May supposed that few people achieved their dreams. Was life about learning to accept that with some grace? Giving up wasn’t a crime, at least so long as one didn’t pretend it didn’t matter. She was glad that she hadn’t burned the breadboard she’d imprinted with an impression of Raphael. It wasn’t very good, but she liked the girl she’d been, insisting on art in the kitchen.
Maybe she was just weary from traveling. She could no longer muster the effort to make whoever was sitting by her at the hotel table feel important during conversations about the trials of living abroad, the cheating and thefts, the brawls and poverty of Italians, and, more recently, peoples’ eagerness to see the book Louisa was now writing. May found a nearby trattoria that let her bring dinners to her room if the dishes were returned the next day. The minestrata with plates of grated Parmesan, lasagne, ravioli, or risotto with cheese and saffron were more delicious than the hotel’s overcooked beef and undercooked potatoes.
As they ate one evening, Louisa said, “I finished posing for Mr. Healy. Have you stopped to see the portrait?”
“Yes. It’s impressive. But he makes you appear too gaunt and old.”
“That’s how I look. You see me the way you remember.”
“I see you the way you should be remembered. But I’m glad if you’re pleased. Personally, I’m tired of Americans. They’re not why we came to Rome.”
“You’re right. Mr. Healy begged to paint my portrait at no charge, he said for the honor, but then he asked me to read a novel his daughter wrote, and perhaps put in a few words to my editor.” Louisa’s cheeks sank as she pressed her lips together. “Sometimes I just wish people would ask directly for what they want.”
“It’s hardly polite to say, ‘Give me something.’”
“All I want now is to go home. Mother needs us. And I miss her. Don’t you?”
“I miss everyone.” But she wasn’t sure that meant she was homesick. “I want to go back through France. We won’t do anyone any good by missing Paris in the spring.”
“Don’t you read the newspapers? The French surrendered to Germany, but the terms were so harsh that citizens rose against the empire. The Communards are said to run around with kerosene and matches, burning down the Tuileries, the Palais de Justice, Notre-Dame, and the Louvre.”
“Not the Louvre! Why would anyone burn art?”
“I suppose there are too many paintings of kings and popes. In any event, as soon as spring comes, we must go straight to London.”
May turned, pushed back the curtains, and looked out as a monk knelt on the stone steps of a church. The curve of his back, his deep stillness, reminded her of the devotion she’d once felt when her painting went well. He shifted, adjusting his brown robe, revealing patches on the soles of his sandals. May’s throat ached. She supposed he hadn’t thought anyone would ever see the bottoms of his sandals. He’d probably repaired them himself, but she hoped someone had cautioned him about blisters and helped with needle and thread.
14
REFLECTİONS
Mr. Niles took May’s valise as she stepped down from the train in London. When he reached for Louisa’s manuscript, she tightened her arms around the box. He instructed a driver to bring their luggage to an inn, then led them to a carriage with shiny black doors and velvet-covered seats. Looking dapper in a dove gray overcoat that matched the color of his hair, a small ruby pin in his leaf-green cravat, and checkered trousers, he shouted over the noise of whistles, bells, and horses’ hooves on cobblestones. “We’ve already taken orders for fifty thousand copies of Little Men.”
May turned from the window, where she’d been trying to peer through the yellow-gray fog, to hug Louisa.
She straightened the box on her lap. “Not a soul has seen it yet.”
“Your books don’t have to be seen to sell, Miss Alcott. I’ll read your manuscript tonight, and if everything seems in order, in the morning, I’ll bring it to the printer, who has the type out and ready to set. I’m arranging a British copyright so you won’t be cheated on sales overseas. Things will move quickly with you here to sign the papers.”
“We hoped to sail home straight away,” Louisa said.
“It won’t take more than a fortnight, and we should have your books in hand by then. While we wait, I’d be honored to show you around the city.” He turned to May. “I arranged for tickets to several art exhibitions.”
That week, he escorted them around Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, and Madame Tussaud’s Waxworks Show. After looking around an art gallery, they strolled up Regent Street, looking in windows. May said, “Louisa, we must get new gowns. I noticed bustles in Rome, but still more here. We shouldn’t be seen with flattened silhouettes.”
“It’s a ridiculous fashion. And you have enough dresses.”
“Queen Elizabeth had five hundred,” May said. “I think twenty-eight would be good, one for most days of the month. Or a single gown designed by Worth.”
“They say his stitches are so small they can’t be seen even under a magnifying glass,” Mr. Niles said.
May admired perfume bottles artfully arranged in a window beside a display of wrinkled, elbow-length mousquetaire gloves. “They’re just like ones I saw in a picture of Sarah Bernhardt taken in Paris. It’s a shame we can’t get there. Louisa tells me it’s not safe for tourists yet.”
“She’s right. The plague is everywhere, and bombs are still hidden,” Mr. Niles replied.
“I heard they won’t even allow petrol in the city, though I expect much is exaggerated,” Louisa said.
“I expect so, Miss Alcott. But some agencies are advertising trips to see the ruins of the Tuileries, promising souvenirs of blackened stones and charred timber. They spread talk so people will go see for themselves, and then the cab drivers rob them. But there will be no Salon des Beaux-Arts this spring. Its halls have been turned into a hospital for the time being.”
“No Salon!” May cried, then, feeling embarrassed as she’d been when urging Alice to keep painting, she realized they hadn’t yet been to the National Gallery. She suggested they go. Now when crossing the street, Mr. Niles looped his arm through hers, instead of Louisa’s. May felt no warmth through the cloth, but she didn’t mind being the object of a bit of jealousy. She was surprised Louisa didn’t seem to see he was more intrigued by women’s fashions than the bodies underneath.
Inside the museum, May stepped lightly past Hogarth etchings and paintings in elaborate frames that hung above and below each other. She stopped for the first time in front of a Dutch painting in which slanting light seemed palpable. A young woman was shown mending, something May had often done in life, but until now, she had never seen needle and thread in a painting. She also admired a Madonna and child painted by Pieter Brueghel. Unlike most of the nativity portraits she’d seen in Italy, Mary and Jesus had no halos, and they didn’t demand the whole canvas. Instead, they were surrounded by peasants and princes who weren’t young and handsome and didn’t claim any more glory than the people around them.
But as they entered a gallery of paintings by Turner, May breathed deeply, as she had when first on the ship and watching the world turn almost entirely blue. She’d been viewing paintings with strokes so perfectly blended that she couldn’t detect a single hair from a paintbrush gone awry, but here was someone who didn’t bother to pretend he hadn’t used paint, who hadn’t been afraid to let it splash or scatter. In one watercolor, she saw traces of a hand that lifted as well as pressed down, revealing a river as being like mist or memory. Blue and yellow shimmered like a real river in sunlight. Had she ever really seen water at all? She raised her hand toward the painting.
“Put down your arm before someone thinks you’re trying to steal that,” Louisa said. “Though I don’t know why they would. How can anyone tell which side goes up?”
“I believe John Ruskin made those decisions after the artist bequeathed his hundreds of paintings to the nation, requesting that they all be kept here, in one place,” Mr. N
iles said.
“Artists’ and writers’ wills seldom keep the living from doing as they please,” Louisa said.
“Where are the rest?” May asked.
A short woman with brown hair and a deep voice turned from a nearby painting. “I beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help but overhear your admiration for our nation’s genius. Some watercolors are stored upstairs.”
“Thank you.” Louisa nodded curtly, then tugged May’s arm. “We should get to the next wing before the museum closes.”
“Go ahead. I’ll stay here.”
“But you haven’t seen everything,” Mr. Niles said.
“I’ve seen almost nothing. That’s why I wish to stay.” May moved toward a painting of a sun rising over a meadow. The sky seemed as lively as the land. The pinks and yellows made her tongue feel soft. “Mr. Niles, would you escort my sister to the Renaissance gallery? Let’s meet at the entryway just before closing.”
“Ladies in London don’t stroll alone.” He glanced at the woman whose faded dress was frayed at the cuffs, then back to May. “Or speak to strangers.”
“Artists recognize each other. We’re like a family.”
Louisa smiled at Mr. Niles. “I never thought I’d miss the Italians, but let’s see if we might find a Correggio or two. I can appreciate a beheading or something with some gore.”
May joined the young woman in front of a watercolor of torrential rains and heavy snow. The woman said, “No one can paint weather the way Turner could. They say he lashed himself to a ship’s mast during a blizzard so he could view the storm without being blown overboard.”
“It’s as if he just let beauty move though him. Are you a painter?”
“Yes, though I make my living with my needle. I’m Jane Hughes.”
“I’m May Alcott. I’ve worked as a seamstress, too.”
“Professionals can get special passes to copy Turner’s paintings, which are kept in drawers to protect them from fading in the sunlight.”
“Do you think I could see them?” May reached for her hand before remembering they’d just met.
“Can you bring some of your work to show the director tomorrow? If it’s approved, you may get permission to copy and sell those in the shop. I’ll meet you when the museum opens.”
The following day, May packed watercolors and pen-and-ink drawings of the French countryside, Lake Geneva, and the Alps, as well as her portrait of the Breton landlady’s son. She brought these to the long steps of the museum, where she met Jane Hughes and a thin man with inexpertly cut hair, whom she introduced as another artist, Mr. Ramsey. As they looked over her work, they both gasped in a satisfying way and pointed out the strengths of her composition and color choices. Their enthusiasm not only made May instantly believe these were friends, but also buoyed her courage to show the paintings to the director. He looked briefly but intently, nodded, and wrote her name on a pass.
May climbed the stairs to the second floor of the museum in a sort of trance. A caretaker let her into a room that was quiet except for the soft rippling of water as the artists around a long table rinsed their brushes. The men looked prim with their high-buttoned collars, though caution stopped at their wrists. They angled their hands, using the whole of their brushes, not just the points, to spread paint lavishly. Some slanted the paper, letting colors ripple into each other. After May explained that she’d come back to work soon, but today just wanted to look, the caretaker opened a wide drawer and lifted a painting. Holding it between his palms, keeping it level to the floor, as if it were a tray of jewels that might fall if tilted, he offered the painting to May. She willed her hands not to tremble. She looked until she felt she must move or her pounding heart would break. She passed back the watercolor and thanked the caretaker, who said, “We’re open every Tuesday and Thursday morning.”
May dashed down the stairs and threw open the door. Rain clattered on the stone steps, brisk and precise as British speech. She snapped open her umbrella and strode through puddles, smiling at strangers, wanting to wave her treasured pass. Instead, brimming with confidence, she stopped in a gallery, shook her umbrella by the door, stamped her black tasseled boots, and brushed water from her emerald walking dress. The front room was filled with the biggest paintings, which she knew got the best prices because they depicted stories from the Bible, history, or myths, or at least suggested a narrative meant to stir hearts, such as that of a hungry child, a repentant fallen woman, or the tragic death of a mother. May preferred the smaller paintings hung on the pale green walls of a side room. A blue bowl of lemons, a vase of unfurling tulips, a brown rabbit that made her feel like she was looking out a window, rather than listening to a sermon.
She asked to see the manager and was led to a room where a gentleman looked over her work, sliding out a painting of the stone church in Brittany and one of her Alpine landscapes. He said, “Charming, with the little donkeys.”
“I believe they’re goats.”
“I’ve never been good with animals, but I know distinguished art from bad. From your accent, I presume you’re American.”
“Is that a problem?”
“On the contrary. I hear they don’t buy much art at home but like to bring back souvenirs from Europe. When they’re painted by their countrymen, they can show they’re patriots as well as travelers of means. But they want pictures of places beloved of sightseers. Could you bring in some views of Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, done in your fine pen-and-ink style?”
RETURNING TO THE INN, MAY QUICKLY CHANGED into her evening dress, but she was still late meeting Louisa and Mr. Niles in a room where a waiter unfolded their linen serviettes, turned over their glasses, and poured water under chandeliers with dangling crystals. After greetings, May described her triumph. “I’ll get to see works few others see in the room of Turner paintings.”
“Splendid.” Louisa lifted her glass.
“Yes, indeed. And I have good news, too.” Mr. Niles ordered oysters, Soupe à la Reine, and roast beef. He turned back to Louisa and gave her a bound copy of Little Men. “It just came from the printer.”
They passed the book back and forth, then May held it to her nose. Its scent mingled with beef, hothouse roses, and warm beeswax from the candles.
“You might read it as well as smell it. Anyway, now we can go home,” Louisa said.
“So soon?” May asked.
“We’ve been away almost a year.”
“Then what difference would a few more weeks make? You could write in England as well as Massachusetts. Think of Dickens and Shakespeare!” May said.
“I’ll check schedules.” Mr. Niles reached into a leather satchel by his feet. “And I brought you more mail.”
The way, May thought, to avoid an argument and win her sister’s heart.
When they returned to their room, Louisa pored over Mother’s letters. May opened her small watercolor box, filled a cup with water from a pitcher, and began sketching a river.
Louisa commented as she read. “I was afraid of this. The housekeepers I persuaded Mother to engage don’t suit. One makes the tea too strong. Another cooks soup that’s always too salty.”
“There’s Father, and now Anna has moved in for good.”
“You know we can’t count on Father to remember whether he’s eaten breakfast, never mind to fix Mother tea and toast. She says she misses the way you put the house all in apple pie order. And poor Anna has been too long with no sisters to ease her burdens. Mother doesn’t spell things out, but it seems the fatherless boys get into more than mischief, and Anna is too grief-stricken to set them straight.”
“I think of her every day, but really, what can we do?”
“Our duty. We’ve been selfish long enough.”
May squeezed the water from her paintbrush, set it down, and lightly tugged her silver locket. With one sister now a widow caring for two little boys and another who was saving the family from financial ruin, she had little chance of seeming anything but f
rivolous. Perhaps time out of Massachusetts had made the word selfish seem less of a weapon, worn down, like a blunted blade. She said, “It’s as if I traveled this far just to see these Turner watercolors. Even if I can’t paint something as amazing as his rivers, if I stayed here, I might makes copies for tourists. My new friend, Mr. Ramsey, says he earns a living that way. Turner himself started out as a copyist. If I can’t manage that, I can teach or sew.”
“It’s not just the paintings, is it, that’s keeping you here? I suppose you could do worse than Mr. Niles.”
“Goodness. He’s attentive, but when he takes my arm, it’s with no sense that he’s a man and I a single lady.”
“Would you have him grope?”
“There’s something between leering and good manners. A gentleman shouldn’t sneak looks into a bodice, but there’s nothing wrong with a glance across a throat.”
“He spends half the year on the continent.”
“I may be thirty, but desire doesn’t stop.”
Louisa blushed, then said, “I understand. I really do. When I was in Europe the last time with Miss Weld, at our inn by Lake Geneva, I met a boy who was recovering from an illness he got while helping the Polish rebellion. He played the violin quite sweetly. We talked about Goethe and rowed on the lake. But I knew it could never be serious. He might have been twenty-one. I could have been his mother.”
“Perhaps if you gave birth at thirteen. You never saw him again after you left Switzerland? Did you look for him when we were there?”
“I saw him once in France after I left Miss Weld and before I sailed home. We had one perfect day. And night.”
“Louisa!”
“We didn’t do anything indecent. But in Paris, you can stay out until dawn, and we did. We went to the theater, then a café by the Seine, where gas lamps reflected in the river. We climbed a hill in Montmartre to watch the sun rise over the city. We walked back past flower stalls, smelling fresh bread women carried from bakeries, hearing street sweepers yell at cats. Then I told him I was going home.”
Little Woman in Blue Page 16