Jo March runs the story. But what of the two younger sisters? Amy, bratty, strong, overly blessed baby sister. And then -- Beth. Angelic spotlights all but flick on when the narrative turns to her. Harp strings plink in the distance. Accomplished. Bereft of anger. Denier of self. Noble. Knitter. Lover of kittens. Domestic goddess -- no, she's too demure for that. Domestic devotee. And just so shy. So introverted. So unable to imagine a life outside of her birth home. And ultimately, so unable to live.
I know the book is semi-autobiographical. The real Elizabeth died. But why did the book's Beth have to? What's fiction for? The real Abigail May died young, too. But her fictional counterpart -- Amy -- thrived through all three books in the series. The real Abigail May succeeded as an artist, briefly. The book Amy became a rich man’s wife. A serious amateur, but too rich for a profession. Still, alive in a fictional way. So how could Victorian imagination deny a happy ending to Beth, a “womanly woman” who had every Victorian virtue? Could Alcott have loved the sister but hated the incapacitating virtues?
I wanted Beth to live because she was so sweet. An animal lover. Because everyone mourned her. But also because I saw myself in her. Society found me unworthy -- in preschool, in grade school -- and don't get me started on middle school… Too fat, too inept, too tall, too graceless. Once, at a sleep away camp, our tent hosted a party with another. I took on my customary role -- the unwelcome shadow lurking at conversations’ peripheries. Then I remembered I was in my own tent, so I fetched a book. Thought I was making everyone happy by amusing myself quietly. Whoops! Apparently an outrageously rude act. Even if no one wants to talk to you anyway.
With one soul at a time, I could do well enough, but ... too many people frazzled me. Shyness was no virtue in my century. But what happened to its afflictees when it was revered? A lovely death from self-abnegation, apparently.