial altar up there. No one knows much about it, and he
imagines a good deal to suit his own pet theory. You would have
liked to hear him hold forth about the races and Zoroaster,
Plato, etc. He is a Hungarian of a very old family, descended
from Semiramide and Zenobia. He believes that the body can be
cured often by influencing the soul, and that doctors should be
priests, and priests doctors, as the two affect the body and soul
which depend on one another. He is doing a great deal for Miss
W., who has tried many doctors and got no help. I never saw such
a kindly, simple, enthusiastic, old soul, for at sixty-seven he
is as full of hope and faith and good-will as a young man. I told
him I should like my father to see a little book he has written,
and he is going to give me one.

We like this quiet little place among the mountains, and pass
lazy days; for it is very warm, and we sit about on our balconies
enjoying the soft air, the moonlight, and the changing aspect of
the hills.

May had a fine exciting time going up St. Bernard, and is now
ready for another....

The Polish Countess and her daughter have been reading my books
and are charmed with them. Madame says she is not obliged to turn
down any pages so that the girls may not read them, as she does
in many books, "All is so true, so sweet, so pious, she may read
every word."

I send by this mail the count's little pamphlet. I don't know as
it amounts to much, but I thought you might like to see it.

Love to every one, and write often to your

Affectionate daughter
L. M. A.

BEX, July 18, 1870.

DEAR PEOPLE,--The breaking out of this silly little war between
France and Prussia will play the deuce with our letters. I have
had none from you for a long time; and Alexandre, the English
waiter here, says that the mails will be left to come as they
can, for the railroads are all devoted to carrying troops to the
seat of war. The French have already crossed the Rhine, and
rumors of a battle came last eve; but the papers have not
arrived, and no letters for any one, so all are fuming for news,
public and private, and I am howling for my home letter, which is
more important than all the papers on the continent....

Don't be worried if you don't hear regularly, or think us in
danger. Switzerland is out of the mess, and if she gets in, we
can skip over into Italy, and be as cosey as possible. It will
make some difference in money, perhaps, as Munroe in Paris is our
banker, and we shall be plagued about our letters, otherwise the
war won't effect us a bit; I dare say you know as much about it
as we do, and Marmee is predicting "a civil war" all over the
world. We hear accounts of the frightful heat with you. Don't
wilt away before we come....

Lady Amberley is a trump, and I am glad she says a word for her
poor sex though she _is_ a peeress....

I should like to have said of me what Hedge says of Dickens; and
when I die, I should prefer such a memory rather than a tomb in
Westminster Abbey.

* * * * *

I hope to have a good letter from Nan soon. May does the
descriptions so well that I don't try it, being lazy.

LU.

_To Anna._

SUNDAY, July 24, 1870.

... The war along the Rhine is sending troops of travellers to
Switzerland for refuge; and all the large towns are brimful of
people flying from Germany. It won't trouble us, for we have done
France and don't mean to do Germany. So when August is over, we
shall trot forward to Italy, and find a warm place for our
winter-quarters. At any time twenty-four hours carries us over
the Simplon, so we sit at ease and don't care a straw for old
France and Prussia. Russia, it is reported, has joined in the
fight, but Italy and England are not going to meddle, so we can
fly to either "in case of fire."[9]

BEX, July 27, 1870.

We heard of Dickens's death some weeks ago and have been reading
notices, etc., in all the papers since. One by G. Greenwood in
the Tribune was very nice. I shall miss my old Charlie, but he is
not the old idol he once was....

Did you know that Higginson and a little girl friend had written
out the Operatic Tragedy in "Little Women" and set the songs to
music and it was all to be put in "Our Young Folks." What are we
coming to in our old age? Also I hope to see the next designs N.
has got for "Little Women." I know nothing about them.

_To her Mother._

3 P.M., BEX, July 31, 1870.

Papers are suppressed by the Government so we know nothing about
the war, except the rumors that float about. But people seem to
think that Europe is in for a general fight, and there is no
guessing when it will end.

The trouble about getting into Italy is, that civil war always
breaks out there and things are so mixed up that strangers get
into scrapes among the different squabblers. When the P.'s were
abroad during the last Italian fuss, they got shut up in some
little city and would have been killed by Austrians, who were
rampaging round the place drunk and mad, if a woman had not hid
them in a closet for a day and night, and smuggled them out at
last, when they ran for their lives. I don't mean to get into any
mess, and between Switzerland and England we can manage for a
winter. London is so near home and so home-like that we shall be
quite handy and can run up to Boston at any time. Perhaps Pa will
step across to see us.

All these plans may be knocked in the head to-morrow and my next
letter may be dated from the Pope's best parlor or Windsor
Castle; but I like to spin about on ups and downs so you can have
something to talk about at Apple Slump. Uncertainty gives a
relish to things, so we chase about and have a dozen plans a day.
It is an Alcott failing you know....

Love to all and bless you,

Ever yours
LU.

BEX, Aug. 7, 1870.

DEAR MR. NILES,--I keep receiving requests from editors to write
for their papers and magazines. I am truly grateful, but having
come abroad for rest I am not inclined to try the treadmill till
my year's vacation is over. So to appease these worthy gentlemen
and excuse my seeming idleness I send you a trifle in rhyme,[10]
which you can (if you think it worth the trouble) set going as a
general answer to everybody; for I can't pay postage in replies
to each separately,--"it's very costly." Mr. F. said he would pay
me $10, $15, $20 for any little things I would send him; so
perhaps you will let him have it first.

The war makes the bankers take double toll on our money, so we
feel very poor and as if we ought to be earning, not spending;
only we are _so_ lazy we can't bear to think of it in earnest....

We shall probably go to London next month if the war forbids
Italy for the winter; and if we can't get one dollar without
paying five for it, we shall come home disgusted.

Perhaps if I can do nothing else this year I could have a book of
short stories, old and new, for Christmas. F. and F. have some
good ones, and I have the right to use them. We could call them
"Jo March's Necessity Stories." Would it go with new ones added
and good illustrations?

I am rising from my ashes in a most phoenix-like manner.

L. M.A.

_To her Mother._

VEVAY, PENSION PARADIS, Aug. 11, 1870.

DEAR MARMEE,--.... This house is very cosey, and the food
excellent. I thought it would be when I heard gentlemen liked
it,--they always want good fodder. There are only three now,--an
old Spaniard and his son, and a young Frenchman. We see them at
meals, and the girls play croquet with them....

This is the gay season here, and in spite of the war Vevay is
full. The ex-Queen of Spain and her family are here at the Grand
Hotel; also Don Carlos, the rightful heir to the Spanish throne.
Our landlady says that her house used to be full of Spaniards,
who every day went in crowds to call on the two kings, Alphonse
and Carlos. We see brown men and women with black eyes driving
round in fine coaches, with servants in livery, who I suppose are
the Court people.

The papers tell us that the French have lost two big battles; the
Prussians are in Strasbourg, and Paris in a state of siege. The
papers are also full of theatrical messages from the French to
the people, asking them to come up and be slaughtered for _la
patrie_, and sober, cool reports from the Prussians. I side with
the Prussians, for they sympathized with us in our war. Hooray
for old Pruss!...

France is having a bad time. Princess Clotilde passed through
Geneva the other day with loads of baggage, flying to Italy; and
last week a closed car with the imperial arms on it went by here
in the night,--supposed to be Matilde and other royal folks
flying away from Paris. The Prince Imperial has been sent home
from the seat of war; and poor Eugénie is doing her best to keep
things quiet in Paris. The French here say that a republic is
already talked of; and the Emperor is on his last legs in every
way. He is sick, and his doctor won't let him ride, and so
nervous he can't command the army as he wanted to. Poor old man!
one can't help pitying him when all his plans fail.

We still dawdle along, getting fat and hearty. The food is
excellent. A breakfast of coffee and tip-top bread, fresh butter,
with eggs or fried potatoes, at 8; a real French dinner at 1.30,
of soup, fish, meat, game, salad, sweet messes, and fruit, with
wine; and at 7 cold meat, salad, sauce, tea, and bread and
butter. It is grape time now, and for a few cents we get pounds,
on which we feast all day at intervals. We walk and play as well
as any one, and feel so well I ought to do something....

Fred and Jack would like to look out of my window now and see the
little boys playing in the lake. They are there all day long like
little pigs, and lie around on the warm stones to dry, splashing
one another for exercise. One boy, having washed himself, is now
washing his clothes, and all lying out to dry together....

Ever yours,
LU.

_To Anna._

VEVAY, Aug. 21, 1870.

I had such a droll dream last night I must tell you. I thought I
was returning to Concord after my trip, and was alone. As I
walked from the station I missed Mr. Moore's house, and turning
the corner, found the scene so changed that I did not know where
I was. Our house was gone, and in its place stood a great gray
stone castle, with towers and arches and lawns and bridges, very
fine and antique. Somehow I got into it without meeting any one
of you, and wandered about trying to find my family. At last I
came across Mr. Moore, papering a room, and asked him where his
house was. He didn't know me, and said,--

"Oh! I sold it to Mr. Alcott for his school, and we live in Acton
now."

"Where did Mr. Alcott get the means to build this great concern?"
I asked.

"Well, he _gave_ his own land, and took the great pasture his
daughter left him,--the one that died some ten years ago."

"So I am dead, am I?" says I to myself, feeling so queerly.

"Government helped build this place, and Mr. A. has a fine
college here," said Mr. Moore, papering away again.

I went on, wondering at the news, and looked into a glass to see
how I looked dead. I found myself a fat old lady, with gray hair
and specs,--very like E. P. P. I laughed, and coming to a Gothic
window, looked out and saw hundreds of young men and boys in a
queer flowing dress, roaming about the parks and lawns; and among
them was Pa, looking as he looked thirty years ago, with brown
hair and a big white neckcloth, as in the old times. He looked so
plump and placid and young and happy I was charmed to see him,
and nodded; but he didn't know me; and I was so grieved and
troubled at being a Rip Van Winkle, I cried, and said I had
better go away and not disturb any one,--and in the midst of my
woe, I woke up. It was all so clear and funny, I can't help
thinking that it may be a foreshadowing of something real. I used
to dream of being famous, and it has partly become true; so why
not Pa's college blossom, and he get young and happy with his
disciples? I only hope he won't quite forget me when I come back,
fat and gray and old. Perhaps his dream is to come in another
world, where everything is fresh and calm, and the reason why he
didn't recognize me was because I was still in this work-a-day
world, and so felt old and strange in this lovely castle in the
air. Well, he is welcome to my fortune; but the daughter who did
die ten years ago is more likely to be the one who helped him
build his School of Concord up aloft.

I can see how the dream came; for I had been looking at Silling's
boys in their fine garden, and wishing I could go in and know the
dear little lads walking about there, in the forenoon. I had got
a topknot at the barber's, and talked about my gray hairs, and
looking in the glass thought how fat and old I was getting, and
had shown the B.'s Pa's picture, which they thought saintly, etc.
I believe in dreams, though I am free to confess that
"cowcumbers" for tea may have been the basis of this
"ally-gorry-cal wision."...

As we know the Consul at Spezzia,--that is, we have letters to
him, as well as to many folks in Rome, etc.,--I guess we shall
go; for the danger of Europe getting into the fight is over now,
and we can sail to England or home any time from Italy.... Love
to every one.

Kiss my _cousin_ for me.

Ever your
LU.

_To Mr. Niles._

AUGUST 23, 1870.

Your note of August 2 has just come, with a fine budget of
magazines and a paper, for all of which many thanks.

* * * * *

Don't give my address to any one. I don't want the young ladies'
notes. They can send them to Concord, and I shall get them next
year.

* * * * *

The boys at Silling's school are a perpetual source of delight to
me; and I stand at the gate, like the Peri, longing to go in and
play with the lads. The young ladies who want to find live
Lauries can be supplied here, for Silling has a large assortment
always on hand.

My B. says she is constantly trying to incite me to literary
effort, but I hang fire. So I do,--but only that I may go off
with a bang by and by, _à la mitrailleuse_.

L. M. A.

_To her Family._

VEVAY, Aug. 29, 1870.

DEAR PEOPLE,--... M. Nicaud, the owner of this house,--a funny
old man, with a face so like a parrot that we call him M.
Perrot,--asked us to come and visit him at his _châlet_ up among
the hills. He is building a barn there, and stays to see that all
goes well; so we only see him on Sundays, when he convulses us by
his funny ways. Last week seven of us went up in a big landau,
and the old dear entertained us like a prince. We left the
carriage at the foot of a little steep path, and climbed up to
the dearest old _châlet_ we ever saw. Here Pa Nicaud met us, took
us up the outside steps into his queer little salon, and regaled
us with his sixty-year old wine and nice little cakes. We then
set forth, in spite of clouds and wind, to view the farm and
wood. It showered at intervals, but no one seemed to care; so we
trotted about under umbrellas, getting mushrooms, flowers, and
colds, viewing the Tarpeian Rock, and sitting on rustic seats to
enjoy the _belle vue_, which consisted of fog. It was such a
droll lark that we laughed and ran, and enjoyed the damp picnic
very much. Then we had a tip-top Swiss dinner, followed by
coffee, three sorts of wine, and cigars. Every one smoked, and as
it poured guns, the old Perrot had a blazing fire made, round
which we sat, talking many languages, singing, and revelling. We
had hardly got through dinner and seen another foggy view when
tea was announced, and we stuffed again, having pitchers of
cream, fruit, and a queer but very nice dish of slices of light
bread dipped in egg and fried, and eaten with sugar. The buxom
Swiss maid flew and grinned, and kept serving up some new mess
from her tiny dark kitchen. It cleared off, and we walked home in
spite of our immense exploits in the eating line. Old Perrot
escorted us part way down, and we gave three cheers for him as we
parted. Then we showed Madame and the French governess and Don
Juan (the Spanish boy) some tall walking, though the roads were
very steep and rough and muddy. We tramped some five miles; and
our party (May, A., the governess, and I) got home long before
Madame and Don Juan, who took a short cut, and wouldn't believe
that we didn't get a lift somehow. I felt quite proud of my old
pins; for they were not tired, and none the worse for the long
walk. I think they are really all right now, for the late cold
weather has not troubled them in the least; and I sleep--O ye
gods, how I do sleep!--ten or twelve hours sound, and get up so
drunk with dizziness it is lovely to see. Aint I grateful? Oh,
yes! oh, yes!

We began French lessons to-day, May and I, of the French
governess,--a kind old girl who only asks two francs a lesson. We
_must_ speak the language, for it is disgraceful to be so stupid;
so we have got to work, and mean to be able to _parlez-vous_ or
die. The war is still a nuisance, and we may be here some time,
and really need some work; for we are so lazy we shall be spoilt,
if we don't fall to....

I gave Count C. Pa's message, and he was pleased. He reads no
English, and is going to Hungary soon; so Pa had better not send
the book....

LU.

VEVAY, Sept. 10, 1870.

DEAR PEOPLE,--As all Europe seems to be going to destruction, I
hasten to drop a line before the grand smash arrives. We mean to
skip over the Alps next week, if weather and war permit; for we
are bound to see Milan and the lakes, even if we have to turn and
come back without a glimpse of Rome. The Pope is beginning to
perk up; and Italy and England and Russia seem ready to join in
the war, now that France is down. Think of Paris being bombarded
and smashed up like Strasbourg. We never shall see the grand old
cathedral at Strasbourg now, it is so spoilt.

Vevay is crammed with refugees from Paris and Strasbourg. Ten
families applied here yesterday....

Our house is brimful, and we have funny times. The sick Russian
lady and her old Ma make a great fuss if a breath of air comes in
at meal times, and expect twenty people to sit shut tight in a
smallish room for an hour on a hot day. We protested, and Madame
put them in the parlor, where they glower as we pass, and lock
the door when they can. The German Professor is learning English,
and is a quiet, pleasant man. The Polish General, a little
cracked, is very droll, and bursts out in the middle of the
general chat with stories about transparent apples and golden
horses.... Benda, the crack book-and-picture man, has asked May
if she was the Miss Alcott who wrote the popular books; for he
said he had many calls for them, and wished to know where they
could be found. We told him "at London," and felt puffed up....

May and I delve away at French; but it makes my head ache, and I
don't learn enough to pay for the trouble. I never could _study_,
you know, and suffer such agony when I try that it is piteous to
behold. The little brains I have left I want to keep for future
works, and not exhaust them on grammar,--vile invention of Satan!
May gets on slowly, and don't have fits after it; so she had
better go on (the lessons only cost two francs)....

L. M. A.

_To her Mother._

LAGO DI COMO, Oct. 8, 1870.

DEAREST MARMEE,--A happy birthday, and many of 'em! Here we
actually are in the long-desired Italy, and find it as lovely as
we hoped. Our journey was a perfect success,--sunlight,
moonlight, magnificent scenery, pleasant company, no mishaps, and
one long series of beautiful pictures all the way.

Crossing the Simplon is an experience worth having; for without
any real danger, fatigue, or hardship, one sees some of the
finest as well as most awful parts of these wonderful Alps.

The road,--a miracle in itself! for all Nature seems to protest
against it, and the elements never tire of trying to destroy it.
Only a Napoleon would have dreamed of making a path through such
a place; and he only cared for it as a way to get his men and
cannon into an enemy's country by this truly royal road.

May has told you about our trip; so I will only add a few bits
that she forgot.

Our start in the dawn from Brieg, with two diligences, a
carriage, and a cart, was something between a funeral and a
caravan: first an immense diligence with seven horses, then a
smaller one with four, then our _calèche_ with two, and finally
the carrier's cart with one. It was very exciting,--the general
gathering of sleepy travellers in the dark square, the tramping
of horses, the packing in, the grand stir of getting off; then
the slow winding up, up, up out of the valley toward the sun,
which came slowly over the great hills, rising as we never saw it
rise before. The still, damp pine-forests kept us in shadow a
long time after the white mountain-tops began to shine. Little by
little we wound through a great gorge, and then the sun came
dazzling between these grand hills, showing us a new world. Peak
after peak of the Bernese Oberland rose behind us, and great
white glaciers lay before us; while the road crept like a narrow
line, in and out over chasms that made us dizzy to look at, under
tunnels, and through stone galleries with windows over which
dashed waterfalls from the glaciers above. Here and there were
refuges, a hospice, and a few _châlets_, where shepherds live
their wild, lonely lives. In the P.M. we drove rapidly down
toward Italy through the great Valley of Gondo,--a deep rift in
rock thousands of feet deep, and just wide enough for the road
and a wild stream that was our guide; a never-to-be-forgotten
place, and a fit gateway to Italy, which soon lay smiling below
us. The change is very striking; and when we came to Lago
Maggiore lying in the moonlight we could only sigh for happiness,
and love and look and look. After a good night's rest at Stresa,
we went in a charming gondola-sort of boat to see Isola
Bella,--the island you see in the chromo over the fireplace at
home,--a lovely island, with famous castle, garden, and town on
it. The day was as balmy as summer, and we felt like butterflies
after a frost, and fluttered about, enjoying the sunshine all
day.

A sail by steamer brought us to Luino, where we went on the
diligence to Lugano. Moonlight all the way, and a gay driver, who
wound his horn as we clattered into market-places and over
bridges in the most gallant style. The girls were on top, and in
a state of rapture all the way. After supper in a vaulted,
frescoed hall, with marble floors, pillars, and galleries, we
went to a room which had green doors, red carpet, blue walls, and
yellow bed-covers,--all so gay! It was like sleeping in a
rainbow.

As if a heavenly lake under our windows with moonlight _ad
libitum_ wasn't enough, we had music next door; and on leaning
out of a little back window, we made the splendid discovery that
we could look on to the stage of the opera-house across a little
alley. My Nan can imagine with what rapture I stared at the
scenes going on below me, and how I longed for her as I stood
there wrapped in my yellow bed-quilt, and saw gallant knights in
armor warble sweetly to plump ladies in masks, or pretty peasants
fly wildly from ardent lovers in red tights; also a dishevelled
maid who tore her hair in a forest, while a man aloft made
thunder and lightning,--and _I saw him do it_!

It was the climax to a splendid day; for few travellers can go to
the opera luxuriously in their night-gowns, and take naps between
the acts as I did.

A lovely sail next morning down the lake; then a carriage to
Menaggio; and then a droll boat, like a big covered market-wagon
with a table and red-cushioned seats, took us and our trunks to
Cadenabbia, for there is only a donkey road to the little town.
At the hotel on the edge of the lake we found Nelly L., a sweet
girl as lovely as Minnie, and so glad to see us; for since her
mother died in Venice last year she has lived alone with her
maid. She had waited for us, and next day went to Milan, where
we join her on Monday. She paints; and May and she made plans at
once to study together, and enjoy some of the free art-schools at
Milan and Naples or Florence, if we can all be together. It is a
great chance for May, and I mean she shall have a good time, and
not wait for tools and teachers; for all is in the way of her
profession, and of use to her.

Cadenabbia is only two hotels and a few villas opposite Bellagio,
which is a town, and fashionable. We were rowed over to see it by
our boatman, who spends his time at the front of the stone steps
before the hotel, and whenever we go out he tells us, "The lake
is tranquil; the hour is come for a walk on the water," and is as
coaxing as only an Italian can be. He is amiably tipsy most of
the time.

To-day it rains so we cannot go out, and I rest and write to my
Marmee in a funny room with a stone floor inlaid till it looks
like castile soap, a ceiling in fat cupids and trumpeting
fairies, a window on the lake, with balcony, etc. Hand-organs
with jolly singing boys jingle all day, and two big bears go by
led by a man with a drum. The boys would laugh to see them dance
on their hind legs, and shoulder sticks like soldiers.

... All looks well, and if the winter goes on rapidly and
pleasantly as the summer we shall soon be thinking of home,
unless one of us decides to stay. I shall post this at Milan
to-morrow, and hope to find letters there from you. By-by till
then.

_Journal._

_October_, 1870.--A memorable month.... Off for Italy on the 2d.
A splendid journey over the Alps and Maggiore by moonlight.

Heavenly days at the lakes, and so to Milan, Parma, Pisa,
Bologna, and Florence. Disappointed in some things, but found
Nature always lovely and wonderful; so didn't mind faded
pictures, damp rooms, and the cold winds of "sunny Italy." Bought
furs at Florence, and arrived in Rome one rainy night.

_November 10th._--In Rome, and felt as if I had been there before
and knew all about it. Always oppressed with a sense of sin,
dirt, and general decay of all things. Not well; so saw things
through blue glasses. May in bliss with lessons, sketching, and
her dreams. A. had society, her house, and old friends. The
artists were the best company; counts and princes very dull, what
we saw of them. May and I went off on the Campagna, and
criticised all the world like two audacious Yankees.

Our apartment in Piazza Barbarini was warm and cosey; and I
thanked Heaven for it, as it rained for two months, and my first
view most of the time was the poor Triton with an icicle on his
nose.

We pay $60 a month for six good rooms, and $6 a month for a girl,
who cooks and takes care of us.

_29th._--My thirty-eighth birthday. May gave me a pretty sketch,
and A. a fine nosegay.

In Rome Miss Alcott was shocked and grieved by the news of the death of her well-beloved brother-in-law, Mr. Pratt. She has drawn so beautiful a picture of him in "Little Women" and in "Little Men," that it is hardly needful to dwell upon his character or the grief which his death caused her. With her usual care for others, her thoughts at once turned to the support of the surviving family, and she found comfort in writing "Little Men" with the thought of the dear sister and nephews constantly in her heart.

In spite of this great sorrow and anxiety for the dear ones at home, the year of travel was very refreshing to her. Her companions were congenial, she took great delight in her sister's work, and she was independent in her plans, and could go whither and when she would.

The voyage home was a hard one; there was small-pox on board, but Miss Alcott fortunately escaped the infection. "Little Men" was out the day she arrived, as a bright red placard in the carriage announced, and besides all the loving welcomes from family and friends, she received the pleasing news that fifty thousand of the books were already sold.

But the old pains and weariness came home with her also. She could not stay in Concord, and went again to Boston, hoping to rest and work. Her young sister came home to brighten up the family with her hopeful, helpful spirit.

At forty years of age Louisa had accomplished the task she set for herself in youth. By unceasing toil she had made herself and her family independent; debts were all paid, and enough was invested to preserve them from want. And yet wants seemed to increase with their satisfaction, and she felt impelled to work enough to give to all the enjoyments and luxuries which were fitted to them after the necessaries were provided for. It may be that her own exhausted nervous condition made it impossible for her to rest, and the demand which she fancied came from without was the projection of her own thought.

_Journal._

1871.--_Rome._--Great inundation. Streets flooded, churches with
four feet of water in them, and queer times for those who were in
the overflowed quarters. Meals hoisted up at the window; people
carried across the river-like streets to make calls; and all
manner of funny doings. We were high and dry at Piazza Barbarini,
and enjoyed the flurry.

To the Capitol often, to spend the A.M. with the Roman emperors
and other great men. M. Aurelius as a boy was fine; Cicero looked
very like W. Phillips; Agrippina in her chair was charming; but
the other ladies, with hair _à la sponge_, were ugly; Nero & Co.
a set of brutes and bad men. But a better sight to me was the
crowd of poor people going to get the bread and money sent by the
king; and the splendid snow-covered hills were finer than the
marble beauty inside. Art tires; Nature never.

Professor Pierce and his party just from Sicily, where they had
been to see the eclipse,--all beaming with delight, and well
repaid for the long journey by a _two minutes'_ squint at the sun
when darkest.

Began to write a new book, "Little Men," that John's death may
not leave A. and the dear little boys in want. John took care
that they should have enough while the boys are young, and worked
very hard to have a little sum to leave, without a debt anywhere.

In writing and thinking of the little lads, to whom I must be a
father now, I found comfort for my sorrow. May went on with her
lessons, "learning," as she wisely said, how little she knew and
how to go on.

_February._--A gay month in Rome, with the carnival, artists'
fancy ball, many parties, and much calling.

Decided to leave May for another year, as L. sends $700 on
"Moods," and the new book will provide $1,000 for the dear girl;
so she may be happy and free to follow her talent.

_March._--Spent at Albano. A lovely place. Walk, write, and rest.
A troop of handsome officers from Turin, who clatter by, casting
soft glances at my two blonde signorinas, who enjoy it very
much.[11] Baron and Baroness Rothschild were there, and the W.'s
from Philadelphia, Dr. O. W. and wife, and S. B. Mrs. W. and A.
B. talk _all day_, May sketches, I write, and so we go on. Went
to look at rooms at the Bonapartes.

_April._--Venice. Floated about for two weeks seeing sights. A
lovely city for a short visit. Not enough going on to suit brisk
Americans. May painted, A. hunted up old jewelry and friends, and
I dawdled after them.

A very interesting trip to London,--over the Brenner Pass to
Munich, Cologne, Antwerp, and by boat to London.

_May._--A busy month. Settled in lodgings, Brompton Road, and
went sight-seeing. Mrs. P. Taylor, Conway, and others very kind.
Enjoyed showing May my favorite places and people.

A. B. went home on the 11th, after a pleasant year with us. I am
glad to know her, for she is true and very interesting. May took
lessons of Rowbotham and was happy. "Little Men" came out in
London.

I decided to go home on the 25th, as I am needed. A very pleasant
year in spite of constant pain, John's death, and home anxieties.
Very glad I came, for May's sake. It has been a very useful year
for her.

_June._--After an anxious passage of twelve days, got safely
home. Small-pox on board, and my room-mate, Miss D., very ill. I
escaped, but had a sober time lying next door to her, waiting to
see if my turn was to come. She was left at the island, and I
went up the harbor with Judge Russell, who took some of us off in
his tug.

Father and T. N. came to meet me with a great red placard of
"Little Men" pinned up in the carriage. After due precautions,
hurried home and found all well. My room refurnished and much
adorned by Father's earnings.

Nan well and calm, but under her sweet serenity is a very sad
soul, and she mourns for her mate like a tender turtle-dove.

The boys were tall, bright lads, devoted to Marmee, and the life
of the house.

Mother feeble and much aged by this year of trouble. I shall
never go far away from her again. Much company, and loads of
letters, all full of good wishes and welcome.

"Little Men" was out the day I arrived. Fifty thousand sold
before it was out.

A happy month, for I felt well for the first time in two years. I
knew it wouldn't last, but enjoyed it heartily while it did, and
was grateful for rest from pain and a touch of the old
cheerfulness. It was much needed at home.

_July, August, September._--Sick. Holiday soon over. Too much
company and care and change of climate upset the poor nerves
again. Dear Uncle S. J. May died; our best friend for years.
Peace to his ashes. He leaves a sweeter memory behind him than
any man I know. Poor Marmee is the last of her family now.

_October._--Decided to go to B.; Concord is so hard for me, with
its dampness and worry. Get two girls to do the work, and leave
plenty of money and go to Beacon Street to rest and try to get
well that I may work. A lazy life, but it seemed to suit; and
anything is better than the invalidism I hate worse than death.

Bones ached less, and I gave up morphine, as sunshine, air, and
quiet made sleep possible without it. Saw people, pictures,
plays, and read all I could, but did not enjoy much, for the
dreadful weariness of nerves makes even pleasure hard.

_November._--May sent pleasant letters and some fine copies of
Turner. She decides to come home, as she feels she is needed as I
give out. Marmee is feeble, Nan has her boys and her sorrow, and
one strong head and hand is wanted at home. A year and a half of
holiday is a good deal, and duty comes first always. Sorry to
call her back, but her eyes are troublesome, and housework will
rest them and set her up. Then she can go again when I am better,
for I don't want her to be thwarted in her work more than just
enough to make her want it very much.

On the 19th she came. Well, happy, and full of sensible plans. A
lively time enjoying the cheerful element she always brings into
the house. Piles of pictures, merry adventures, and interesting
tales of the fine London lovers.

Kept my thirty-ninth and Father's seventy-second birthday in the
old way.

Thanksgiving dinner at Pratt Farm. All well and all together.
Much to give thanks for.

_December._--Enjoyed my quiet, sunny room very much; and this
lazy life seems to suit me, for I am better, mind and body. All
goes well at home, with May to run the machine in her cheery,
energetic style, and amuse Marmee and Nan with gay histories. Had
a furnace put in, and all enjoyed the new climate. No more
rheumatic fevers and colds, with picturesque open fires. Mother
is to be cosey if money can do it. She seems to be now, and my
long-cherished dream has come true; for she sits in a pleasant
room, with no work, no care, no poverty to worry, but peace and
comfort all about her, and children glad and able to stand
between trouble and her. Thank the Lord! I like to stop and
"remember my mercies." Working and waiting for them makes them
very welcome.

Went to the ball for the Grand Duke Alexis. A fine sight, and the
big blonde boy the best of all. Would dance with the pretty
girls, and leave the Boston dowagers and their diamonds in the
lurch.

To the Radical Club, where the philosophers mount their hobbies
and prance away into time and space, while we gaze after them and
try to look wise.

A merry Christmas at home. Tree for the boys, family dinner, and
frolic in the evening.

A varied, but on the whole a good year, in spite of pain. Last
Christmas we were in Rome, mourning for John. What will next
Christmas bring forth? I have no ambition now but to keep the
family comfortable and not ache any more. Pain has taught me
patience, I hope, if nothing more.

_January_, 1872.--Roberts Brothers paid $4,400 as six months'
receipts for the books. A fine New Year's gift. S. E. S. invested
$3,000, and the rest I put in the bank for family needs. Paid for
the furnace and all the bills. What bliss it is to be able to do
that and ask no help!

* * * * *

Mysterious bouquets came from some unknown admirer or friend.
Enjoyed them very much, and felt quite grateful and romantic as
day after day the lovely great nosegays were handed in by the
servant of the unknown.

_February and March._--At Mrs. Stowe's desire, wrote for the
"Christian Union" an account of our journey through France, and
called it "Shawl Straps."... Many calls and letters and
invitations, but I kept quiet, health being too precious to risk,
and sleep still hard to get for the brain that would work instead
of rest.