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 life.
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 traveling and much uphill
work, lead to this delightful chateau 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 beanstalks 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 moneybags.
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.
