The third and penultimate round ends in a draw, a kind of mutual taming, highly sexual in nature. Sybil refuses to accompany the prince to his estate in Volnoi, and as a result Alexis abducts her, accompanying the physical act with a very purple passage: “Submit, and no harm will befall you. Accept the society of one who adores you, and permit yourself to be conquered by one who never yields — except to you.” At Volnoi the struggle ends, but not before the serfs have set fire to the estate and wounded the prince. Sybil’s wish to see her “haughty lover thoroughly subdued before I put my happiness into his keeping” is realized at last. The masterful Russian humbles himself, obeys her commands, and wins her as wife. Moreover, at her demand he frees his serfs. Victory is hers, and with the final dialogue the curtain falls:
“I might boast that I also had tamed a fiery spirit, but I am humble, and eontent myself with the knowledge that the proudest woman ever born has promised to love, honor, and —”
“Not obey you.”
And so, guided by the New England spinster Louisa May Alcott, the woman Svbil Varna tamed a tyrannical Iartar. In the power struggle betw een the sexes, surely the ultimate has been achieved.
In this quintet of tales, Louisa Alcott achieved much else as well. From her arsenal of skills she drew forth literary techniques that made an artistic craft of the sensational narrative. One thinks of the wonderful opening sentences of “A Pair of Eyes,” combining the writer’s focus upon art and the theater with the suspenseful allusion to the sought-for pair of eves. The mesmerism theme is introduced subtly but immediately, and the threads of art, the stage, and mesmerism are woven seamlessly together.
In the structure of her most complicated story, “The Fate of the Forrests,” Alcott demonstrated her skillful response to the demands of the serial. I lere, the omens of helix Stahl pose the mystery; the omens are fulfilled and the poison plot introduced; the denouement provides the explanation in the exotic I lindu theme.
In “A Double Tragedy,” the plot moves inexorably to its tragic end, each episode mounting in tension: the performance of the Spanish play; the appearance of Clotildes husband, St. John; the incident of the bouquet; the costume party; the crime of murder; Paul’s reaction to it; Clotilde’s suicide on stage in the role of Juliet.
Similarly, “Taming a Tartar” is paced to meet the requirements of the serial, its episodes steadily increasing in interest till the culmination and the victory of the heroine.
Max Erdmann, artist of the sleepw alking Lady Macbeth; Felix Stahl, “beardless, thin lipped, sharply featured,” with a face “colorless as ivory” and “eves of the intensest black”; the Tartar prince Alexis — all are colorful figures. Especially vivid are Alcott’s heroines: Ursula Forrest, who “looks like one born to live a romance” and w hose “unconscious queenliness” betrays “traces of some hidden care, some haunting memory7, or . . . that vague yet melancholy prescience w hich often marks those fore-doomed to tragic lives”; Agatha Eure, “strong-willed, imperious . . . used to command all about her”; Sybil Varna of the lustrous gray eyes and firm mouth, proud nose and chestnut hair, tamer of a Tartar. These women, joining the gallery of Alcott heroines, are all memorable creations.
Skilled too is the use made by Louisa Alcott of scenes and episodes of her life that she saw fit to entwine in these tales. A Russian baron, encountered at the Pension Victoria in Vevey, Switzerland, where she was companion to an invalid in 1865, is recognizable in the Tartar tamed bv Sybil Varna.4i A visit to Gloucester and Norman’s Woe in 1864 had literary consequences the following year when “Ariel. A Legend of the Lighthouse” was produced. This tale of a creature of the sea is set in a lighthouse on an island. On the island’s further side is a chasm, a great split in the rock on Gull’s Perch through which the sea flows. The chasm bears likeness to that deeply cut fissure in the ledge near Magnolia, Massachusetts, known as Rafe’s Chasm, a rockbound channel through which the sea rushes with tremendous force.44 What she saw, Louisa Alcott used, molding scenes and characters — along with her convictions and her furies — into the tales she told.
The connections between Alcott’s life and literature may now be further explored. Assuredly, there are intriguing queries still awaiting firm answers. Which particular performance of Macbeth induced her to pick up her pen and indite “A Pair of Eyes”? Was it indeed Fuseli’s portrait of Lady Macbeth or some other that she depicted on Max Erdmann’s canvas? Was it her own “Captive of Castile” or another Spanish play she had in mind when she wrote “A Double Tragedv” for Erank Leslie? Was she herself ever mesmerized, or did she rely simply upon the text of Dr. Theodore Leger? What initially attracted her to the dark theme of Hindu Thuggism? Was it Meadows Taylor’s triple-decker alone? Most important, what power struggles beyond father-daughter relations and the experience in domestic service — struggles thus far hidden from her biographers — did she win or lose and weave into her stories? As more of her sensational tales emerge, so too do enigmas that eall for solutions.
[43.] Louisa May Alcott, “Life in a Pension,” The Independent (7 November 1867), 2.
[44.] Although “Rafe’s Chasm is at the water’s edge in Magnolia, a section of Gloucester, and not on an island” (Marion A. Harding, Cape Ann Historical Association), it bears a striking resemblance to the chasm in “Ariel.”
Always one persistent question remains: VVhat further anonymous Aleott stories with still more varied themes lie buried in the crumbling pages of nineteenth-century periodicals, how many more graphically illustrated installments of other tales of darkness — written in secret and published without a name — await the pursuit of researcher, the delight of avid reader?
Although it may not be necessary to rewrite Alcott’s biography, it is necessary to rcw rite more radically our concept of this Concord author, this delver into dark and diverse themes, this keeper of many secrets. Her achievement, ranging from the exotic to the domestic, appears to be even grander and more varied than had been suspected. It is time it was fully recognized and reassessed.
A Note on the Texts
A DOUBLE LIFE reprints five stories written by Louisa May Aleott and published anonymously in nineteenth-century newspapers and magazines. The sources for these texts are:
“A Pair of Eyes; or, Modern Magic,” Frank Leslies Illustrated Newspaper; 24 and 31 October 1863, 69-71, 85-87.
“The Fate of the Forrests,” Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, 11, 18, and 25 February 1865, 325-326, 341-343, 362-363.
“A Double Tragedy. An Actor’s Story,” Frank Leslie's Chimney Corner; 3 June 1865, 1-3.
“Ariel. A Legend of the Lighthouse,” Frank Leslie's Chimney Corner, 8 and 15 July 1865, 81-83, 99-101.
“Taming a Tartar,” Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper; 30 November, and 7, 14, and 21 December 1867, 166-167, 186-187, 202-203, 219.
In preparing these stories for publication, we have made emendations only where the text would be obviously in error or unclear without them. For example, we have corrected obvious spelling and typographical errors, inserted words and punctuation marks for clarity, and provided missing single or double quotation marks. We have let stand nineteenth-century spellings (such as “to-day”) and inconsistencies in capitalization, hyphenation, and commas in series. We have also declined to alter such technical matters as the error in “The Fate of the Forrests” when in Part I Felix whispers “three words” in Kate’s ear and in Part II tells Ursula that they were “‘To win my heart.’” Alcott was careless in preparing her manuscripts for publication, and compositors for nineteenth-century newspapers and magazines were not particularly careful in setting type from even the best-prepared copy, so we have in general tried to modernize or “correct” these texts as little as possible.
A Pair of Eyes; or Modern Magic
PART I
I was DISAPPOINTED — the great actress had not given me what I wanted, and my picture must still remain unfinished for want of a pair of eyes. I knew w hat they should be, saw them clearly in my
fancy, but though they haunted me by night and day I could not paint them, could not find a model who would represent the aspect I desired, could not describe it to any one, and though I looked into every face I met, and visited afflicted humanity in many shapes, I could find no eyes that visibly presented the vacant yet not unmeaning stare of Ladv Macbeth in her haunted sleep. It fretted me almost beyond endurance to be delayed in my work so near its completion, for months of thought and labor had been bestow ed upon it; the few w ho had seen it in its imperfect state had elated me with commendation, whose critical sincerity I kjnew the worth of; and the many not admitted were impatient for a sight of that which others praised, and to w hich the memory of former successes lent an interest beyond mere curiosity. All was done, and well done, except the eyes; the dimly lighted chamber, the listening attendants, the ghostly figure with wan face framed in hair, that streamed shadowy and long against white draperies, and whiter arms, whose gesture told that the parted lips were uttering that mournful cry —
“Here’s the smell of blood still!
All the perfumes of Arabia will not
Sweeten this little hand — ”
The eyes alone baffled me, and for want of these my work waited, and my last success was yet unwon.
I was in a curious mood that night, weary yet restless, eager yet impotent to seize the object of my search, and full of haunting images that would not stay to be reproduced. My friend was absorbed in the play, which no longer possessed any charm for me, and leaning back in my seat I fell into a listless reverie, still harping on the one idea of my life; for impetuous and resolute in all things, l had given myself body and soul to the profession I had chosen and followed through many vicissitudes for fifteen years. Art was wife, child, friend, food and fire to me; the pursuit of fame as a reward for my long labor was the object for which I lived, the hope which gave me courage to press on over every obstacle, sacrifice and suffering, for the word “defeat” was not in my vocabulary. Sitting thus, alone, though in a crowd, I slowly became aware of a disturbing influence whose power invaded my momentary isolation, and soon took shape in the uncomfortable conviction that some one was looking at me. Every one has felt this, and at another time I should have cared little for it, but just then I was laboring under a sense of injury, for of all the myriad eyes about me none would give me the expression I longed for; and unreasonable as it was, the thought that I was watched annoyed me like a silent insult. I sent a searching look through the boxes on either hand, swept the remoter groups with a powerful glass, and scanned the sea of heads below, but met no answering glance; all faces were turned stage- ward, all minds seemed intent upon the tragic scenes enacting there.
Failing to discover any visible cause for my fancy, I tried to amuse myself with the play, but having seen it many times and being in an ill-humor with the heroine of the hour, my thoughts soon wandered, and though still apparently an interested auditor, I heard nothing, saw nothing, for the instant my mind became abstracted the same uncanny sensation returned. A vague consciousness that some stronger nature was covertly exerting its power upon my own; I smiled as this whim first suggested itself, but it rapidly grew upon me, and a curious feeling of impotent resistance took possession of me, for I was indignant without knowing why, and longed to rebel against — I knew not what. Again I looked far and wide, met several inquiring glances from near neighbors, but none that answered my demand by any betrayal of especial interest or malicious pleasure. Baffled, yet not satisfied, I turned to myself, thinking to find the cause of my disgust there, but did not succeed. I seldom drank wine, had not worked intently that day, and except the picture had no anxiety to harass me; vet without anv physical or mental cause that I could discover, every nerve seemed jangled out of tune, my temples beat, my breath came short, and the air seemed feverishly close, though I had not perceived it until then. I did not understand this mood and with an impatient gesture took the playbill from my friends knee, gathered it into my hand and fanned myself like a petulant woman, I suspect, for Louis turned and surveyed me with surprise as he asked:
“What is it, Max; you seem annoyed?”
“I am, but absurd as it is, I don’t know why, except a foolish fancy that someone whom I do not see is looking at me and wishes me to look at him.”
Louis laughed — “Of course there is, aren’t you used to it yet? And are you so modest as not to know that many eyes take stolen glances at the rising artist, whose ghosts and goblins make their hair stand on end so charmingly? I had the mortification to discover some time ago that, young and comely as I take the liberty of thinking myself, the upturned lorgnettes are not levelled at me, but at the stern-faced, black-bearded gentleman beside me, for he looks particularly moody and interesting to-night.”
“Bah! I just wish I could inspire some of those starers with gratitude enough to set them w alking in their sleep for my benefit and their own future glory. Your suggestion has proved a dead failure, the woman there cannot give me what I want, the picture will never get done, and the whole affair will go to the deuce for want of a pair of eyes.”
I rose to go as I spoke, and there they were behind me!
What sort of expression my face assumed I cannot tell, for I forgot time and place, and might have committed some absurdity if Louis had not pulled me down with a look that made me aware that I was staring with an utter disregard of common courtesy.
“Who are those people? Do you know them?” I demanded in a vehement whisper.
“Yes, but put down that glass and sit still or I’ll call an usher to put you out,” he answered, scandalized at my energetic demonstrations. .
“Good! then introduce me — now at once — Come on,” and I rose again, to be again arrested.
“Are you possessed to-night? You have visited so many fever wards and madhouses in your search that you’ve unsettled your own wits, Max. What whim has got into your brain now? And why do you want to know those people in such haste?”
“Your suggestion has not proved failure, a woman can give me what I want, the picture will be finished, and nothing will go to the deuce, for I’ve found the eves — now be obliging and help me to secure them.”
Louis stared at me as if he seriously began to think me a little mad, but restrained the explosive remark that rose to his lips and answered hastily, as several persons looked round as if our whispering annoyed them.
“I’ll take you in there after the play if you must go, so for heavens sake behave like a gentleman till then, and let me enjoy myself in peace.”
I nodded composedly, he returned to his tragedy and shading my eyes with my hand, I took a critical survey, feeling more and more assured that my long search was at last ended. Three persons occupied the^box, a well-dressed elderly lady dozing behind her fan, a lad leaning over the front absorbed in the play, and a young lady looking straight before her with the aspect I had waited for with such impatience. T his figure I scrutinized with the eye of an artist which took in every accessory of outline, ornament and hue.
Framed in darkest hair, rose a face delicately cut, but cold and colorless as that of any statue in the vestibule without. The lips were slightly parted with the long slow breaths that came and went, the forehead was femininely broad and low, the brows straight and black, and underneath them the mysterious eyes fixed on vacancy, full of that weird regard so hard to counterfeit, so impossible to describe; for though absent, it was not expressionless, and through its steadfast shine a troubled meaning wandered, as if soul and body could not be utterly divorced by any effort of the will. She seemed unconscious of the scene about her, for the fixture of her glance never changed, and nothing about her stirred but the jewel on her bosom, whose changeful glitter seemed to vary as it rose and fell. Emboldened by this apparent absorption, I prolonged my scrutiny and scanned this countenance as I had never done a womans face before. During this examination I had forgotten myself in her, feeling only a strong desire to draw nearer and dive deeper into those two dark wells that seemed
so tranquil vet so fathomless, and in the act of trying to fix shape, color and expression in my memory, I lost them all; for a storm of applause broke the attentive hush as the curtain fell, and like one startled from sleep a flash of intelligence lit up the eyes, then a white hand was passed across them, and long downcast lashes hid them from my sight.
Louis stood up, gave himself a comprehensive survey, and walked out, saying, with a nod,
“Now, Max, put on your gloves, shake the hair out of your eyes, assume your best ‘deportment,’ and come and take an observation which may immortalize your name.”
Knocking over a chair in mv haste, I followed close upon his heels, as he tapped at the next door; the lad opened it, bowed to my conductor, glanced at me and strolled away, while we passed in. The elderly lady was awake, now, and received us graciously; the younger was leaning on her hand, the plumy fan held between her and the glare of the great chandelier as she watched the moving throng below.
“Agatha, here is Mr. Yorke and a friend whom he wishes to present to you,” said the old lady, with a shade of deference in her manner which betrayed the companion, not the friend.
Agatha turned, gave Louis her hand, with a slow smile dawning on her lip, and looked up at me as if the fact of my advent had no particular interest for her, and my appearance promised no great pleasure.
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