by Anna Maclean
“Don’t you require a beau first?” I asked, teasing.
“Quite right, Louy.”
Boston, Dec. 2, 1856
Dearest Father,
I am well and happy and earnestly going about the business of earning my living. Independence suits me, though I miss my own beloved family, and count it a good day when the activities of the hours bring you foremost to my thoughts. Today was such a day. Sylvia and I (she sends her regards) attended a séance given by Mrs. Percy of Arlington Street. Fear not, kind parent, I have not succumbed to this new pastime but went as a protector of Sylvia, to see if I might mitigate the effects of this, her newest occupation—speaking with the dearly departed.
Mrs. Agatha Percy, our crystal gazer, has trained well for this calling, and I suspect she is not unfamiliar with the dramas between Sylvia and her mother in the Shattuck household, for her one-word message to Sylvia was this: Marry! And I am to have a surprise visitor.
None of this will be of interest, of course, to a man whose intelligence is of the highest, who knows “humbug” when he hears it. Humbug introduces my next little piece of information. I have met Mr. Phineas T. Barnum, who was at the séance, and he spoke so highly of you, our own philosopher! He asks if you will consider appearing at his American Museum. I did not encourage him in this expectation.
I am wearing the birthday pin you gave me, and send a heart full of love to its giver.
Good-bye, from your ever-loving child,
Louisa
I stitched at the reverend’s shirts the next morning till my back ached and I longed for fresh air. I allowed my mind to wander over the events of the previous day, thinking of modest Miss Snodgrass, blustering but jovial Mr. Barnum, the loud Mrs. Deeds and her cringing husband, and the heroic Mr. Phips. What an assorted group Mrs. Percy had gathered!
A running stitch allows you to place six stitches at once on the needle, thus saving considerable time and speeding the work. My seams that morning were all running stitches, though they are not as fine as French stitches. I was impatient with the work and eager for life, for activity and event. I was bored, kind reader. Sewing is a fine activity, but not for me. And so I let my mind wander back to that character who had spoken to me yesterday, as soon as Sylvia gave me that interesting name, Agatha. She spoke again:
When the knowledge came to me that I was dear to a human heart, it was like a magic spell changing the cold, solitary girl into a fond and hopeful woman. Life grew bright and beautiful. The sad past seemed to vanish, lost in the blissful present.
So my new story was to be a love story!
I went for a walk that afternoon through Boston Common, admiring the frosting of snow decorating the ancient oaks, and laughing at the children skating upon the pond, as they tumbled and shrieked and worried their proud mothers with the speed and skill of their activity. It seemed as though this new character, Agatha, walked beside me, and I felt her sadness and her terror and her passion. She was not one to wait for the legitimacy of vows. When her Philip declared her face was charming, her singing sweeter than any he had ever heard, she gave him all her love freely.
Oh, Agatha. Foolish woman! Do you not know that men often least desire that which is easiest won? Hers would be no simple love story, I decided. There would be a terrible crime.
That led me to think about the woman who had inspired my new character, Mrs. Agatha Percy. I admired her skills at playacting, for there was more of spy work in her pronouncements than tidings from the deceased. Certainly it had required only listening to gossip to determine what message would most make Sylvia alert. Her mother had been pleading with her for four years now to accept one of the many men who had promised their hearts. Sylvia disdained their offers, suspecting that her railroad shares were more of an attraction than herself. As for my surprise visitor, certainly that was a common pronouncement at such circles and no great risk to state. So much, I thought, for crystal gazers.
During my walk I passed the shop window of Mr. Crowell’s Music Store, a favorite place of my sister Lizzie, and it reminded me that I had not yet selected a Christmas present for the musical member of the family.
The window was adorned with a gay green silk wreath and filled with sheets of music, metronomes in handsome mahogany casings, tuning forks, and the other paraphernalia enjoyed by Apollo’s tuneful children. But what caught my eye was a handsome portfolio, bound in red leather, of new piano pieces by Liszt.
Liszt, gentle reader, was one of Lizzie’s favorite composers. I entered the shop, the doorbell tingling merrily, and found Mr. Crowell at his counter, making a small arrangement of little boxes of violin strings.
“Ah! Miss Alcott!” he greeted me in friendly manner. “How is Miss Elizabeth?”
“Well, and in New Hampshire with Mother and Father,” I said. “And Mrs. Crowell?”
“Well, and in the back room, making plans for a party.” He sighed and grinned. “A party! In my shop! I never thought.”
“For Christmas?”
“For Christmas, and for the lottery. I’ve an announcement, Miss Alcott, one you may want to pass on to our Elizabeth. I’ve purchased three lessons, an hour each, from Signor Massimo, and I’ll hold a drawing to find a winner for those lessons. Isn’t that a fine idea? He takes so few students, and it is such an honor to study with him!”
Signor Massimo? The very same artist who had not arrived at Mrs. Percy’s séance?
“Has he been ill, our Signor Massimo?” I asked Mr. Crowell.
“Not at all. He’s in fine health.”
Then he is sensible as well as talented, I thought. He rejected Mrs. Percy’s invitation. And wouldn’t it be fine if I won those lessons for Lizzie? She could come to Boston for a week, and then return to Walpole.
“May I purchase a ticket for the drawing?” I asked Mr. Crowell, inspired.
He sighed and lifted his hands, palms up. “Tickets cannot be purchased,” he explained. “There will be only twelve issued, one to each of the persons who buys one of the new Liszt portfolios.”
That situation suited me even better. Should I not win the lottery, I would still have that beautiful portfolio to give Lizzie.
“And the cost of the portfolio?”
“Five dollars.” He saw the expression on my face upon hearing that amount and patted my shoulder, as if to give me courage. “I know that is very expensive, but it is bound in calfskin, with gold letters, and a very small quantity has been printed.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Five dollars was three dollars and twenty cents more than I had. It was more than I had planned to spend on all the presents for my family that year. But I was already determined that Lizzie would have her portfolio, and if luck was with me, those three lessons from Signor Massimo. There could be no finer gift for her in all of Boston.
“May I put down fifty cents?” I asked.
Mr. Crowell sighed even more heavily, then spoke in a whisper so that his wife, who was more stinting than himself, would not hear. “You may, but with no guarantee. If it comes to the last portfolio and I have a customer, cash in hand, I must sell it. Your deposit would be returned, of course. It’s the missus. Set her heart on a new wallpapering for the house, and it doesn’t come cheap.”
“I understand.” I gave him two quarters and walked home light of heart, convinced that I could finish the reverend’s shirts and purchase that portfolio for Lizzie in time. Wouldn’t she be pleased! I missed her very much, perhaps even more so than my other sisters at that moment, for the approach of the Christmas season always awoke a passion for music in our home, with Lizzie singing or, when we had one, playing piano for hours every day. If I won the lottery, would Lizzie be willing to come down to Boston from Walpole? She was very happy there in her quiet country abode.
A surprise awaited me. When I arrived home at sunset, chilled but exhilarated from my long walk, Auntie Bond greeted me at the door, flustered and smiling. “You have a visitor,” she said, pointing up the stairs. “A surprise visitor.”
Upstairs, delicate steps rushed forward and my sister Lizzie’s sweet face peered over the stairwell.
“Oh, Louy, I am so glad to see you!” Lizzie, as soon as I reached the top step, flung herself into my arms. She was still in her plaid travel costume, and her valise and hatbox were piled on the floor.
“Dear, whatever are you doing here? You are supposed to be in Walpole with Mother and Father! Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” said my younger sister in a dark and dreary voice. “Cousin Eliza was planning a social afternoon for me. A party!” With her placid round face and gentle gaze she looked so angelic that her timidity seemed appropriate. What angel wishes attention?
Reader, if you are unfamiliar with my family, know that of my three sisters, Elizabeth, known as Lizzie, was the shyest. Even school had terrified her, so she had been educated exclusively at home. So it was that she murmured the words a party! with all the loathing other girls would have reserved for a trip to the toothpuller.
“And Marmee said we must go along with it and not give offense. Louy, dear, I have run away! Don’t make that face, Louy. I left a note on the kitchen table and took the mail train. They know I am here with you. I may stay, mayn’t I?”
“Of course. We’ll have Auntie Bond bring up the camp bed. There is plenty of room. Oh, Lizzie.” We hugged and danced a bit till I tripped on her valise and we both tumbled to the ground.
“Like when we were children,” said Lizzie, leaning deeply into my embrace.
“Except then you had your lessons,” I said. “What will you do here?” Oh, how tempted I was to give away my surprise for her!
“Auntie Bond has a piano still, doesn’t she? I thought so.”
“At your disposal, dear child, at your disposal!” called up that good woman, who had witnessed our reunion.
“I will practice, Louy.” Lizzie grew dreamy eyed, thinking of new études and sonatas. And then a more practical look entered those pretty blue eyes. “And I will sew with you. My stitches are finer and faster, and I can take some of your work to leave you more time for writing.”
We set about unpacking her travel case and chatted cozily, as sisters do, about Marmee’s health, Father’s expectations, the news from Anna, who was nursing in Syracuse, and of May, the youngest, also known sometimes as Abby, usually in those moments when she most resembled our mother, Abba. She, still at home with Mother and Father, was our artist in the family and was painting lovely watercolors of the gorges and ravines of Walpole, where we had all summered.
A different thought soon preoccupied me.
“Lizzie, did you tell anyone of your surprise visit to Boston?” I asked when the many folios of her sheet music had been brought from the bottom of the old cloth valise.
“No. Else how could it be a surprise? But wait.” She frowned, making a tiny wrinkle between her pale winged brows. “I may have said something to Uncle Benjamin’s housekeeper. I did. She packed me a lunch for the train.”
Had Agatha Percy made a lucky guess? Or had she access to our very private household in Walpole? The thought made me uncomfortable.
I slept well and woke early. Quietly, without waking Lizzie, I sat at my little writing desk and opened the inkwell.
Boston, December 4
Dear Marmee,
Walpole’s loss is my happy gain. Lizzie arrived safely last night, and both Auntie Bond and myself opened our arms to her. We are to share a room, and sweet Lizzie has offered to share my work as well. Auntie Bond’s music room is open to her, and our angel shall practice scales and études to her heart’s content. Do not fear for her; she is in a loving home and shall be well cared for. I admit, a sister’s company helps ease my own ache for you and Father, and May, and Anna.
I am sure Father has shared my letter with you, and so you are informed of Sylvia’s most recent enthusiasm, attending séances. I rather wish she had persevered longer with her Confucianist phase, but Sylvia is Sylvia. I do have a question, Marmee. Would you ask Uncle Benjamin’s housekeeper to whom she might have mentioned Lizzie’s secret plans for departure? There is no problem; I am merely curious.
Love to all of you there in Walpole. I am writing quietly, as our dear Lizzie still sleeps. Do you wish any supplies sent up from Boston? Good-bye, from your ever loving child,
Louisa
I placed a kiss on the paper, sealed it into an envelope for the post, and then lifted the volume of Dickens that served as paperweight to my barely begun story.
I was poor and plain, with no accomplishments or charms of mind or person, yet Philip loved me.
I had written before the séance. Now, having met Mrs. Percy, her imagined presence took firm hold in my mind. Her voice grew more assured as I imagined a story to fit the face and personality. Mrs. Percy, judging from her face powder and padded hair, knew the arts of adornment, yet even in the dim light I had seen the wrinkles about her eyes, the dry thinness of the skin on her hands. She spoke again, even as I dipped my pen into the ink.
Years of care and labor had banished all my girlish dreams. I never thought to be beloved, but tried to stifle my great yearning for affection. So when the knowledge came to me that I was dear to a human heart, it was like a…
I stopped and frowned, thinking.
…like a magic spell changing the cold, solitary girl into a fond and hopeful woman. Life grew bright and beautiful. The sad past seemed to vanish, lost in the blissful present.
“Are you writing a story, Louy?” Lizzie sat up in her little bed and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Her lace sleep cap was askew.
“Yes, dearest,” I said, putting down my pen and going to her. “It is still early. Why don’t you sleep longer?” She looked pale. I put my hand to her forehead. It was warm. “Spend the entire day in bed,” I suggested. “Travel has exhausted you.” I tucked the covers around her and closed the curtains to dim the light. I would write downstairs, in Auntie Bond’s dining room. So down I took my pen and inkwell and pages and carefully laid them over a mat of thick newspapers, to protect the fine polished table.
Martha, Auntie Bond’s housemaid, came in. She was an efficient woman of some forty years, round in shape and cheerful in manner. Moreover, she had acquired this position through my mother, who a year before had helped find employment for some of Boston’s unemployed women. “Up so early! I’ll get you some coffee and porridge, Miss Louisa,” she said with great enthusiasm, and before I could say, “No, thank you,” she headed to her kitchen and returned a minute later with a tray for me.
“Eat up,” said Martha, standing over me with hands on hips. I pushed my story aside and ate. Later I would ask Auntie Bond if I might clear a space in the attic for my worktable. Perhaps, reader, it sounded inconvenient, but the thought cheered me. I had my sweetest sister with me, friends about me, and a voice whispering that new story to me. Attics are fine places to work, and the days would pass quickly. I, who had joined the first séance with great reluctance, now eagerly anticipated the second, to satisfy my growing curiosity about Mrs. Agatha Percy.
Walpole, New Hampshire, December 6
Dear Louy,
Thank heavens, and I mean that with all sincerity, as you can imagine, that Lizzie arrived safely and is now under the sheltering wing of her older sister. Your cousin Eliza should have known better than to suggest a party for shy Lizzie without letting me first prepare her for such an announcement. Our sweet Lizzie, our angel! Make certain she dresses warmly, Louy.
I questioned Uncle Benjamin’s housekeeper, and she says she told no one of Lizzie’s plans to depart, that in fact she did not know of such plans, believing as she did that the travel hamper was to have been for a picnic. She did, however, mention the hamper of food to elderly Dr. Burroughs, who was shopping for fishing line at the same time that she was purchasing castor sugar at Tupper’s General Store.
Have you a story I might see, or even some new journal entries you wish to pass on to your doting Marmee? I miss your imagination, my dearest. Walpol
e seems to have emptied of mystery since you left.
Speaking of leaving, you did not by any misadventure pack my soup strainer in your trunk, did you? It has gone missing, and you know how your father dislikes lumps in the cream soup.
Tell Lizzie she must write me every day. Sending you both all the love a mother’s heart can hold.
Marmee
Walpole, New Hampshire, December 6
Dear Daughter,
How fares the battle against Mr. Gripeman, a schoolmaster in Love-gain? I hope you have not forgotten our conversation, immediately before your departure, wherein we further discussed Pilgrim’s Progress and I used those metaphors to encourage you to see life, and your writing, as a spiritual experience rather than one in which you try to gain as much as possible of worldly wealth and fame. Remember how the Schoolmaster in Love-gain (which is a market town in the county of Coveting) taught the little souls in his care the arts of flattery, lying, and violence to attain their ends. Be not like them, but pure of heart and intention.
Mr. Barnum asked after me? A weaker man would be flattered, I suppose. I avoid the impulse to believe I am as well-known as he would suggest. Ask for more details about those appearances he mentioned, in particular my rate of reimbursement.
Your mother continues to bloom like a rose in the country air. Walpole has done her good, especially now that no more deceased bodies have made an appearance in our peaceful lives. She does try to smuggle chicken and even beef into our soups and then insists the lumps are unmashed potatoes.
Control your temper, eat lightly of vegetarian fare, and bless the Creator daily and nightly for the important gifts of this world: a family that loves you, your health, your mind.
This, from your loving father, is sent with a fond embrace.
P.S. Your mother says that Lizzie is in Boston? When did she leave? I had not noticed her absence, but then your mother is usually right in these matters.