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Louisa May Alcott, Little Women, 1869
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The Dying &
Death of Beth
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The Dying & Death of Beth:
Part Two: Chapter Thirty-six
When Jo came home that spring, she had been struck
with the change in Beth. No one spoke of it or seemed aware of it,
for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily,
but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and a heavy
weight fell on Jo’s heart as she saw her sister’s face. It was no
paler but a little thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a
strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being
slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail
flesh with an indescribable pathetic beauty. Jo saw and felt it, but
said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of
it power, for Beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she
was better, and presently in other cares Jo for a time forgot her
fear.
But when Laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again,
the vague anxiety returned and haunted her. She had confessed her
sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed
a mountain trip, Beth thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so
far away from home. Another little visit to the seashore would suit
her better, and as Grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the
babies, Jo took Beth to the quiet place, where she could live much
in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color
into her pale cheeks.
It was not a fashionable place, but even among the
pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to
live for one another. Beth was too shy to enjoy society, and Jo too
wrapped up in her to care for anyone else. So they were all in all
to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest
they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes
the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they
felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away.
 They did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often
between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a
reserve which it is very hard to overcome. Jo felt as if a veil had
fallen between her heart and Beth’s, but when she put out her hand
to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she
waited for Beth to speak. She wondered, and was thankful also, that
her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet
weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it
to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when Beth came
back no better. She wondered still more if her sister really guessed
the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind
during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head
in Jo’s lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea
made music at her feet.
One day Beth told her. Jo thought she was asleep,
she lay so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with
wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on
Beth’s cheeks. But she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the
cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even
the rosy shells they had been collecting. It came to her then more
bitterly than ever that Beth was slowly drifting away from her, and
her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest
treasure she possessed. For a minute her eyes were too dim for
seeing, and when they cleared, Beth was looking up at her so
tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, Jo dear, I’m
glad you know it. I’ve tried to tell you, but I couldn’t.
There was no answer except her sister’s cheek
against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, Jo did
not cry. She was the weaker then, and Beth tried to comfort and
sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she
whispered in her ear.
I’ve known it for a good while, dear, and now I’m
used to it, it isn’t hard to think of or to bear. Try to see it so
and don’t be troubled about me, because it’s best, indeed it is….
Beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her
quiet way, I don’t know how to express myself, and shouldn’t try to
anyone but you, because I can’t speak out except to my Jo. I only
mean to say that I have had a feeling that it never was intended
that I should live long. I’m not like the rest of you. I never made
any plans about what I’d do when I grew up. I never thought of being
married, as you all did. I couldn’t seem to imagine myself anything
but stupid little Beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere
but there. I never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the
leaving you all. I’m not afraid, but it seems as if I should be
homesick for you even in heaven.
Jo could not speak, and for several minutes there
was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide. A
white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery
breast. Beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of
sadness. A little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach
‘peeping’ softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea. It came
quite close to Beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat
on a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home. Beth
smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its
small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to
be enjoyed.
Dear little bird! See Jo, how tame it is. I like
peeps better than the gulls. They are not so wild and handsome, but
they seem happy, confiding little things. I used to call them my
birds last summer, and Mother said they reminded her of me busy,
quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping
that contented little song of theirs. You are the gull, Jo, strong
and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and
happy all alone, Meg is the turtle-dove, and Amy is like the lark
she writes about, trying to get among the clouds, but always
dropping down into its nest again. Dear little girl! She’s so
ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high
she flies, she never will forget home. I hope I shall see her again,
but she seems so far away.
She is coming in the spring, and I mean that you
shall be all ready to see and enjoy her. I’m going to have you well
and rosy by that time, began Jo, feeling that of all the changes in
Beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no
effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful
Beth.
Jo, dear, don’t hope any more. It won’t do any good.
I’m sure of that. We won’t be miserable, but enjoy being together
while we wait. We’ll have happy times, for I don’t suffer much, and
I think the tide will go out easily, if you help me.
Jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with
that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to Beth.
Part Two: Chapter 40
Death of Beth:
When the first bitterness was over, the family
accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping
one another by the increased affection which comes to bind
households tenderly together in times of trouble. They put away
their grief, and each did his or her part toward making that last
year a happy one.
…
One night when Beth looked among the books upon her
table, to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness
that was almost as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of
her old favorite, Pilgrim’s Progress, she found a little paper,
scribbled over in Jo’s hand. The name caught her eye and the blurred
look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.
Poor Jo! She’s fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to
ask leave. She shows me all her things, and I don’t think she’ll
mind if I look at this, thought Beth, with a glance at her sister,
who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the
minute the log fell apart.
MY BETH Sitting patient in the shadow ‘Till the
blessed light shall come, a serene and saintly presence Sanctifies
our troubled home. Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows Break like
ripples on the strand Of the deep and solemn river Where her willing
feet now stand. O my sister, passing from me, Out of human care and
strife, Leaving me, as a gift, those virtues Which have beautified
your life. Dear, bequeath me that great patience Which has power to
sustain A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit In its prison-house of
pain. Give me, for I need it sorely, Of that courage, wise and
sweet, Which has made the path of duty Green beneath your willing
feet. Give me that unselfish nature, That with charity devine Can
pardon wrong for love’s dear sake Meek heart, forgive me mine! Thus
our parting daily loseth Something of its bitter pain, And while
learning this hard lesson, My great loss becomes my gain. For the
touch of grief will render My wild nature more serene,Give to life
new aspirations, A new trust in the unseen. Henceforth, safe across
the river, I shall see no more. A beloved, household spirit Waiting
for me on the shore, Hope and faith, born of my sorrow, Guardian
angles shall become, And the sister gone before me By their hands
shall lead me home.
Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines
were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to Beth’s face,
for her one regret had been that she had done so little, and this
seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her
heath would not bring the despair she feared. As she sat with the
paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo
started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth
slept.
Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this
and read it. I knew you wouldn’t care, have I been all that to you,
Jo? She asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.
OH, Beth, so much, so much! And Jo’s head went down
upon the pillow beside her sister’s.
Then I don’t feel as if I’d wasted my life. I’m not
so good as you make me, but I have tried to do right, And now, when
it is too late to begin to do better, it’s such a comfort to know
that someone loves me so much, and feels as if I’d helped them.
More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to
think I couldn’t let you go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t
lose you, that you’ll be more to me than ever, and death can’t part
us, though it seems to….
So the spring days came and went, the sky grew
clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and
the birds came back in time to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a
tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that led her all her
life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through the Valley of
the Shadow, and gave her up to God.
Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable
words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those
who have sped many parting soul know that to most the end comes as
naturally and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the ‘tide went out
easily’, and in the dark before dawn, on the bosom where
She had drawn her first breath; she quietly drew her
last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.
With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and
sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar
again, seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon
replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long,
and feeling with reverent joy that to their darlings death was a
benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.
When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was
out, Jo’s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird
sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed
freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a
benediction over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of
painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their
tears, and thanked God that Beth was well at last.
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