Chapter Text
You never liked to get
The letters that I sent.
But now you’ve got the gist
Of what my letters meant.
You’re reading them again,
The ones you didn’t burn.
You press them to your lips,
My pages of concern.
Jo arrived home with a stubborn flush to her cheek and a huff that wouldn’t be exhaled. She was angry. But mostly, she was sad. Something pricked at her heart, and it wouldn’t be rationalised away. No amount of ‘what does he know?’ and ‘my art is my own’ could ease the tension of unresolved endings.
Oh, but she’d trusted him, that Professor Bhaer. His scholarly intuition, his keen intellect, the kind weight softening his eyes. She’d wanted all of it for herself: cerebral admiration, visceral knowing, and all the damning consequences that bound man to woman, and woman to man.
None of that, he’d given her. None of that, she’d earned.
So now she was home, sustaining her heart by pouring love into her craft, hoping that love would cycle back to its source, magnified, made splendid and whole.
In the midst of idle longing and emotional restlessness, she missed Laurie, and wondered if being embraced was worth betraying her heart.
So she peeked into his mailbox, and found it empty. It made no sense for her to feel disappointed, but she did.
“He’s forgotten me,” she muttered and sulked.
Was she forgotten when he wasn’t seen? Was she unloved when she was forgotten?
So ephemeral was that sight. So unreliable. Gone the moment his eye couldn’t perceive her form.
Trudging through sludge and frost, intent on confining herself to her room so she could brood in earnest, she chanced upon the postman. He tipped his hat for her, and her lips quirked in a weak smile.
“Do you have anything for me today?” she asked, if only to acknowledge his intentional stare.
“One letter for one Miss March,” he declared, offering her a thin, weather-worn envelope.
Back in her house, she let the door click behind her and leant slowly against it, her thumb brushing against the stamp.
A letter from New York. From her dear professor.
The anger surged back in one violent gust of fiery righteousness. In that moment, she forgot his kindness. His eyes were still weighty, but now with rueful mockery.
“Why ever did you leave, Miss March?” she could almost hear him say, voice deep, lilted with a thick accent. “Without so much as a word of goodbye? That mature intellect you so favour—you reveal none of it.”
Humiliation coloured her cheeks, the flush more intense. She strode to the fireplace, inhaled very deeply, and, for a mere moment, hesitated. His eyes were kind again. But that moment elapsed, and her face was set.
The letter tumbled into the fire, now caught in a blaze. White parchment gave way to grey charcoal, embers eating away at what remained, just slowly enough for her to feel a pang of regret. But that pang was soon gone when the entire letter became no more real than a memory.
Unseen, forgotten, unloved.
Another letter came. She burnt it again.
Stubborn man, more stubborn than the flush on her cheeks.
Jo hugged her legs close to her chest and scooted closer to the fire, chasing chunks of charcoal with her eyes.
If he could look at her now, her professor, what would he see?
Would his lips twist so gravely, his hands deep in his pockets, or perhaps clasped behind his back? What burden would his eyes bear?
And would she feel small, or large?
Someone had once declared that one must be seen to exist. He was a philosopher. Or perhaps a quack. It didn’t matter. The thought stayed with her, and so did her professor’s eyes.
One day, she found a quill in her hand and a parchment on her desk, but none of her words joined together in whimsical scenes or epic tales. They were, instead, self-righteous and proud. Perhaps they were also pleading and desperate.
Dear Professor Bhaer,
The sole purpose of this letter is to acknowledge, and deny, your request for correspondence. As for my bluntness, I ask that you pardon it. I don’t intend to be rude; only firm and clear in asserting my right for creative independence. Your words of counsel are wasted on me. Spare yourself the cost of ink and postage, and limit your efforts to your pupils.
Sincerely,
Jo March
She resented the letter, but she sent it anyway.
Jo didn’t burn the next letter she received. In fact, she tore at the envelope with unseemly haste. She told herself that that was the fire of a debate in motion; that she would just as eagerly jump to defend herself with a precise and devastating counterargument to his counterargument had he been there in the flesh.
As for the dopey grin that settled on her face, or the delight that lifted her soul when she actually read his words… well, there was no excuse for either thing.
He had no counterarguments, and no desire to debate.
In fact, he was, against all rhyme and reason, kind.
Dearest Jo,
Your desire to divorce your creative output from my counsel is one that I respect and promise to abide by. Please allow me to extend my sincerest apologies again for my presumptuousness—although I suspect you have grown weary of them after all those letters.
Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit her lip, guilt blooming quickly in her chest. Oh, why had she burnt his letters? And what of the infernal curiosity that would plague her nights now!
I must confess that when I discovered your letter in my mailbox, I was beside myself with jubilation. I read your curt words and felt a sting of shame at myself for driving you away, but my jubilation never wavered. I only ever wished to know you were safe. How relieved I am to know it now, and that, if I am correct to deduce from your rebuke, you are still writing.
I lack the audacity to ask for more of your writing, be it in the form of stories you intend for yourself or the masses, or letters you intend for me (the latter part I write with a measure of shyness).
Jo huffed to herself, her grin large and endeared. She imagined him clearly in her head, an imposing, hulking figure, sheepishly fumbling with a pen, wondering if he had any right to transform a secret hope to a legible suggestion.
However, if you ever wish to ask me something, if you suspect my scholarship might be useful to your work, I will be ever so glad to provide you with answers to your queries. And if you ever wish to tell me something… I will cradle your trust with gentle hands, if you can forgive the ink stains.
Yours sincerely,
Friedrich
Her grin gentled into a smile, which in turn gave way to a contemplative frown. The smile returned. She didn’t have an answer to the questions circling her thoughts—what should I do, what do I do?—but she had a letter and a man who saw her.
Let her bask in that uncomplicated joy before she complicated things again with her ever-churning mind.