The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  “Thank you,” Miss Klumpke whispered.

  May collapsed in fatigue on a nearby stool. Maybe this whole thing was a younger woman’s pursuit after all. But no. She must work. This portrait would earn her a spot in the upcoming Salon, even if it killed her. For the following week, Ernest said nothing when May picked at her food and gazed out the window distractedly. She painted her Turner copies to sell while he played the violin for her in the evenings.

  On the final day the model was in the studio, May put finishing touches on the painting. The canvas was small, but she felt pleased by its intimacy. La Négresse gazed out from the canvas with a wide-eyed pensive look, and May knew she had never achieved such a sense of emotion in her work before. Monsieur Julian approached her easel on one of his stops through the Passage des Panoramas atelier. He rolled back and forth on his feet, looking at the portrait, pushing out his stomach and exhaling loudly, as he rested his thumbs behind his suspenders. Despite his pompous mannerisms, May liked the short, rotund man with his dark, pointed mustache and long, sharp nose. He had no formal art training; in fact, rumors circulated that he had spent his youth training as a gymnast. Nevertheless, he had a good eye for what could sell.

  “You’ll submit this to the Salon, oui?”

  “Yes, I’ll purchase a frame for it when I leave today.”

  “C’est bon. Please, attach my name and Monsieur Robert-Fleury’s. I think this stands a good chance, Madame.”

  She nodded gratefully and stepped back to look into the eyes of the girl. She could picture the slow smile that would ripple across Ernest’s face when he saw this painting. But with a fervor that surprised her, she wished she could show the portrait to Louisa. Her sister would remember the rough sketches of May’s youth, the cumbersome attempts at paintings; she would be able to see the distance May had traveled, and only she would understand May’s slogging through those years of uncertainty and self-doubt. She would know because she had traveled the same path. May understood that now. Louisa’s journey had been fraught with similar fears, magnified by the responsibility of being the sole provider for the entire family. May realized she had doubted herself for far too long and relied upon her sister. Even when she committed to supporting herself through her paintings, she had been blind to the worries and concerns threatening to overwhelm Louisa. She allowed her sister’s resentment at her departure for Europe to leave her riddled with guilt and anger instead of recognizing it for what it was: a call for help. They had all taken Louisa for granted, May thought as she ran a rag over the bristles of her brushes and pulled it away to see the muddy blend of ocher, cadmium yellow, and burnt sienna bleeding across the white cloth. Although she did not know exactly how to clean up the mess with her sister, she knew she needed to. Louisa needed her.

  Chapter 41

  A battered envelope with a Parisian postmark arrived in Meudon in late April. May opened it to find an official notice that La Négresse had been accepted into the Salon of 1879. She tacked the letter below her watercolor of Orchard House in her little studio and stood back to look at them both. Somehow she had known her painting would be accepted—it represented everything she had been working toward. She rubbed at her two fingers, both missing fingernails as a result of carelessly hammering crates to pack up artwork for her dealers. This was the type of accident that happened after spending too many long nights painting her work to sell, but it was all worth it—she had managed to scrape together the money to pay for her studio fees.

  She attended Salon Opening Day in May with Ernest, wearing a pale blue spring suit of woven jacquard silk restyled from one of her older dresses. As she attended to her toilette in the morning, queasiness made her drop her hands from arranging her hair. She sat down on the side of the bed, inhaling and exhaling deeply, waiting for the waves of nervousness to pass. After a few minutes, she was able to resume her preparations.

  The sun was shining, though a cool wind whipped at women’s hat ribbons and their new Worth gowns as they paraded along the gardens in front of the Palais. Opening Day at the Salon coincided with the first day of the social season, prompting all of Paris to turn out for the grand show in haute couture. The couple forged their way through the masses swarming the front steps. A dull headache pounded at the back of May’s skull, but the sight of Mary Cassatt in the entrance distracted her. The two women embraced. May introduced Ernest.

  “You must be terribly proud of your bride,” Mary said, holding May’s hand tightly within her own.

  May laughed, as she held the hands of both Ernest on one side and Mary’s on her other. “We’ve been married for over a year now. I don’t think we can call me his bride forever. Now I’m just his wife.”

  “The glow will never vanish; you’ll always be my bride.” Ernest grinned at May. “Miss Cassatt, I hear your show is going well.”

  “It is, much to my relief,” Mary said. “Leaving the Salon exhibitions to show my work with the Impressionists has certainly not been any less stressful. I’ve traded worrying about getting into the Salon for worrying about the public coming to see us. But this year, people are finally beginning to accept our work. When I stopped in yesterday, the gallery was actually crowded.”

  “And the critics are catching up. Le Figaro wrote a positive review.” May beamed at her friend, knowing how Mary suffered from critics’ barbs, despite her insistence on aligning herself with the controversial Impressionists.

  “Oh, May, what would I do without your optimism?” Mary squeezed May’s arm and smiled shyly. “The review wasn’t exactly positive, but it wasn’t murderous either. So, that’s an improvement.”

  The trio followed the throngs of people along the corridors of the Salon. Again, May’s painting enjoyed a prime spot on the eye line, and they parked themselves by her work. May enjoyed the deluge of congratulations from all of her friends and acquaintances who were in attendance. Miss Klumpke, Monsieur Krug, Monsieur Robert-Fleury, Monsieur Julian—all made their way to May and complimented her on the strength of her portrait.

  Even Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff came through the show with a retinue of society types following in her wake. “Here. This is the American I was speaking of.” Half a dozen women, all in colorful silk dresses, swarmed in front of May like butterflies. “This artist creates work that will brighten your walls. Madame Nieriker, hand them your cards.” May smiled and chatted briefly with the potential clients, for once, happy to comply with an order from the woman.

  “May, you look peaked,” said Mary. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so. My head hurts, but I think it’s because I’ve overtaxed myself dreadfully in the last few weeks.”

  Mary squeezed her hand and smiled, but continued to look over at her friend with concern until the two women spotted Jane Gardner, dressed in crimson, jostling her way through the crowd toward them.

  Bright-eyed and breathless, Jane said, “I’ve been looking all over for you two. I’m going to start a women’s cooperative art studio over in Montparnasse. Want to join me? There are so many American women here to study art now, I think there are enough of us that it could work.”

  May nodded. “Why, that’s a brilliant idea—Julian’s is packed to the gills. I’ll spread the word.”

  “Perfect.” Jane clapped her hands together. “These newly arrived doe-eyed girls need all the help they can get. There are too many thieving studio owners all too eager to bilk them at every turn.”

  May took in Jane’s sparkling eyes and gave a knowing smile. “Your spirits have improved since I last saw you.”

  “Work is going well. I have a painting here, too.”

  May cocked her head. “Anything else?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s because I have happy news. I’m engaged.” Jane spoke quickly with a sheepish expression.

  “You are? Who’s the lucky fellow?” May asked.

  “Bouguereau,” Jane said, pausing for a moment to enjoy the surprise registering on both women’s faces. Seeing Mary’s confusion, she a
dded. “Monsieur Bouguereau, the master painter.” Satisfaction bloomed across her narrow face.

  “I’m aware of who Bouguereau is,” Mary replied coldly, but her piqued countenance gave way to bewilderment. “But I didn’t realize . . .”

  “I thought his mother had forbidden him from marrying you,” May asked.

  “She did. But”—Jane fanned a show program in front of her face and gave May a wink—“we’re merely engaged, not married. He’s a grown man, for God’s sake, he doesn’t need to do everything the spiteful witch says. The ol’ harridan will die off soon anyway.”

  May giggled. “You take the cake.”

  “Thank you, I’ll accept that as a compliment. Now I’ve got to go visit with clients, but I’ll send you a note with more on this co-op idea.” Jane smiled before allowing herself to be swept away by the crowds.

  “I confess, I didn’t see that coming. Did you?” Mary wore a perplexed expression and studied the ground before looking at May. Her eyes widened. “We need to get you outside. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Small black flecks had appeared in May’s vision; she furiously tried to blink them away as Mary steered May toward Ernest. The sweet smell of cigars wafting through the air made May’s stomach flip. Ernest took one look at his wife, grabbed her other arm, and pushed a path through the crush of bodies until they were outside. Slumped on a park bench, May inhaled the cool breeze in an attempt to settle her stomach. She was aware of Ernest and Mary talking, but closed her eyes to focus on breathing through the nausea burning in her throat. She swallowed. Their voices rumbled quietly above her.

  “May, I’m sorry, but we’re going home,” Ernest said. May opened her eyes to find him crouched down, looking at her in concern. “Can you walk?”

  With each forced nod of her head, her world spun.

  Ernest helped to lift her to her feet, and the two of them followed Mary, who ran ahead to hail a carriage. Though it took only a quarter of an hour, the train ride home was lost in a fog for May.

  THE NEXT MORNING, she awoke to find Ernest sitting beside her, reading the paper. The shutters were open and sunlight poured in, striping the planked floors. Her stomach felt tight and empty.

  “Good morning. Don’t get up.” Ernest shut the paper and snapped it into its folds. “Sabine will bring up something to eat. How do you feel?”

  “I’m not sure.” May wriggled herself into sitting higher in the bed. “What happened?”

  “You fainted yesterday, remember? When we got home, you went straight to sleep, but I had Dr. Cotnoir come over to check on you. He’s due back today and wondered . . .” Ernest stopped and flushed. “The doctor wondered if you could be . . . expecting.” He leaned forward and took her hand in his.

  “Expecting?” May’s brain labored to string together the meaning of Ernest’s words. Expecting what? But then she realized the reason for Ernest’s pink cheeks. She thought back. Consumed with preparing for the Salon, she could not remember her monthly courses since . . . since when? She held her breath. Excitement fluttered around her chest just as someone knocked at the door. Sabine ushered in Dr. Cotnoir.

  Ernest kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be outside.” He left her with the fatigued-looking elderly doctor, shutting the door behind him. May could only imagine that the half-stunned, half-thrilled look on Ernest’s face mirrored her own.

  The doctor came to May’s bedside and looked down at her. He gestured at her to raise her wrist, so he could take her pulse. In heavily accented English, he said, “So I am correct? You are expecting?”

  May nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  He sighed. “This is your first?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are . . . how would you say . . . aged?”

  “I am older.”

  “Old. Yes.”

  May closed her eyes for a moment. Older. Not old. She wanted to correct him, but lacked the energy.

  “You must be careful. No more Paris. Rest at home.” He nodded at her sternly to ensure she understood.

  “Oui.”

  “Bien.” He paused for a moment to look at her one more time before tipping the brim of his hat and making his way out of the room. When she was alone, May picked at the fold of the chenille coverlet in front of her, hoping the unease inside her would dissipate. She wished for her family, but most of all, she missed Louisa. She rubbed her hand in circles over her belly. This baby offered a fresh start, an opportunity to mend the rift between them.

  When Ernest came back into the bedroom to check on her, she asked for some paper and a pen. “I need to write a few letters. Violet won’t believe the coincidence in all of this. I told you that she’s expecting a baby at the end of summer?”

  “You did. It all seems preordained—two babies at the same time, but on opposite sides of the world.” He reached down to cup May’s cheek in his palm.

  “I know, perhaps someday they will be best friends, too. Or maybe if one of us has a girl and the other a boy, they’ll marry. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Indeed, my dear. Rest a bit. I’ll bring you some paper and a pen.”

  “Thank you,” May said as Ernest turned to walk out the door. “Ernest?” He stopped and looked back at her. “I love you.”

  His eyes crinkled over his smile and returned to her side to kiss her tenderly. “I’ll be back.”

  MAY MANAGED TO get down a small breakfast and found herself alone again. She sat up and started writing. Outside, carriage wheels clattered along the ruts of the road in front of the house and the bleating of a herd of sheep from the neighboring field echoed off the plaster walls of her bedroom. None of this disturbed May from her task, and the words came easily. She hadn’t been aware of it, but now she realized her mind had been composing this letter for over a year. Perhaps even longer. Her hand moved in steady precision across the page without faltering. She finished, put the letter aside, and closed her eyes.

  She fell asleep and dreamt of floating, soaring through the air, looking down on the landscape below, with a sense of freedom and lightness that amazed her. She bobbed above the trees, and their rustling leaves whispered back the words from her letter to Louisa.

  Over the years, you’ve shown endless generosity and devotion to all of us. It shames me that I’ve allowed my own concerns to obscure the many sacrifices you’ve made. As unromantic as this is to admit, your money has done what affection alone could never do. You’ve delighted in making us all happy in your own way although much of your own life and health has been given in exchange. Thank you.

  The thank you repeated itself like sighs. She finally felt the deadening weight of regret lifted and could not remember feeling so unencumbered. Through forgiveness, she was free.

  Chapter 42

  The pungent smell of the turpentine nauseated May. Varnish. Clean paper. Colored pencil shavings. All of the scents that once welcomed her to work now made her stomach turn. Despite landing several commissions since the Salon, she was unable to paint, or even sketch, yet Jane Gardner’s cooperative studio idea lodged itself in her mind. The thought of American girls looking for assistance had sparked an idea. She pondered creating a guidebook for women who were interested in studying art in Europe. Over the years, she had often lamented that no such resource existed. Why not write it herself?

  July 11, 1879

  Concord

  Dearest May,

  Poor girl, I’m sorry to hear you’ve been under the weather. You’ve always been the most stalwart Alcott sister, so I cannot even imagine you incapacitated. But I must confess to being a bit pleased by your current state if it leads us back into a creative collaboration. It won’t be the same as us working side by side at the Bellevue Hotel, but it shall have to suffice. Send me a draft of your book, and I’ll be happy to send back any comments.

  Mr. Niles agrees there is definitely a market for your idea with so many swarms of women descending upon Europe in hopes of becoming the next Tintoretto or Rembrandt. He w
ill be all too happy to publish it for you and suggested we consider serializing it as a newspaper column first. I’ll continue to make inquiries.

  You’ve always been a person who looks for opportunity. This is a fine project.

  Yours,

  Louisa

  Encouraged by her sister’s letter, May pushed a wrought-iron table and chair into the shady nook of their garden and started scratching out ideas onto paper. She could write about England, France, and Italy and her focus would be on telling women how to live and study art abroad. When Sabine left for the day and Ernest returned home late in the evening, May still sat in the waning summer light amid scattered white papers, absorbed in her project.

  Ernest leaned over her shoulder and chuckled. “What are you working on?”

  “I can’t just sit here staring at the wallpaper all day long until this baby is born. I’ve decided to try my hand at writing a guide for women on how to go about studying art in Europe.” May held up a handful of completed pages. “My goodness, it’s rather hard, but it feels wonderful to be so consumed in a project again.”

  Ernest reached over, took her right hand in his, and rubbed at her palm and fingers. “Sometimes I would need this after playing the violin for too long. It’s good to see you feeling energized.” He bent over to kiss the top of her head. “Let’s go inside.”

  May giggled as she let him pull her to her feet, and they both bent over to gather all of her papers. “Louisa writes only one draft when she works.” May shook her head. “I’m afraid I shall have to write a few versions of everything. But I don’t mind; it’s fun. It’s just like talking to a group of friends.”

  Summer progressed, and May could track the days passing by both her growing manuscript and the increasing roundness of her belly. Often as she sat in the cool shade of the stone wall and listened to Sabine cooking in the kitchen, she would rest her hands on the swell of the baby and feel the fluttering of life inside of her. Cataloging and reviewing all of her stops and adventures of the last ten years left her swimming in fond memories. She remembered climbing the round tower at the ruined English castle of Kenilworth, shopping for oil paints in the dusty cabinets of No. 4 quai des Oeuvres in Paris, and admiring the picturesque shepherds following their herds amongst the high slopes of Albano. May smiled as she wrote the chapters of her book. The brisk exchange of letters back and forth with her sister also helped to keep her spirits up.