The problem with any series is that once you’ve read the first book, the others can’t stand on their own – you’re always comparing them to the original one. In the PDF version I have, Good Wives is not a separate novel, as it was originally; it begins somewhere after page 400, right after the end of Little Women, without even a section break.
I think I’m disappointed, but I’m also not. I knew what was going to happen before it happened. I suppose that’s why people don’t like spoilers – what they ‘spoil’ is your raw reaction the story.
I looked up the sequel to Little Women to see what became of the characters. The sequel was listed as Little Men. Seeing Jo married and with boys taking the stage, I didn’t want to go there. When I found that the sequel was actually Good Wives (a daunting title on its own), the reviews on Goodreads were so harsh, so disappointed, that I decided I wanted to read the book for myself to see if such criticism was justified… if Jo really fell from her powerful place or just dashed our conception of her being a reigning feminist queen. I couldn’t see her as settling into being a ‘good wife’, because Alcott didn’t seem to take that road at all when defining her as a character. Contrary to some of the reviews given here, what happened was not a gross distortion. It was believable, and depressing for that purpose. It was understandable conformity. In a way, I appreciated it a little. It depicts a positive reality, but is soft around the edges. Meg’s honeymoon stage ends when she discovers that voluntarily sacrifice in order to seem like the ‘model wife’ is not helpful – that perhaps cooperation is better than servitude. Of course, her mother still warned her to apologize first ‘if both of you err’ (and that was a pre-reading ‘spoiler’ I found contained in someone else’s review). Jo gets a happy ending, but couldn’t be the rebel for too long without feeling the very real price of it.
Let’s give you a bit of backstory… I’m a girl in a culture where the only way you can satisfy your desire for love and/or lust is through arranged marriages. The other option is remaining single forever, or becoming a ‘whore’ and possibly risking your life in the process. For various reasons, I am and was always the girl who spat on marriage and on sexism. Jo was a symbol for me, a role model – I was so grateful for her existence as a strong female character born in an unexpected time period like the 1880s, from the mind of a female author, nonetheless. Her humanity in the first book was stunning, when paired with her rebelliousness… then her favorite sister died, the other two married, and she faded. She was in a vulnerable state where she was defeated and limited by her external world and herself.
“...something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier. ‘I can’t do it. I wasn’t meant for a life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something desperate if somebody doesn’t come and help me,’ she said to herself, when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.”
She grew lonely, listless. Her house was not bustling with life the way it was, her story-writing didn’t go as successfully as she wanted it to, she grew demotivated, and the steam she used to keep her turbines going was diminished. She fought a bit less, conformed a bit more… and married the first person who asked her in that state, and not out of love, though Alcott tries to trick you into thinking that, though previously Jo had explicitly stated:
"I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said ‘Yes’, not because I love him any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."
You flick back to some earlier pages, and it just seems so much brighter and full of hope. She was sparking with life, and caught the eye of Laurie, who was as much of a firecracker as she was. Passion can be scary, we naturally fear the unknown, and for many strong girls in repressive times and cultures, it’s very difficult to admit to having any sort of romantic or sexual inclination at all, because it seems like a violation of feminism: ‘If I was a feminist, I wouldn’t want to give up my independence for some boy’. Again, she said as much in her own words:
“An old maid, that’s what I’m to be. A literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor Johnson, I’m old and can’t enjoy it, solitary, and can’t share it, independent, and don’t need it.”
“I’m not one of the agreeable sort. Nobody will want me, and it’s a mercy…”
That last phrase was shockingly vulnerable, and complex. From the beginning of the series, Jo was the nonconformist: she spurned social obligations, embraced her status as a tomboy, enjoyed her short hair in a time period where long hair was almost a requirement of beauty and femininity, and masculined her feminine name… but her words indicated that she wasn’t unaware of how repulsive this was to the rigid social world she was living in, she understood it and accepted it (“nobody will want me”) and then turned it into a point of pride in herself and her principles, rejecting the world she knew would reject her (“it’s a mercy”). Amy, who ended up marrying her admirer, was always very conformist and criticized Jo for her “romping”, even if it only consisted of playing a game of tag, as God forbid a woman run or play in public! Despite that, Jo’s parents always seemed relatively tolerant of her, but she clearly understood that a suitor, fiance, or husband would not be so tolerant, and neither would her parents if she married and ended up having children and ‘wifely’ responsibilities… but in Jo’s world, in that time, and even in some of the more liberal cultures until this day, any solitary woman is a ‘somber spinster’. Anyone is free to shun their culture and it’s very admirable if that act comes from a genuine belief in something different, like in greater equality or justice, but all societies have both formal and informal ways of punishing rebels… the informal punishment is mounting pressure, and the internally-felt loneliness that comes from being a social outcast. Also, Jo didn’t have many options – it is unlikely that in those times it was proper for a woman to live alone, and equally unlikely that she could find a secure way to support herself, so with her sisters married or dead and her parents aging, her future was up in the air.
Alcott lectures her audience for more than a page on being kind to spinsters, and to me, that’s a sign that this novel goes a little bit deeper than it appears to at the surface.
“Don’t laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in God’s sight.”
Before reading this sequel, I thought that Jo and Laurie’s continued platonic status was the result of a case where she genuinely didn’t harbor any romantic feelings towards Laurie – that he really was only a best friend. There are plenty of times in real life where you think people would go amazingly well together, and they choose someone else entirely for their own reasons (whether or not they’re aware of what those reasons are, let us add). Characters don’t always turn out the way you conceive them to be, in any setting. At worst, I thought she’d chosen Mr Bhaer because he was safe territory – a bland, sexless man with a paternal air. It so happens that my perception was true: in the book, he has zero passion and loves her with the neutral affection and condescending advice of a father. Whereas Laurie liked her for who she was, exactly how she was – they played, had discussions, argued and reconciled afterwards, all without asking the other to change too dramatically - the Professor’s few interactions with her involved making her stop writing sensational stories and going on about them as if they were erotica (“Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad trash.”) and the first ‘romantic’ moment consisted of him getting her to start using "thou" instead of "you" in the most cringeworthy passage of the entire book (and there were some other moments), because he liked it better. What I didn’t realize was that it had little to do with either man, as the first quote I mentioned proves ("I am lonely, and perhaps if Teddy had tried again, I might have said ‘Yes’, not because I love him any more…")
Jo got lonely. It’s wonderful to have somebody, even just a fictional character, fight for your cause… to watch them be a symbol of female strength in a world that doesn’t have nearly enough of them, made even more impressive due to its existence in 1880s New England (which seems to have granted women more freedoms than certain nations in the present which will go unnamed have). To have that make way for a lackluster defeat, to her saying things like “women’s special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens”, and conforming to the narrator’s earlier propaganda about women having no greater happiness than what they can find in the home is upsetting, but it’s also realistic. I don’t think Alcott avoided the fairytale ending with Laurie that readers expected out of spite, which a reviewer here accused her of doing – it was to make a point about conformity and loneliness usually being much stronger forces than romance can ever be in determining relationships. At least, that’s what I make of it… keeping in mind that Alcott lived until 55 and did not marry once, perhaps following on the one remaining path that Jo could’ve taken.
I tried to see the book in its own light, without thinking of its predecessor or of my interpretations, but that was difficult. I guess there were cute moments and little insights, to a lesser extent. It wasn’t an outright boring read – I gladly kept going until the end. I suppose that says something… or maybe it says nothing at all. Perhaps I got used to the characters in the first book, and was happy to walk alongside them for a little while longer, even if their passage grew generic, less exciting, less funny, and more forgettable. Even Beth’s death was bland of any flavour or real sadness. Once you build up an obvious death from the first few pages of what – overall – would be an 800 page book, that’s bound to happen. Meg and Amy blur into each other and do nothing except marry (a little like Jane Austen, and less like Little Women). The life is mostly drained away.
“Teddy, we never can be boy and girl again. The happy old times can’t come back, and we mustn’t expect it. We are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking. I’m sure you feel this. I see the change in you, and you’ll find it in me.”
How supposed propriety doth kill the soul.
It occurred to me that people romanticize childhood because they think it’s the only time they were allowed to taste the freedom of open-hearted enjoyment. They form prisons for themselves the very moment they begin to think and accept what may be a wider societal notion – that playing, that joking, that living in the moment as opposed to thinking about your image is something you are barred from doing. No, you aren’t. It takes bravery to put your image aside, when almost all of society is built on ‘appearing rather than being’, as Rousseau once said, but it can be done even in the 1800s, even for women… as Jo once proved to us. Maybe the ending was just a goodbye to childhood, and that’s why it’s so hard to like. The four girls grew into the surrounding cultural fabric, and more than that, they all parted ways. Even the maple-syrupy scene in the apple orchard that featured on the closing pages couldn’t hide that.
"I don’t like that sort of thing. I’m too busy to be worried with nonsense, and I think it’s dreadful to break up families so. Now don’t say any more about it. Meg’s wedding has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities. I don’t wish to get cross, so let’s change the subject."
Indeed, let’s. Let’s change the subject.
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P.S. This is a silly little comment, but I wasn't too pleased that Jo set up a school for little boys because she related to them… forgetting the fact that she was a little girl and perhaps her duty was to them first, since they didn’t have half the educational opportunties boys had overall and there were certainly very few places where little book-loving, tomboy Jo's could be themselves.