Why Did Jo Get Married? Realism and Fairytale in Alcott's Little Women

(Melville and I decided to switch days this week; she'll give us a fabulous post on Wednesday! --Shelley)

There are many things to love about Louisa May Alcott’s children’s novel Little Women: its endearing characters, who naturally make mistakes, indulging their selfishness and certain temptations, but who, more often than not, are remorseful for their wrongdoing, and strive to be better, to be “good”; its joys and gratitude in the simplicities of life, particularly family life, despite the burdens of poverty; constantly turning negative situations/attributes into positive ones: “Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity, is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world”; the blessings and payoffs that come as the result of personal determination and concentrated work (especially for the disadvantaged 19th century female); its depiction of respectful, powerful, intelligent, hardworking, and amiable women; and a genuine celebration of all things American, including its faults: “[Amy’s] old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.”

These aspects of the novel, including many others, reflect the novel’s strength: its sense of realism. We can identify with the characters on many levels: they are flawed individuals who are constantly learning as they mature and gain more experience; they have hopes and dreams that involve careers and romance; they have a deep love and connection with family and friends; most importantly, they must constantly overcome roadblocks and struggles as they proceed through life, which sometimes means making a serious life-change. Such changes and adjustments make these characters complex, and as the world and its inhabitants are complex, the text exudes reality in many forms.

And yet, I am ultimately reminded that this is a children’s novel (especially the first half) because, with all of the realism, the text also greatly succeeds because of the nostalgia Alcott creates. She makes stitching and mending by the fireside, sharing and writing stories, putting on plays, befriending neighbors, housework and domestic life, raising children, teaching, and battling poverty sound pretty enjoyable, despite the difficulties inherent within such activities. It seems as if Alcott celebrates joys and hardships alike, creating a paradoxical fairytale-like aspect to the story while it is at the same time entrenched in realism. I mostly get this sense from the fact that every conflict eventually works itself out **SPOILER ALERT**: Mr. March recovers from pneumonia and makes it home from the war safely; Beth recovers from her scarlet fever, and even when she suffers an early death, she willingly accepts her hard fate with hope and grace; all the girls find happiness in a marriage of their choosing; Meg and Brooke’s early marital woes are pretty normal and are easily overcome (their marriage eventually thrives with the addition of vivacious twins); Laurie and Mr. Laurence’s relationship persists stronger than ever after several instances where Laurie’s “manliness” is threatened; Laurie graduates from college with honors after many distractions jeopardize his earning a diploma at all; Amy’s early selfishness and vanity blossom into social tact and grace (she is the traditional belle of the ball in all aspects); after Laurie’s devastating rejection from Jo, he and Amy are neatly paired together in a most romantic coupling; and the March family ultimately stays together despite three marriages because they all live close to each other, and regularly interact. Most importantly, Jo—the seeming outcast who identifies more as a boy than a girl, who has much trouble holding her tongue and controlling her temper, who basically feels unlucky and out of place—finds a suitable partner in the Professor (quenching her fear of loneliness), and even more, is able to live her dream of helping and schooling young lads. In the end, everything just seems to work itself out; it seems too perfect in spite of all the difficulties the March family faces.

So, how real is Little Women? After Amy and Laurie’s marriage and return from Europe, Bhaer magically appears to save Jo from the horrid loneliness and boredom she envisions for her future: “She opened it with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her,—for there stood a stout, bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.” The professor is imagined as a “ghost” and a “midnight sun,” two very magical, abstract qualifications. And then Jo, who all her life swore off marriage, and with immense restraint repeatedly rejected her best friend’s marriage proposals, ends up becoming Bhaer’s wife, all the result of her own desires. Is Alcott’s decision to marry Jo off a reflection of reality—a reflection of the compromise many 19th century women made in order live less lonely and financially depraved lives, or maybe a reflection of Jo’s “tender, womanly half of” her nature that has finally blossomed in adulthood—or is Jo’s fate unrealistic and more mythical, compared to her independent actions and tendencies throughout the lengthy text? In other words, is her fate more magical because it’s a happily constructed Victorian ending for a female character who, throughout the whole of the text, would rather not be married? Can Jo—the persona of Alcott and the main protagonist of the story—still be considered the heroine of the text for contradicting herself, and being married in the end?

I find Jo’s situation at the end the most fascinating aspect of the text because it sparks so many questions about the purpose and meaning of the text, and subsequently provides many reasonable possibilities as answers. On one level, one could argue that Jo makes a powerful and artful decision to marry Bhaer: he will help her “bear” two boys in addition to serving as the instructor for her all-boys school, thereby allowing her to fulfill her dream to always live and be surrounded by young lads, whom Jo claims to more closely identify with. By marrying the Professor, then, Jo uses her husband as the means to her true happiness and career goal. And yet, I feel like Jo’s desire to be with Bhaer is more of an emotional one, as Alcott intends: “Was it all self-pity, loneliness, low spirits? Or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer? Who shall say.” The narrator purposefully puts doubt into the reader’s mind as to Jo’s desire for Bhaer’s partnership, but it’s clear that her desire is spun from emotion. For example, when the Professor does not show up for three days after spending two straight weeks with Jo, she “become[s] pensive, at first, and then,—alas for romance,—very cross.” Her reaction to Bhaer’s absence seems to be a romantic one, not a deceitfully constructed one. Jo’s emotions strongly reveal themselves again when she tears up after finding out that Bhaer will move across the country, and possibly crush her wish to be with him. Evidence from the text, then, more strongly suggests that Jo really loves Bhaer, and does not want to just use him for her own personal gain (business-wise).

Still, this ending seems too perfect for Jo, as it does for the rest of the family who care about her, making Little Women somewhat mythical. Is Alcott’s perspective just a positive one? Why did Jo have to be married? Her decision and desire to marry leaves me a bit unsettled because it seemingly contradicts her previous depiction as an independent woman dead-set on not being married. Obviously, people can change as they grow older, as Jo very well might have, but from a narrative standpoint, why does Alcott marry Jo off? Is it enough for Alcott that Jo does not give in to Laurie’s advances, and end up as Mrs. Laurence? After all, Bhaer is an unconventional match for a Victorian heroine, regardless of Jo’s unconventionality herself. Was upsetting Victorian’s readers’ desire for Jo and Laurie’s marriage enough to satisfy Alcott’s will to make Jo the independent heroine that she seems to be? I’m not sure, mostly because she seems to satisfy the rest of the story with Amy’s marriage to Laurie (pretty romantic in itself) and Jo’s ultimate marriage to Bhaer. So, I ask you this: why is Jo married off in the end? Is Alcott merely looking out for herself financially, trying to sell a successful novel that pleases the Victorian public’s appetite for a conclusion marked by three happy marriages? Or does she really think all sorts of women, even independent women like Jo, will find true happiness in marriage, if that marriage is decided freely by both man and woman? Or is she merely illustrating—realistically—that people are complicated beings who, through life experience, alter their attitude and beliefs toward certain subjects and ideas? Would Little Women be as successful and celebrated as it is if Jo stayed unmarried and possibly lonely for the rest of her life, even if she was independent? Is Alcott claiming that too much independence breeds loneliness and unhappiness, or maybe that one’s true happiness is through their relationship with others, especially with a spouse and children? What do you think? I would love to know!!


**Please note: our September book of the month is Ivan Doig's The Whistling Season, which we'll be discussing in a couple of weeks. Try and read it if you can! http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/02/books/review/02birkets.html

Are You a Good Neighbor? Is Anyone These Days? Little Women and Neighborly Affection

I don't know if it's a California thing, or maybe it's just me, but in terms of being neighborly, things have changed since I was a young girl (roughly 20-25 years ago). I remember playing in front yards and in the street with all of the kids on our block, whether it was during an intense game of snake-in-the grass, or during an exciting version of hide-and-go-seek on roller skates. Those days, those memories, seem like they belong to a world long since past: to a world where being kidnapped by a creep in a car was a distant threat, or where video games, cell phones, and the Internet didn't steal our sole attention. Obviously, there were dangers back then, and my parents took preventative measures; we weren't able to just roam all over the place with random people. But now, with as much as we know, it seems so unsafe to be neighborly! Or at the very least, it seems much more formal. Of course there are introductions, hellos, how are yous, etc., but I haven't been friends with my neighbors since I was younger, and I don't think it's just a kid thing. My parents became really close friends with their neighbors over 20 years ago, but aren't close with their current ones. They're courteous or whatever, like most of us, but not true friends. What's behind this? Is this a California thing, where there are just so many people around, we don't really need to be close with our neighbors because they won't necessarily consist of our only human interaction of the day? Maybe we don't need to rely on our neighbors as much as we used to since we now have access to so much aid, entertainment, etc. Or is it a technological thing, where we're more enveloped with worldly information and news than with what's going on right in our front yard? Please note: I'm clearly generalizing here, and writing about my personal experience, and what I've witnessed in terms of my family and friends. I'm sure this neighborly distance and mistrust isn't occurring across the country; I'd like to think that in smaller towns and communities, it's not. But anyways! How does this relate to literature?

Well, I'm finally reading Louisa M. Alcott's Little Women, which takes place during the Civil War in Concord, Massachusetts. I'm only a third of the way through, but I can't help but be won over by the March family, in spite of the overt sentimentality taking place. I'll have much more to reflect upon once I finish the novel, but for this week, one of the major realities that the text explores is the generosity, kindness, and graciousness that results from the hands of neighbors--from the hands of one's community. Indeed, one's "blessings" seem to be supplied by merely interacting with one's neighbors, but importantly, by doing so in a respectful way. The March family seems to be blessed emotionally, socially, and even materialistically for their manners and unselfish tendencies while interacting with others (including with other members of their own family), particularly with Laurie and Mr. Laurence, the wealthy teenager and his grandfather who live next door. By sharing company with each other, both families benefit from their neighbor's gender, which would have remained absent in their own home if their neighborly friendship/courtesy did not exist (Mr. March is away at war, while Laurie's parents are no longer living). Up to this point in the novel, it seems as if individuals in the text gain the most by acting as such--by being consciously aware of what it means to be a good neighbor. For example, Jo and the rest of her family gladly provide personal items and goods for Laurie in order to comfort him when he is sick, thereby establishing a strong friendship and bond with the young gentleman. Giving such things is actually a sacrifice for the family since they are struggling financially. The men in this text play their part, as well: Mr. Laurence goes out of his way to ensure Beth's happiness by allowing her to enter his home unattended in order to play on his piano; he eventually gives her--this young girl he's not related to--a piano once belonging to his beloved granddaughter, who has since passed away. Doing so is obviously not required, but Mr. Laurence recognizes the girl's modest dreams to play on a piano, and does what he can in order to please her because he sees her humility as an unassuming "little woman." Thus far, then, the characters in Little Women are super cool neighbors, and through this display of friendly affection, I think Alcott emphasizes that such thoughtful and selfless behavior creates the most happiness and joy in one's life. Luckily, I am able to share in such a way with my friends and family, even though they do not happen to be my physical neighbors. In addition to my neighbors, I always try to be nice to strangers and coworkers, but not AS NICE as the Marches and Laurences are with each other. I don't know; maybe if I lived in Massachusetts 150 years ago, I would experience life differently. Well, I know I would because only 25 years ago I did experience life differently in California, in terms of my association with neighbors. So now we're back: what's changed since Alcott's time and locale? What's changed over the past 25 years just in California? Must we experience such displays of respect, courtesy, and friendliness only in books written years ago? Please share your thoughts!

Summer Lovin'

It happens every year.  I start out the summer with a grand list of books that I meant to read all year when I was too busy but still motivated enough to copy down names of “good” book selections – the kind of books that end up on critic’s lists, that go on to be used in classrooms, that get alluded to by your writer-ish friends. 

Now, I read those kinds of books in June, so I feel productive.  It’s like I’ve fulfilled my basic quota of books that I can cross off the ol’ life list.  But then July comes around and the lull sets in.  I stop wearing a watch, I stay up late watching my DVD collection, I don't even bother to comb my hair every morning.  And…as I loll about, I reread. 

I know some people think rereading is pointless – why reread if there are still so many books out there to cross off your “good” list? – but I’ve always found pleasure in these revisits.  I’ve probably read The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood at least five times (in my defense, my favorite elementary teacher of all time recommended it to me) and that book is never going to make any NYT critic’s list.  But when it’s hot and I’m curled up in a lounge chair by the pool sipping a Coke, I want something that I can sort of drift over, absorbing some of the page and filling in the skimmed words from hazy memory.  Nothing in the world is better than those lazy afternoons because I know that for the next few hours, I’ll be visiting an old, loved friend. 

Right now, I’m living in Civil War America, where the brutality is far away (but not forgotten) but the virtuous Bible is much closer.  It is a land in which skating parties, shy beaus, and sing-alongs are the norm for these Little Women.  I’m delightfully sailing through the chapters, caressed by their goodness and gentle humor – the perfect summer reread. 

And so, dear readers, I open the forum up to you. 

What is your perfect summer pleasure read (or reread, as the case may be)? 

Is it one of those flashy, gold-embossed covers filled with images of Fabio-wannabes from the Costco book tables whose title is interchangeable with all the other ones about forbidden love?

Or is it something more personal? 

Or, better still, is it Moby-Dick?  If so, I’m waiting for those royalty checks to come pouring in…

Happy skimming,
Melville