by Elise Hooper
Relieved to have Miss Knowlton’s eyes off her, May said, “I suppose that makes sense. Still, it must have been—”
“Mr. Hunt took up all the air in my life. I needed to step away.” She tapped her fingers on the table. “So, show me what you created in London.”
After May spread out her Turner copies, Miss Knowlton studied them carefully, moving from piece to piece, her nose practically touching the art. “With your enthusiasm and all you know about Turner, you would be a fine instructor. If you ever want to teach, I can furnish you with a list of students from my own waiting list. It could be a good way for you to start.”
“Thank you, but I don’t know if I’m ready to teach anything. I’m still learning so much.”
Miss Knowlton frowned and waved May’s words away with an impatient toss of her hand. “We’re all students. This is one of the beauties of being an artist: there’s always more to learn.”
May opened her mouth to say something but closed it. “Well, thank you. I need to move my family to Concord for the summer. My mother is sick. But I’ll keep your offer in mind. Maybe I could teach in the fall.” She placed her sketches and paintings back in her portfolio, but Miss Knowlton put her hand on one.
“The blue in this sky seems endless.” Miss Knowlton stared at it. “The vast stretches of deep color are beautiful and imply a real feeling of possibility. This emotional depth to your work represents something worth pursuing. It almost feels like this isn’t quite a copy of Turner’s, but maybe it reveals something of your own?”
“It’s so small, I . . .”
“Paintings don’t always have to be big to pack in meaning.”
May nodded and thanked her but felt relieved to walk outside and get out from under Miss Knowlton’s intensity. The idea of watching everything she owned go up in flames terrified her. She remembered watching the flames dancing down Franklin Street. If anything, she would have bet Mr. Hunt would have been able to right himself quickly, and Miss Knowlton would have been the one left bereft. How did she manage to see the tragedy as an opportunity? She considered her own situation, pondering how she could convert the setback of finding herself back in Boston into a chance to start afresh. She was tired of the power Louisa’s money exerted over her. She needed to work on creating a path back to Europe. A path of her own. Louisa’s command over May could be reduced if she supported herself by selling her own work. Yes, that was it—by fall, May would return to Boston to begin making some money from her art. The validation of selling her art made her feel as though she was finally an artist, an equal to her sister. Even if the income she made from her paintings was a pittance compared to Louisa’s royalty checks, it was a start. Furthermore, it was time for the two sisters to stop passing the responsibility of Marmee and Father back and forth. They could share it.
When she returned back to the family’s rooms on Franklin Square, May found Louisa at work in her bedroom. She wasted no time getting to her purpose and said, “In the fall, I’ve decided to return to Boston and join you at the Bellevue. I’ll take the room next door to ours to use as a studio and teach art classes in it, too.”
Louisa placed her pen down, looked up from her manuscript of Eight Cousins, and rubbed her eyes. “You need to take care of Marmee and Father in Concord.”
“I will. I’ll get them settled this summer, but I cannot stay away from my work for longer than that. Right before I received your last letter in London, I sold some paintings to dealers. I’m going to arrange to continue working with them, even while I’m here in America. And Helen Knowlton offered to send me some art students. So, you see, I’m making money from my art. After summer, we can share managing affairs in Concord.” May tapped her sister’s desk as she spoke. Saying the words aloud put her plan into motion.
Louisa folded her arms across her chest and regarded her sister. “Very well, I suppose your proposal sounds fair enough. I’ll pay for the extra room at the Bellevue if you want.”
“Thank you, but no, I’ll do it on my own.”
“Will it be loud with students coming and going at all hours?”
“Your work won’t be disturbed.”
“I suppose some artistic types nearby could be interesting.” Louisa picked her pen back up and resumed writing with her head bowed over her manuscript. “And congratulations on the sales of your paintings, although I fear you’ll discover income from selling your art and income gained from scrubbing soiled linens all begins to feel the same.”
“You don’t really mean that.”
“What makes you so sure? If money is your objective, selling is selling, no matter what the product. You have to have an objective beyond dollars to make it all mean something more.”
“Are you just writing to make money now?”
“I used to think no, but now I’m not always so sure.” Louisa lifted her head to stare out the window beside her desk. The incoming light showed the sagging skin beneath her eyes and her thin, gray lips. “Having you nearby may do me some good,” she said softly.
Chapter 25
Two years passed. From her room at the Bellevue Hotel, May taught classes and sold her Turner studies while watching Louisa write in the room next door—Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom, and Silver Pitchers all went to press. May marveled at Louisa’s ability to wring as much income as possible from her writing. Louisa would first publish a story as a serial in a magazine and then repackage the same story as a novel and sell it again, essentially doubling her money on each writing project. America and England’s appetite for her stories showed no sign of abating.
All kinds of offers poured in for Louisa now. When Mr. Niles came to her with a seven-hundred dollar advance to write a temperance novel, Louisa chuckled and agreed. Though she had never been a teetotaler, Louisa accepted the deal and suddenly took up various compatible causes, becoming anti-tobacco and anti-corset. When she preached about the anti-earring crusade one evening at supper, May decided things had gone too far.
“How is it A. M. Barnard is now against earrings? As I recall, that writer wrote about some fairly scandalous topics: hashish, suicide, obsession . . .”
“A. M. Barnard is completely opposed to any goody-goody causes, but Louisa May Alcott attracts anyone peddling virtue and fully embraces wholesome fare.”
“Well, I’m not giving up any of my jewelry for your do-gooder causes. I miss A. M. Barnard.”
Louisa looked down at the spread of plates of food in front of them. “So do I.”
The two ate the rest of their meal in subdued silence. May reviewed the tasks for the day ahead: paint two Turner copies in the morning, teach a drawing class for beginners at one o’clock, crate and deliver three canvases to be shipped to London, and then pop over to the art supply shop to refresh her supply of watercolors. She was tempted to squeeze in a lecture titled “Using Photography as a Lens to Understand Anatomy” by a young Philadelphian painter, Mr. Thomas Eakins, but there wouldn’t be enough time to arrive at the Athenaeum’s art gallery by the appointed hour.
It amazed her to think of how much she could do in one day. Balancing her teaching and her own painting provided just enough tension in her day to keep her productive. And the income! She had splurged the previous weekend and taken a trip with her friend Sarah Whitman to Magnolia to visit and paint in another woman’s studio overlooking the sea. The trio had eaten lunch in a lovely tearoom near the beach’s boardwalk, and May had enjoyed a slice of lemon cake and admired the powdered sugar dusting the top of the dessert like September frost. She’d eaten the entire slice, content in knowing she could afford the trip on her own.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you, I’ve been invited to New York,” Louisa said, ladling some chocolate pudding into a dessert bowl. “Vassar College asked me to speak at their ten-year anniversary. I’m thinking of spending the winter in New York City for a change of scenery.”
May stared at her sister openmouthed as the implications of her sister’s remarks sank in.
“Yo
u’ll be fine holding down the fort in Concord on your own, right?”
May felt as though her chair’s legs were folding underneath her. Everything, all of her carefully built plans began to slide away. “But what about our arrangement?” she spluttered. “I can’t live here on my own, take care of Marmee and Father in Concord, and work enough to save any money. And I certainly cannot work from Concord.”
Louisa’s tone became sharp. “Dearest girl, it’s not easy—trust me, if there’s anyone who knows this, it’s me—but you’ll figure out a way.”
“But this isn’t fair at all.”
“Fairness is a concept that has always eluded me. It’s not fair that when I finally have the means to enjoy life, my health suffers and I’m practically bedridden. It’s not fair that I’ve been working like the devil lately. Now, please, you do not want me to continue with my list of life’s injustices. This Dr. Miller in New York City—his hotel offers treatments that could help with my neuralgia.”
May’s appetite vanished as the image of how she would have to shift her life sharpened into focus. Louisa continued talking about the logistics of when she planned to leave, and May nodded stiffly, barely able to track her sister’s words. May’s eyelid began to pulse as she questioned how she could continue to run her classes in Boston from Concord. And then there was Marmee; although she expressed happiness at returning to life in Concord, her capabilities dwindled with every passing month. Gout, deafness, a persistent cough. With fall and winter approaching, the pressures of family responsibilities on May would only increase.
With Louisa finally silent and the last spoonful of pudding in her mouth, May rose and excused herself. It took all of her effort to contain her frustration. She pictured herself sweeping her arms along the table and hurling all of the dishes to the floor. The satisfying smashing of china practically rang in her ears. But instead, she put one foot in front of the other and walked to their bedroom and shut the door behind her gently, before dropping on her bed. She lay on her back, staring at the shadows swimming across the ceiling and tried to think past the anger pooling inside her.
ALTHOUGH IT WAS far from easy, May managed to juggle her affairs from Concord through the fall and winter, helped by the fact that Miss Knowlton decided to take several months off from teaching to write a book about Mr. Hunt and offered May her classes and the use of her studio. It was the perfect opportunity for May to establish herself in the city, and she became a regular on the train, traveling back and forth between Concord and Boston. One warm early June afternoon, May let herself into Helen’s teaching studio after taking her class on a trip to the Athenaeum to view a painting exhibit, but she paused in the entrance, sensing something was different. Cigarette smoke curled in the still, stuffy air around her, yet she wasn’t expecting anyone.
Through the haze, a vaguely familiar figure became visible. Jane Gardner leaned against the window, looking down onto the street below, but turned at the sound of the door opening.
Jane grinned and held her cigarette out to the side. “Well, Miss Alcott, hello.”
“You remember me this time.”
“Ha, I try to make it my job to remember every face I meet. You never know when someone will turn out to be useful. I hope I didn’t surprise you. I had dinner with Helen last night, and she loaned me a key to get in, so I could get a little work done.” Miss Gardner exhaled a long stream of smoke through her nostrils. “So, you’re still here in Boston?”
May dropped her paint box on a table and wove her fingers together, stretching them out in front of her. Fatigue rolled down her spine, and she wilted onto a stool behind her. “I went to London to study Turner for a year and have been able to cultivate a brisk business of selling my Turner copies. Now I’m here trying to cobble out a living from teaching and selling my work.”
Miss Gardner squinted her eyes through the smoke, sighed, and stubbed out her cigarette in an empty paint can. “So, the copy business keeps you busy?”
The copy business. May swallowed as she noted the fact that Jane pointedly refrained from calling it painting. “It does. I’d like to get back to developing my own original work, but I’ve been so busy keeping up with business that I can barely find time to think, but really, somehow I’m bored. It makes no sense—how can I be bored when I’m always in motion?” The words surprised her as they poured out of her mouth, but she knew they were true. “I think I need something more.”
“Sadly, this is often the price of selling work derived from someone else’s.” Miss Gardner folded her arms in front of her. “So? What are you doing with the money you’re earning?”
“Saving it so I can go back to Europe.”
“Do you have enough to get you across the pond? Go. Go to Paris and start working. Get established in a studio for fall. Make money as you go.” Miss Gardner smirked. “You’ll see enough there to snap you out of your boredom.”
“But it’s not that simple—” May started to tell her about her mother’s health.
“It’s never that simple, but life never gets easier. We always think it will, but it doesn’t. If you want to do something, stop clucking over it. Go. We’re not getting any younger.” Miss Gardner looked around the studio. “Damn, what time is it? I’ve got a meeting with an agent.”
May fumbled to locate her pocket watch. “Three o’clock.”
“Good, the bastard can cool his heels for a few minutes. God knows, he’s going to bleed me dry with his percentage. Bastards, all of ’em.” Miss Gardner scooped up her valise and winked at May as she swept by. “Go to Paris. You can thank me when I see you there.”
May stood frozen in her place, alone. “Bastards,” she said to the empty room, trying out the word. She liked how it felt on her tongue, how it drifted in the air with Miss Gardner’s smoke. She smiled and dragged an easel closer to the window to work. This could be the time to go. On her own. The prospect of leaving made her heart beat as though a hummingbird were trapped in her chest. She tapped a paintbrush against the side of the easel and squinted out the window into the brightness. She needed to speak with Marmee. It couldn’t wait any longer.
Chapter 26
When May returned to Orchard House that evening, she found her mother alone at the table surrounded by flannel, broadcloth, and several yards of cotton, cutting trouser legs, waistbands, shirtwaists, cuffs, and collars. At seventy-six years of age, Marmee exhibited a frailness that would have seemed inconceivable to May several years earlier. Now the planes of her skull showed underneath a thin wrinkled layer of skin that looked like crepe after it got wet and dried.
May had to restrain herself from stepping in to help as she watched Marmee struggle to keep the scissors on a straight line as she cut through some yardage of charcoal-colored flannel. “I’ve decided to make Johnny some new clothes for fall,” she said, looking to May with rheumy eyes.
“Doesn’t he have plenty of Freddy’s old clothes to wear?”
“Freddy’s awfully tough on his clothes. Johnny needs some of his own. He shouldn’t always be subjected to his older brother’s castoffs.”
May sat down at the table with Marmee and surveyed the pattern pieces in front of them. Johnny’s eleventh birthday approached at the end of the month. He increasingly resembled his father, which was both comforting and heartbreaking. His once-chubby little cheeks were slimmer, leaving him at the sweetly awkward age where his adult teeth were still too large for his young face. May pinned a pattern piece onto some cotton for a waistband, but the fabric puckered under the pattern piece.
Marmee pulled the piece over to her and inspected it close up to her eyes, before giving May a puzzled expression and handing it back to her. “You’ve gone against the grain.”
May rearranged the fabric to get the weave of the fabric lined up correctly with the pattern piece. She looked up to find her mother watching her.
“How was your trip into the city today?”
“Fine,” May said, through a mouthful of pins. They continued to p
in and cut pieces in silence. Finally, May put down two sleeve pieces and folded her hands in front of her. “I’m thinking about going to Paris.”
Marmee placed a leg panel on some yardage of broadcloth without giving any sign she had heard her daughter. May was about to repeat herself, but Marmee asked, “Is Louisa paying for this trip?”
“No, I’ve been saving all of the money from my print sales and teaching. I’ll be going on my own this time.”
“Good. I hate to see you leave, but I certainly understand why you must.”
“You do?”
“Of course. I’ve been waiting for you to do something like this for years.”
May opened her mouth, yet she did not know what to say.
“May, I admire your discipline, spirit, and creativity, but I’ve always worried about you. I’ve never been able to figure out exactly where you were going to land. Anna couldn’t wait to start a family on her own; Louisa always wanted to be alone; but you’ve always seemed to want it all. I’m glad to see you setting off on your own. This adventure could lead you to a path you never expected.”
“But I’ve been so worried about you—”
“Me? Don’t worry about me. I’m not going anywhere. I still have my tax petition war to wage against the town’s board. I also need to help Anna turn her little beasts into gentlemen. I’m here to stay.”
Nothing was holding May back except her own anxieties.
“In fact, Louisa is due to arrive shortly on the train to help me with some letters.”
“She’s coming here? Tonight? I thought she wasn’t leaving New York until next week.”
“Well, she came back early. Apparently the heat down there was too much for her, so she returned back to Boston a few days ago and took a room in a boardinghouse somewhere on Beacon Hill. You hadn’t heard from her?” When May frowned and shook her head, Marmee shrugged. “Well, with all of your racing back and forth to and from the city, I suppose it’s no wonder you missed her letter. She’s going to spend the night here and return to Boston tomorrow afternoon. She’ll be pleased by the news of your new venture.”
