“Happy Women”
Louisa May Alcott
One of the trials of woman-kind is
the fear of being an old maid. To escape
this dreadful doom, young girls rush into matrimony with a recklessness which
astonishes the beholder; never pausing to remember that the loss of liberty, happiness, and self-respect is
poorly repaid by the barren honor of being called “Mrs.” Instead of “Miss.”
Fortunately, this foolish prejudice
is fast disappearing, conquered by the success of a certain class belonging to
the sisterhood. This class is composed
of superior women who, from various causes, remain single, and devote
themselves to some earnest work; espousing philanthropy, art, literature,
music, medicine, or whatever task, taste, necessity, or chance suggests, and
remaining as faithful to and as happy in their choice as married women with
husbands and homes. It being my good
fortune to know several such, I venture to offer a little sketch of them to
those of my young countrywomen who, from choice or necessity, stand along,
seeking to find the happiness which is the right of all.
Here is L., a rich man’s daughter;
pretty, accomplished, sensible, and good.
She tried fashionable life and found that it did not satisfy her. No
lover was happy enough to make a response in her heart, and at
twenty-three she looked about her for something to occupy and interest
her. She was attracted towards the study
of medicine; became absorbed in it; went alone to
Next comes M., a brilliant, talented
girl, full of energy, ambition, and notable aspirations. Poor, yet attractive, through natural gifts
and graces, to her came the great temptation of such a girl’s life—a rich
lover; an excellent young man, but her inferior on all respects. She felt this, and so did her, but hoping
that love would make them equals, he urged his suit.
“If I loved him,” she said, “my way
would be plain, and I should not hesitate a minute. But I do not; I’ve tried, and I am sure I never can feel toward him as I
should. It is a great temptation, for I
long to cultivate my talent to help my
She made her choice, turned away
from the pleasant future laid before her, and took up her load again. With her one talent in her hand, she faced
poverty, cheerfully teaching music, year after year; hoping always, complaining
never, and finding herself a stronger, happier woman for that act: A richer
woman also; for, though the husband was lost a true friend was gained—since the
lover, with respect added to his love, said manfully, “She is right; God bless
her!”
S. is poor, plain, ungifted, and
ordinary in all things but one—a cheerful, helpful spirit, that loves its
neighbor better than itself, and cannot rest till it has proved its
sincerity. Few, so placed, would have
lived forty hard, dull years without becoming either sharp and sour, or bitter
and blue. But S. is as sweet and sunny
as a child; and, to those who know her, the personification of content. The only talent she possesses is that of loving
every helpless, suffering, forlorn and outcast creature whom she meets. Finding her round of home duties too small
for her benevolence, she became one of the home missionaries, whose reports are
never read, whose salaries are never paid of earth. Poverty-stricken homes, sick-beds, sinful
souls, and sorrowing hearts attract her as pleasure attracts other women, and
she faithfully ministers to such, unknown and unrewarded.
“I never had a lover, and I never
can have you know. I’m so plain,” she says, with a smile that is pathetic in
its humility, its unconscious wistfulness.
She is mistaken here; for there are
many to whom that plain face is beautiful, that
helpful hand very dear. Her lovers are not of the romantic sort; but old
women, little children, erring men, and forlorn girls give her an affection as
endearing and sincere as any husband could have done. Few will know her worth here, but, in the
long hereafter, I am sure S. will be blest with eternal beauty, happiness, and
love.
A. is a woman of a strongly
individual type, who in the course of an unusually varied experience has seen
so much of what a wise man has called “the tragedy of modern married life,”
that she is afraid to try it. Knowing
that for one of a peculiar nature like herself such an experiment would be
doubly hazardous, she has obeyed instinct and become a chronic old maid. Filial and fraternal love must satisfy her,
and grateful that such ties are possible, she lives for them and is
content. Literature is a fond and
faithful spouse, and the little
My sisters, don’t be afraid of the
words, “old maid,” for it is in your power t o make this a term of honor, not
reproach. It is not necessary to be a sour,
spiteful spinster, with nothing to do but brew tea, talk scandal and tend a
pocket-handkerchief. No, the world is
full of work, needing all the heads, hearts, and hands we can bring to it. Never was there so splendid an opportunity
for women to enjoy their liberty and prove that they deserve it by using it
wisely. If love comes
as it should come, accept it in God’s name and be worthy of His best blessing. If it never comes, them
in God’s name reject the shadow of it, for that can never satisfy a hungry
heart. Do not be ashamed to own the
truth—do not be daunted by the fear of ridicule and loneliness, nor saddened by the loss of a woman’s tenderest
ties. Be true to yourselves; cherish
whatever talent you possess, and in using it faithfully for the good of others
you will most assuredly find happiness for yourself, and make of life no
failure, but a beautiful success.