The Little Women Letters by Gabrielle Donnelly

Author:Gabrielle Donnelly
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A Touchstone Book
Published: 2010-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

7

Concord, october 1867.

Dearest Amy,

Your letter has arrived from London, and I leave it to you to imagine how it was exulted upon and pored over; how Meg was in bliss to hear of the shopping on Regent Street, and Laurie convulsed with laughter to read of your picturesque trip through the countryside; how Beth turned bashful to learn that Frank Vaughn had asked for her, and how Marmee smiled at the story of the lovers with the rosebuds, while adding quickly that she “was happy to trust that her own daughter could be depended upon to behave with prudence at all times”; how father tore through the letter to find whether uncle had, after all, contrived to have you all pay a call upon Mr. Darwin and his family, and, finding (a little more to his disappointment than to yours, I fancy) that he had not, contented himself at the last with as hearty an enjoyment as any of us of all the things you had done.

Dear Amy, I know that for you, the “pineapple” of the trip (as you would once have called it) will be the paintings and statues of Rome; but I confess that, if I were the one traveling instead of you, it would be London that I would relish the most. Ever since I read the words of wise old Sam Johnson that “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” I have burned to go there, and if ever I were so fortunate as to do so, oh, Amy, what a time I should have. I should see it all, from the green parks and the broad avenues to the little winding lanes that lead down to the great sweep of the river; from the tombs in Westminster Abbey to the high dome of St. Paul’s, to the dreadful Tower of London where poor Princess Elizabeth was confined in such terror; from the round church in the City where the knights prayed before going on to do splendid things in the Crusades, to the Curiosity Shop where Nell and her grandfather worked and toiled their days, and all the way out to the Angel at Islington where wicked Fagin taught the orphan boys to pick pockets. I should meet every fine and interesting person, and attend every lecture and concert, and visit every spectacle at every theatre, and when at the end aunt and uncle had decided they really must move on, they would be reduced to hiding a sleeping potion in my pot of tea, or binding me with ropes and stuffing me, shrieking, into the Dover coach before they could tear me from such richness as London holds.

In consideration of which, dear Amy, it is no doubt for the best, for the sake of good sense, propriety, and the good name of Americans abroad, that you are the one crossing the sea with aunt and uncle and not

Your dreaming, fancy-stricken sister,

Jo.

“Wotcher, Josephine, you’re looking pleased with yourself.”

It was

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