The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  THE NEXT DAY, May awaited the arrival of her new friends next to the lions in front of the National Gallery.

  “My, my, you look like a grand adventuress, posed next to those mighty beasts,” giggled Violet when they arrived.

  “I’m on a grand adventure. This marks the first time I’ve been on my own.” And it was true. In all of her thirty-three years, she had never been so far from home all by herself. London offered complete freedom.

  Violet ran a hand along the stone lion’s side, as if petting the live beast. “I’ve never been on my own. It must be exciting for you.”

  “It is,” said May, and she smiled brightly as she watched Violet take her hand off the lion and place it on her husband’s forearm. Traveling alone was something she never would have done several years earlier, but more and more women were beginning to undertake tours of Europe on their own, and she loved doing exactly as she pleased. But it would be nice to have a travel partner. She asked Mr. Keith about the logistics of securing her copyist pass, but while he spoke, she watched how her two new friends always remained side by side as if secured by an invisible thread. When they entered the National Gallery, Mr. Keith carefully steered his wife around the uneven cracks in the stone stairs. Violet looked up at him with a grateful smile and leaned into him, brushing some dust off the arm of his jacket.

  “What do you paint?” May asked Violet as they wandered through the Dutch room.

  “I specialize in watercolors. While my husband seeks out heroic landscapes, I prefer still lifes, the occasional portrait, and smaller landscapes, but I mostly focus on teaching. I’m a private painting tutor for the Earl of Hampton’s daughters.” Violet paused while she measured her thoughts. “I’m not as ambitious as my husband, but I love to paint. My family came to San Francisco from Philadelphia—my poor mother never recovered from the displacement of being in a chaotic settlement of miners, railroad workers, and financiers. She taught my sisters and me to paint. I think it was her way to reconnect with the culture she felt we lost during our move.”

  “You’ve never seen a happier woman than my mother-in-law when I announced Violet and I were going to study art in Europe. She was delighted by the prospect of her daughter going somewhere civilized.”

  “Oh, I think she was overjoyed before that. She was thrilled when I wanted to marry a man who’d prefer to paint a landscape, rather than blast a railway through it.”

  Mr. Keith entwined his arm through his wife’s. “And Miss Alcott, what kind of art do you create?”

  Even after being a student for several years, she seemed to be at a loss for how to explain herself compared to the two bona fide artists in front of her. “I’m here to study J. M. W. Turner,” she said. “My instructor in Boston introduced me to his work, and I’ve been captivated by the English Romanticists’ emphasis on light and color. I thought I’d go to Paris to study art, but somehow I landed on London when I planned the trip—it felt a little closer to home.”

  To her surprise, the Keiths both nodded thoughtfully and accepted her answer. Perhaps she was not the amateur she believed herself to be.

  SHE CONTINUED TO see the Keiths and met new friends along the way. There were a few women in her boardinghouse whom she befriended. A watercolor workshop, nearby in Bayswater, introduced her to a couple of other American women studying painting. When she wasn’t working, May gathered her newly found companions and shopped along Knightsbridge, ogled at Madame Tussaud’s wax figures in Piccadilly, took in the spectacle of panoramic painting in Burford’s, and even went farther afield to Windsor and Stratford-upon-Avon—but as summer passed and cooler weather prevailed, she returned to more serious work. Her explorations focused upon studying at the National Gallery where she developed a routine. After walking through the Italian and Dutch rooms to study the masters, she would settle down amidst the extensive J. M. W. Turner collection. There was a small gallery, in particular, in which the paintings hung low enough to comfortably allow her to create detailed copies. The sublime composition of Turner’s watercolors and oils appealed to May, and she embarked upon spending the cold months of fall and winter capturing his bold expressive use of color.

  Although Louisa’s money served May’s needs, she longed to produce income from her art, but didn’t know where to start. To ask the Keiths for advice was not an option; she couldn’t think of a more embarrassing question. Because of her sister’s extensive collection of friends and associates in London, she could have written to Louisa for help, but she didn’t want to enlist her sister’s assistance either. She remembered years earlier when Louisa had sent out story after story to different magazines, looking for someone to accept her work for publication, and although a few acceptances had trickled in, mostly she was told no. But Louisa persevered. Yes, Louisa had crumpled up the rejection notices and thrown them at the wall in a cold fury, but she kept writing, kept submitting, kept going, yet it all was private. No one called her work terrible in print for everyone to read. When May closed her eyes, she could still feel the same paralyzing sense of disappointment that overwhelmed her after her Little Women illustrations were panned. She did not want to go through that again. How could she put her work out into the world and risk the pain of having her creations mocked?

  She wanted to be independent but feared she did not have the fortitude to withstand denunciation of her talent again. Even after having been in London for nearly a year, she was no closer to selling her work than when she arrived. Every night she took her bank ledger out from where she kept it tucked into her sewing kit. After subtracting her day’s expenses, she would carefully pen in a new sum on the balance line. The shrinking number seemed like sand running through an hourglass marking her diminishing time in England.

  Chapter 23

  On a dreary March day, May took an omnibus to visit the National Gallery. A churlish wind forced itself down the avenues. Rain threatened. Foghorns on the Thames bellowed in the distance. The persistent dampness of the city made her knee joints ache in the morning. Since she arrived, had her boots ever been dry? Truly dry? A moldering smell of mildew permeated the museum, sending her spirits even lower. She hoped the Pre-Raphaelites and their rich use of color would distract her from the cold, but instead, the dim light made the paintings look garish.

  Disheartened, she dragged herself to the Liber Studiorum gallery, filled with hundreds of Turner paintings, and blew on her hands in a futile attempt to warm them as she pulled out a few of her copies to work on. In the outside pocket of her satchel, she found the pair of gray knit fingerless gloves Anna had sent her at Christmastime and put them on. The smell of tobacco made her turn to see a man looking over her shoulder.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was admiring your work,” he said. Steel-rimmed spectacles twinkled under a shag of heavy dark eyebrows. He was reminiscent of a dignified stone statue, chipped away at by rain and splotched with moss, but with a handsome foundation remaining. “I’m John Ruskin.” He extended a large hand. May, reluctant to be disturbed, reached out hesitatingly to take it, but then wanted to hold on to it longer for its unexpected warmth. “Your ability to replicate Turner’s use of ambient coloring to imply space is impressive. Do you have any other studies with you? I’m the Trustee of J. M. W. Turner’s art collection here at the National Gallery.”

  Good heavens. Now she remembered the significance of John Ruskin. While back in Boston, she had studied both of this man’s heavy volumes of Modern Painters, in addition to several of his articles and drawing instruction manuals. The man was iconic within the world of art. She introduced herself, telling him she had studied with William Morris Hunt in Boston.

  He nodded over the copies she handed to him. “You make Mr. Hunt proud with this work. The attention to detail, paired with the sense of spontaneity, is exquisite. Would you like me to show you how to access the archives for more of Mr. Turner’s work?” Still holding on to her papers, he beckoned May to join him.

  May grabbed her satchel. He led
her down endless flights of stairs into the bowels of the museum. Low fires glowed in the dank storage rooms to ward off mold. Long halls seemed to lead deeper into the center of the earth. Gaping jaws of empty frames leaned up against the walls. Their footsteps echoed along the stone floors of the underground warren.

  Finally they reached a room and entered. Mr. Ruskin introduced May to a small man whose bald pate winked in the low light as he led her toward cabinets towering in the shadows, filled with Turner’s work. She selected an assortment of watercolors, mezzotints, and lithographs and followed Mr. Ruskin back up to the daylight of the main galleries. Aboveground again, she blinked and wondered if her trip to plumb the depths below the building had all just been a strange dream.

  “I feel as though you’re a genie.” May laughed. “I was having the most horrid morning until you introduced yourself. Our adventure has felt magical, but I must confess that I’ve been so entranced I’m not sure I’ll be able to find my way back there when I’m done with these.” She nodded to the prints in her hand.

  Mr. Ruskin smiled and pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket to jot down a small map for her. “I’m always delighted to make the acquaintance of artists who share my appreciation for Mr. Turner. And now I would like to make a request of you. May I borrow these copies for my students to study? I’m unable to take Turner originals from this building, but your reproductions are masterly. My students could learn from these.”

  May stared at him in surprise. “Of course, I’m delighted by your request. It’s an honor.” An idea struck her. “Do you know of any dealers here in London who would be interested in selling my work?”

  Mr. Ruskin lowered his head in thought, and May was about to apologize for overstepping, but he flipped over the map he sketched her and wrote down a list of names and addresses. “Your reproductions will be sought after. Tell these dealers I sent you. There’s definitely a market for your work.” He handed her his list and the map. “And these”—he nodded at her prints tucked under his arm—“will benefit my students enormously.”

  She felt a shot of pride that this serendipitous meeting occurred without any connections from anyone else. Her work spoke for itself. Despite her excitement, she managed to spend several hours working with a newfound energy before emerging from the National Gallery to find low clouds scuttling across the sky under a tentative sun. The cold whipping wind from earlier in the morning vanished, and the day, while breezy, offered spring weather again. A sense of victory made her stand straight and stride home to sort through her Turner work. She would select her best prints and visit the dealers the following day.

  LESS THAN TWENTY-FOUR hours later, May’s dreams began to pay dividends. The clack of her heels on the sidewalks along Oxford Street seemed to tap out a tune. She marched along, carrying a portfolio noticeably lighter than when she had started out in the morning. Meanwhile, the purse tucked into her satchel jangled with coins. Mr. Ruskin’s associates were all too happy to snatch up her work on consignment. Several wasted no time and bought her studies outright with some clients in mind. As an afterthought, May had placed a couple of her painted flower panels into her portfolio the evening before—the dealers took those paintings as well. All of them urged her to return with more.

  She hummed, weaving through the throngs of people around Piccadilly Circus, remembering a day the previous summer when she climbed to the top of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. Her quadriceps and chest had burned as she slogged her way up the endless narrow dank stairwell, but when she had reached the top, she leaned out from under the rim of the dome and found London stretched out underneath her in a patchwork of streets and rooftops. The height had made her mouth dry and given her vertigo, but a soaring sense of power and possibility had filled her. The same feeling returned to her now. If she kept churning out these copies to sell, she could stretch out her time in Europe well beyond the money Louisa gave her. She could support herself. And maybe go to Paris. The realization left her breathless.

  The following morning, as May placed her sketchbook into her satchel to prepare for her walk to the National Gallery, a knock at the door startled her. She opened it to find Alice Bartol jumping up and down, throwing her arms around her. Alice had sent a letter the month before hinting at an upcoming visit, but May did not expect to see her so quickly. The women fell all upon each other, stumbling back into May’s room, filling each other in on the latest news from both sides of the Atlantic.

  “I’m on my way to Paris. You must come with me,” Alice said, grabbing May’s shoulders. She went on to explain her plan to spend the summer in Villiers-le-Bel, outside of Paris, studying painting with Thomas Couture, the French master painter. May calculated the implications of leaving London. She could continue to send work to her new dealers in London, even if she moved to Paris. The three hundred dollars that remained of Louisa’s money could see her through the summer, even if she saw no income from her Turner studies—which seemed unlikely after the enthusiasm of the dealers the day before. Yes, May would go. Why not?

  While Alice immersed herself in exploring London, May decided to spend the month of April producing several more Turner studies to leave with dealers. The sales would fatten up her wallet and prepare her for the higher cost of living in Paris. With four days left before her departure, she stood in her room surrounded by piles of clothing, assessing the best way to organize the contents of her steamer trunk, when her landlady knocked on the door to deliver a piece of mail.

  March 31, 1874

  Boston

  Dearest May,

  I’m positively tickled to hear about your encounter with Mr. Ruskin. We’ve all known there’s greatness inside of you, so it’s wonderful to have it recognized by others.

  Freddy and Johnny are thriving in their new school here in Boston, but Marmee is unwell. Our move into the city has left her steeped in melancholy for she says Boston is too different—it has changed and is no longer recognizable to her. My work demands continue to pile up on me, making it impossible for me to return to Concord to reopen Orchard House for the summer.

  In short, I’m afraid you must come home. Marmee needs your companionship and care while I continue to work. You’ve had time for adventures. Now it’s your turn to care for the family.

  Love,

  Louisa

  The solid black lines of Louisa’s cursive shattered into tiny pieces as May stared at the page, reading her sister’s words over and over. Even if Louisa knew May was selling her paintings, her request would not change. May’s earnings from her art could not compete with her sister’s income. The prospect of leaving all of her progress behind devastated her.

  The demanding tone of Louisa’s letter also irritated her. She wanted to stomp her feet like a child with the unfairness of it all. But May knew she was abroad because of her sister’s money so she must comply with her wishes. Hot tears flowed down her face. Amidst all of her resentment, shame at her own selfishness washed over her. Marmee needs me. How can I put my own wants ahead of hers?

  Chapter 24

  May arrived in Boston Harbor to find the city barely recognizable. The dome of the State House, plain stone a year before, now gleamed with a fresh layer of gilded gold paint. From the edge of the Public Garden, the Back Bay rolled out in flat, even blocks of stylish new homes and shops. Springtime buds punctuated the trees with dots of bright green and added to the sense of newness in the air. Despite the aggravating circumstances of her return, May’s frustrations melted when she embraced her diminished mother in the rooms Louisa had rented for the family on Franklin Square. Over the winter, Abigail Alcott had suffered from dropsy of the brain, and the old woman’s lack of hearing, which had been worsening for years, added to her confusion. May blinked back her own tears at her Marmee’s fragility.

  After a long hug from Anna, May pulled back to find Louisa looking at her through narrowed eyes. “You’re different.”

  “I’m another year older.”

  “No, it’s more than
that.” Louisa cocked her head. “England changed you.”

  The anger toward her sister that May nursed all the way across the Atlantic now stuttered as she looked into the deep wrinkles furrowed around Louisa’s eyes.

  “We need to get you a new coiffure.” May bit her lip to keep from crying.

  “To hide my head of gray hair? Sorry, too late. You can’t make a Venus out of an old woman.” Louisa swatted May’s hip. “Get me a new hat to cover it all up instead.”

  MAY PAID A visit to the studio near Park Square that Miss Knowlton shared with Ellen Hale, another young woman from the days of Mr. Hunt’s class. There she found two large rooms; Miss Knowlton and Ellen shared one for their own work space, while the other served as the classroom. After the fire, Mr. Hunt stopped teaching and gave his classes over to Miss Knowlton. She looked exactly the same except for a couple of deeper crow’s-feet beside her eyes and frown lines, no doubt a result of her economic approach to enthusiasm. May paused next to a seascape painting of her former teacher’s and admired the vast stormy sky dominating the composition.

  “You’ve been prolific,” May said, eyeing the number of canvases leaning against the wall.

  Miss Knowlton scratched at some spilled yellow paint on the wooden table with her fingernail. She brushed it away and nodded at the cleanliness of the table before looking at May with her penetrating gaze. “Yes, I have been. The fire was the best thing that could have happened to me.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. “Don’t get me wrong. It was devastating to lose everything. But it also freed me to start over and forced me to put effort into my own work again.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I was Hunt’s shadow and depended on him for everything, but he’s never really recovered from losing his life’s work—he’s different now. The entire episode made me realize I needed to live my own life.” Miss Knowlton stared at May for an extra moment, before she turned to study her own seascape painting. “Sometimes we can surprise ourselves—I found I could do everything on my own.”