“Oh!” May cried, then tried to quell her surprise. “His mother must be upset.”
“She tried to convince the president to give him another chance but was told they’d already given him so many. So she’s decided to use the money earned from the collection of letters to move them all to Germany. People say they can live more cheaply there, though I don’t understand how,” Mother said.
“You didn’t know any of this?” Louisa asked May.
“I no longer waste time with Julian.” Her dismay that he was going to Europe mixed with her fury that she wasn’t. Everyone got to go but her. Alice’s hope that they might go together seemed to have vanished with her father’s illness. May said, “I’ve been drawing Concord scenes.”
“And portraits? Mother wrote about your anatomy classes.”
“I stopped taking them.”
“You must learn to finish things.”
“I finish plenty! I’ve been drawing since I was twelve years old!”
“But with all your heart? You divide yourself.”
“I don’t!” May left Louisa with Mother.
The two of them spent much of the next week whispering together. Louisa went to Boston for a few days, and when she returned, she said that she’d taken a job overseeing Merry’s Museum, a children’s magazine. Louisa packed to move back to the city without a word about how May had spent the past year looking out for Mother and helping out with Anna’s children. She said, “I’m surprised how confused Mother gets. Maybe the time away makes me notice how much she talks about her father’s good deeds and her family’s pew in King’s Chapel. Yesterday she left the teakettle on the stove so long that the bottom burned. The whole house could have set on fire.”
“But it didn’t.” May’s chest grew warm. If Louisa wasn’t going to stay to help, she shouldn’t act so concerned.
MAY FINISHED PICTURES OF THE OLD NORTH BRIDGE, the Old Manse, their home and the rustic summerhouse that Father had built in their yard. She included a small figure in some sketches, like those she’d seen on ancient Chinese scrolls. She showed a boat crossing Walden Pond steered by a man with his back to shore and two girls sitting outside the Hawthorne’s house. Her ink lines were as strong and precise as an oar slicing water, the right steps on the right path. At some point, one must put down the oars, take off one’s shoes, wipe ink from the nib of a pen. The finished details gave the work power, but a sense of something missing made her ache to pick up her pen again. These sketches weren’t yet good enough to show Mr. and Mrs. Fields.
When Father returned in fall, May asked if she could use the old shed behind the house as a studio where she could paint and offer classes. He not only agreed, but suggested attaching it to the house, so it would be near a hearth when the weather turned cold. He and a neighbor took the shed off its foundation, put it on wagon wheels, and rolled it to a space between his study and the kitchen. May scrubbed and whitewashed the walls, sanded the floor, and washed the high windows. Father sawed through the bookshelf in his study to make a second door, so May wouldn’t have to leave the house to go to work. She told everyone this door shouldn’t be opened by anyone but her. This seemed difficult for Mother to grasp, when, after all, she sometimes had only a short, simple question. And Anna’s boys missed her. May loved them so terribly much.
That winter, she bought a bucket of clay and a bag of dry plaster. She sculpted a bas-relief of Charlotte Corday, a figure of Diana, and a plaster bust of Father, who was patient while she measured his nose, the spaces between his forehead and chin, and between his eyes. She wished she had more clay, so she could try several expressions and compare them, rather than have to try one after another. She liked clay’s cool, slick feel but gave up on more attempts at sculpting. It was hard enough for a woman to make her mark in any art, never mind one that called for messy clay and expensive stone. Even the finished work took up more space than a painting, calling for shelves or even floors or land.
She drew silhouettes of visitors on the walls as examples to her students. Alice and Charlotte came from Boston to join some local girls, including Rose and Kate Peckham. May lectured about composition and demonstrated how to crosshatch or change the pressure of their hands to shade. As they worked, they complained, confided, and gossiped. Alice mentioned that her father wasn’t as hale as usual and that she’d heard that Dr. Rimmer had left to teach in New York. May felt a pinch, now that the possibility of returning to his classes was gone. Of course it had always been so. She examined Kate’s drawing and said, “You could be more diligent in this corner. Press harder with your pencil. Show some conviction.”
“I knew it was terrible,” Kate said.
“I didn’t say that. You’re just starting.”
“Nothing will come of it.”
“It shall if you keep at it. Slow down. Art isn’t a race.”
The students were happiest when she showed them how she coated a piece of wood with a thick layer of black tempera, then painted an open-throated lily on a stylized vine. She left no signs of dirt, petals that drooped, buds shriveled or not yet unfurled, or leaves nibbled by insects. She painted only perfectly opened blooms. She suspected that Dr. Rimmer would call her flower panels mere decoration, but was it a crime to please? Maybe a small one. It might take more talent to draw something as it was, to show something others didn’t see as beautiful, until an artist peeled away layers to point it out.
Early in fall, Alice stopped coming to class. It hardly seemed possible that there should be more tragedy in her family, but the girls whispered that her father was gravely ill. May still had more students than could comfortably fit in the room, especially since some insisted on wearing crinolines or hoops that hampered them from reaching the easels. But May thought she should look for more students and offer more classes. She remembered talking with Judge French on the train to Boston. He’d mentioned that his son who’d started at the new Institute of Technology across the river didn’t find it suited him any more than farming, but last winter, he’d shaped some realistic lions from snow and recently carved a turnip into a reasonable likeness of a dog. When Judge French asked her to stop by and give him a bit of advice, she’d instead suggested the name of a shop where he could buy clay. She’d had enough of boys spoiled by their parents. Then she’d seen him in town, a tall, handsome lad. She suspected that if he enrolled in her classes, every young lady in Concord might develop an interest in art.
One afternoon, she wound green ribbon, which brought out the red sheen of her hair, around her hat. She filled a basket with clay wrapped in damp rags to keep it soft, sculpting tools, wire, and metal tubes, all of which soon felt heavy. She stopped at the Emersons’ house and asked to borrow Dolly. She rode sidesaddle through town and past meadows of redtop grass and timothy, which turned the landscape beige and gold. Piles of potatoes looked forgotten on the edges of fields. Pumpkins seemed to have stopped in mid-tumble among dried vines. Sunflowers sagged under the weight of their own seeds.
She stopped by a picket fence before a white farmhouse, lashed the horse to a granite post, knocked on the green door, and asked if Daniel was home. Mrs. French eyed May’s fashionable hat and loose hair, then offered to look. She returned with a tall young man whose dark brown hair swept over eyes as shiny and dark as molasses.
“I hear you have a knack for carving squashes,” May said.
“You know how fathers are.” Daniel’s mouth reminded her of Julian’s, the kind that easily turned up. “They think any little accomplishment is a sign of genius. After you told him about the shop in Boston, he bought me some clay. I molded a few things that didn’t turn out too well. The only thing I let dry was a deer I rather liked.”
“May I see it, Mr. French?”
“Of course. And please call me Dan.”
“Miss Alcott makes me sound like my sister. You can call me May.”
Dan led her past clucking chickens and apple trees to the barn. He tugged open the high, wide doors. As May’s eyes adjusted to
the dim light, she saw several buckets of clay, far more than she’d ever bought at once. A small sculpted deer stood on a windowsill. The fawn’s eyes were wide, its ears alert, as if fear and trust were crossing. The delicate legs smoothly joined the body. She thought there should be something for her to criticize, but she didn’t see it. She asked, “Where did you find the model?”
“I went hunting with a friend.” His eyes lost their shine. “Once. I’ll never carry a rifle again.”
She turned it over and saw he’d etched “Daniel Chester French” in tiny script across the belly. Though he had modest manners, he seemed to be proud, too. “What else have you done?”
“I tried making a clay bust of my father, but it collapsed.”
“What did you use for an armature?”
“What’s that?”
“Then there is something I can teach you. Just as a skull supports flesh, clay needs something hard to hold it up. I hope you’ll sign up for my classes, but we can start now if you have some wood scraps around here. And we’ll need a hammer, saw, and pliers.”
While Dan gathered the tools and wood, May peeled off her white gloves and took out the wires and tubes she’d bought at the plumbing supply shop. She pushed up her sleeves, then sawed a square of wood. “You have to be a bit of a carpenter to be a sculptor.”
She wielded pliers to twist a thin pipe around an iron tube she set on the wooden base. She wrapped wire around scraps of wood to make crosses, which she fastened to the metal pipes. “The clay will stick to these, instead of slipping off the smooth pipes. Keep adding water, but not too much. Splash on a little and knead it in. I expect your father’s head is about the size of yours.” She took out calipers to determine the lengths between his nose, forehead, chin, and the back of his head. “You should measure the spaces between his eyes and the distance between his chin and hairline. His nose, mouth, and everything you can think of.”
She rolled a small slab of clay into a nose, pressed an orangewood stick to make an eye socket, then scraped away clay to shape brows. Dan looked eager to hold these tools, and she let him coil, pinch and prod the clay.
“After you finish this bust, I’ll show you how to mix plaster to make a mold and then a permanent cast.”
“Capital! And then I want to learn how to make statues like those I saw in the Athenæum.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” She laughed, remembering her own ambition and innocence when starting out. “But why not? Unfortunately, there’s no art school in Boston where even men can work from unclothed models, not like there is in Paris.”
“Have you been there?”
“Not yet.” She couldn’t bear to say simply, No. After the clay head was roughly shaped, she said, “I’ll leave you to work on the details. Keep the orangewood sticks. A small gift to celebrate the start of a grand career.”
She packed her tools and rinsed her hands at the well while Dan saddled the horse. Long shadows darkened the ground. The slightly chilly air smelled of wild grapes, drying leaves, and cornstalks. She returned the horse to the Emersons’ barn and walked the rest of the way home. Rose petals had fallen, leaving prickly stems and knobby centers the color of dried blood. Goldenrod had turned brittle. Only hardy asters bothered with purple and blue. She felt melancholy at the memory of how Dan moved his hands as if they were almost attached to his sight and had a right to any direction, as if he believed he’d get every shape correct in the end. Such faith might be part of his talent and maybe came in part from his being a young man. He didn’t need the murmurs May offered her students, a sort of music that drowned critical voices that ran through their minds, assurance they were making progress, which most found as necessary as advice on craft. Dan’s confidence might come from having a father who bought him sacks of clay, asked a neighbor to offer instruction, and expressed interest in what he did. May knew it wasn’t every girl whose parents would let her draw on the walls or help her make a studio from an old shed. She was grateful. But Dan had something women didn’t have. One day, if he chose, he could take classes with Dr. Rimmer without worrying that he would touch his hair, spoiling everything.
MAY RETURNED TO WORK ON HER DRAWINGS OF houses, the Concord River, and the bridge. Her moving eyes uncovered grace within the lines of rooftops and strength in the curves of branches. She worked until there seemed no traces of her clenched hand, but unlike the hands of a cook or house cleaner, also invisible, she left something lasting.
One afternoon, she summoned her courage and put everything into her cardboard portfolio. At the townhouse on Charles Street, she gave her carte de visite to a maid, who ushered her to the second floor, where she waited among tall mahogany bookcases. A butler practiced in noiselessness opened doors and laid out china and silverware. Another young man almost silently moved logs in the fireplace. Mrs. Fields bustled in, wearing a plum-colored gown and matching slippers. While pouring tea, she asked about May’s classes.
“You should come.” May lifted a heavy silver spoon and a delicate china cup.
“I wish I had the time, or talent. I’m eager to see what you’ve brought.”
May untied the blue ribbon from her portfolio and took out her drawings.
Mrs. Fields exclaimed at one after another. “For those who haven’t visited Concord, how truly soul-enriching it will be for them to glimpse where Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau gathered their thoughts. Mr. Hawthorne, may he rest in peace, would like this drawing of his home. His genius was that he celebrated humble origins.”
“Then you think these can make up a collection?”
“Of course I must consult with my husband.”
“I can leave these with you. And draw others if you choose.”
May pressed her hands together to keep from clapping. After bidding her good-bye, she wanted to skip past shops with windows holding baskets of rolls speckled with cornmeal and shiny squares of gingerbread. Others displayed lace parasols and pearl-buttoned gloves. She passed the Childs and Jenks gallery, where people paid twenty-five cents admission. Maybe one day her work could be displayed there!
May turned onto Washington Street and raced up the steps into the Merry’s Museum office. Louisa was alone in a room that smelled of ink and stacks of papers. May cried, “It looks like Mr. Fields will publish a volume of my drawings!” She twirled around. Why not be merry? At last she had something to show her sister.
“Congratulations!” Louisa stood to hug her.
“It’s a dream come true. Maybe it’s time we forgive Mr. Fields for turning down your story about the girl who went out to service.”
“I meant to put that behind me, and I sent him a collection of fairy tales. He lost the manuscript.”
“Lu, that’s terrible!”
“There are other editors.” Louisa tugged down the sleeves of her plaid dress, smearing ink on the white cuffs. “In fact, one paid a call recently. Mr. Niles remembered meeting you years ago at a dinner, and he asks to give you regards. It seems he’s moving on from books without words. He told me that books for boys such as Tom Brown’s School Days and Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates are selling nicely, but there are few novels with girls at the center. Apparently he admires my stories in the magazine and thinks I might be just the person who could write about regular girls with some good lessons. Parents these days don’t have the time to teach their children the way they used to. Mr. Niles said that if the book did well, they’d want more, like a series Horatio Alger writes called Ragged Dick.”
“You must write what you please.”
“He offered a thousand dollars.”
“Gracious!” May realized Mrs. Fields hadn’t said anything about payment. She was also trying to forget what Louisa had said about her lost manuscript. “That must be more money than Father ever made, and for something you haven’t even written yet.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t write the book he wants. I liked climbing trees, forgot my manners, and could never keep my stockings straight. I know nothing about being a
girl.”
“Don’t be silly. You could even write about us.”
“A stranger family never lived.”
“You must leave out Father and all the times we were hungry. We had good times, too. Think of the picnics in summer and skating in winter.”
“I could make things turn out any way I wanted. But I don’t have time. It turns out that I not only read manuscripts and correct grammar and punctuation here, but I must write most of the poems, articles, and stories myself.” Louisa swept a stack of papers into a carpetbag.
They headed out the door, crossed a few streets, and strode along the pebbled paths of the Public Garden. Children pressed their faces against wire fences, looking for the deer among the trees. Some fished in the frog pond, dangling strings with pins in the water. Ducks swaggered toward breadcrumbs. May wanted to talk about her sketches of houses, but the turn in her luck made her feel generous, and instead she spoke of Louisa’s chance. “Did you ever dream of being offered a thousand dollars?”
“Or Mr. Niles said I might instead take a percentage on the profits. I could gamble.”
“Why not?”
“He hinted that if I wrote the novel he wants, he might publish some of Father’s transcendental writing.”
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