Little Women - Chapter 40

When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable¹, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping² one another by the increased affection which comes to bind³ households tenderly together in times of trouble. They put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.

 

The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, the little worktable, and the beloved pussies⁴. Father's best books found their way there, Mother's easy chair, Jo's desk, Amy's finest sketches⁵, and every day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid⁶ supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for. Old Hannah never wearied of concocting⁷ dainty dishes to tempt⁸ a capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance⁹ from lands that know no winter.

 

Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine¹⁰, sat Beth, tranquil¹¹ and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens¹² from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling¹³ through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts miraculously¹⁴ suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll¹⁵ little letters which came to her, full of blots¹⁶ and gratitude¹⁷.

 

The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look round, and say "How beautiful this is!" as they all sat together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel¹⁸, where a paternal¹⁹ priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation possible. Simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the frequent falter²⁰ in the voice gave a double eloquence²¹ to the words he spoke²² or read.

 

It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the needle was 'so heavy', and put it down forever. Talking wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed²³ by the ills that vexed²⁴ her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching hearts and imploring²⁵ prayers, when those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly²⁶, to hear the bitter cry, "Help me, help me!" and to feel that there was no help. A sad eclipse of the serene²⁷ soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With the wreck²⁸ of her frail²⁹ body, Beth's soul grew strong, and though she said little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, trying to see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.

 

Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said "I feel stronger when you are here." She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and 'tried not to be a trouble'. All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty³⁰ to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.

 

Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile³¹ the sleepless³² night, or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the transparent³³ fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.

 

Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns³⁴, the most fervent³⁵ prayers that any voice could utter. For with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened³⁶ by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life - uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues³⁷ which 'smell sweet, and blossom in the dust', the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible to all.

 

One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, Pilgrims's Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled³⁹ over in Jo's hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred⁴⁰ look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.

 

"Poor Jo! She's fast asleep, so I won't wake her to ask leave. She shows me all her things, and I don't think she'll mind if I look at this", thought Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs⁴¹ beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.

 

MY BETH

Sitting patient in the shadow

Till the blessed light shall come,

A serene and saintly presence

Sanctifies our troubled home.

Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows

Break like ripples⁴² on the strand⁴³

Of the deep and solemn river

Where her willing feet now stand.

O my sister, passing from me,

Out of human care and strife⁴⁴,

Leave me, as a gift, those virtues

Which have beautified your life.

Dear, bequeath me that great patience

Which has power to sustain

A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit

In its prison-house of pain.

Give me, for I need it sorely,

Of that courage, wise and sweet,

Which has made the path of duty

Green beneath your willing feet.

Give me that unselfish nature,

That with charity devine

Can pardon wrong for love's dear sake -

Meek⁴⁵ heart, forgive me mine!

Thus our parting daily loseth

Something of its bitter pain,

And while learning this hard lesson,

My great loss becomes my gain.

For the touch of grief will render

My wild nature more serene,

Give to life new aspirations⁴⁶,

A new trust in the unseen.

Henceforth, safe across the river,

I shall see forever more

A beloved, household spirit

Waiting for me on the shore.

Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,

Guardian⁴⁷ angels shall become,

And the sister gone before me

By their hands shall lead me home.

Blurred and blotted⁴⁸, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth's face, for her one regret had been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair she feared. As she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the charred⁴⁹ log fell asunder⁵⁰. Jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.

 

"Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn't care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?" she asked, with wistful, humble³⁸ earnestness.

 

"Oh, Beth, so much, so much!" and Jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's.

 

"Then I don't feel as if I'd wasted my life. I'm not so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it's too late to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I'd helped them."

 

"More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn't let you go, but I'm learning to feel that I don't lose you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."

 

"I know it cannot, and I don't fear it any longer, for I'm sure I shall be your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I'm gone. They will turn to you, don't fail them, and if it's hard to work alone, remember that I don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy."

 

"I'll try, Beth." and then and there Jo renounced⁵¹ her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace⁵² of a belief in the immortality⁵³ of love.

 

So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.

 

Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable⁵⁴ words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances⁵⁵, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the 'tide went out easily', and in the dark hour before dawn, on the bosom⁵⁶ where she had drawn⁵⁷ her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.

 

With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar⁵⁸ again, seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity⁵⁹ that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung⁶⁰ their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent⁶¹ joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom⁶² full of dread⁶³.

 

When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out, Jo's place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang blithely⁶⁴ on a budding bough⁶⁵, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction⁶⁶ over the placid⁶⁷ face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.

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