Little women

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE LEARNING TO FORGET

Amy's lecture did Laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it tilllong afterward. Men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, thelords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded themselvesthat it is just what they intended to do. Then they act upon it, and, if itsucceeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it. If it fails, theygenerously give her the whole. Laurie went back to his grandfather, andwas so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declaredthe climate of Nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try itagain. There was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better,but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he hadreceived. Pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, hefortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepestimpression—"I despise you." 

"Go and do something splendid that willmake her love you."Laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon broughthimself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a manhas a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he haslived it down. He felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now, andthough he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was nooccasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously. Jo wouldn't love him, but hemight make her respect and admire him by doing something which shouldprove that a girl's 'No' had not spoiled his life. He had always meant to dosomething, and Amy's advice was quite unnecessary. He had only beenwaiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred. Thatbeing done, he felt that he was ready to 'hide his stricken heart, and stilltoil on'.

As Goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so Laurieresolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a Requiemwhich should harrow up Jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer.Therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless andmoody and ordered him off, he went to Vienna, where he had musicalfriends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguishhimself. But whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, ormusic too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that theRequiem was beyond him just at present. It was evident that his mind wasnot in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in themiddle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancingtune that vividly recalled the Christmas ball at Nice, especially the stoutFrenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the timebeing. 

Then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning,but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him. He wanted Jo for hisheroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tenderrecollections and romantic visions of his love. But memory turned traitor,and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall Jo'soddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimentalaspects—beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricadingherself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a laGummidge—and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he wasendeavoring to paint. Jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and hehad to give her up with a "Bless that girl, what a torment she is!" and aclutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.

When he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel toimmortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obligingreadiness. This phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair,was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind'seye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons.He did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for hisheroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her withevery gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, throughtrials which would have annihilated any mortal woman. 

Thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, butgradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he satmusing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideasand refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled statethat winter. He did not do much, but he thought a great deal and wasconscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself. "It'sgenius simmering, perhaps. I'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," hesaid, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, butsomething far more common. Whatever it was, it simmered to somepurpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life,began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, andfinally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music wasnot a composer. Returning from one of Mozart's grand operas, splendidlyperformed at the Royal Theatre, he looked over his own, played a few ofthe best parts, sat staring at the busts of Mendelssohn, Beethoven, andBach, who stared benignly back again. Then suddenly he tore up his musicsheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberlyto himself...