The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  Raindrops sluiced down the windows, the rivulets mesmerizing Louisa. Color started to come back to her face. “No. We’ll stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, of course. Our sister is husbandless. She shall not be penniless.”

  “WEREN’T YOU FRIENDS with Anne Whitney back in Boston?”

  “The sculptor?” Louisa’s nose hovered a couple of inches off the page in front of her as she wrote furiously. Less than a week had passed since learning of John’s death, and already Louisa was immersed in writing a new novel. “Calling her a friend might be a bit of a stretch.”

  “Was she not a member of your abolitionists group?”

  Louisa raised her head. Her dull eyes, along with a smudge of ink on her cheekbone, made her look weary and battered. “She was quite a bit older than me, but yes, we worked on a few projects together. Her bossiness wore on me. She got all puffed up after her sculpture Africa became well-known.”

  “Apparently she’s here in Rome now.” May held up the newspaper she was reading. “This Boston paper mentions a small show of her work in a gallery on Piazza di Spagna. If you write me a letter of introduction, I’d like to go meet her.”

  “She’s very serious and not one for social visits. I doubt you’ll have much in common with her.”

  May stifled her impatience. Why did Louisa always think May lacked dedication to her work? “I can be serious about art. Maybe she’ll have some ideas for me about finding an instructor.”

  “Why do you need an instructor? Just work on your own.”

  “But it has gotten so cold, I’ll have rheumatism in no time if I copy in the Ludovisi. Remember how few of those tiny heaters were scattered around the hallways? I could use a studio. And it would be nice to work with some models. Finding an instructor really is the best way to do this. It’s certainly the most cost-effective . . .” May’s voice trailed off as Louisa gave her a long stare.

  “I’ll write the letter this evening.”

  “Thank you.”

  Without another glance, Louisa hunched back over her writing and continued working. May knew she was already blurring into the background of her sister’s mind. May envied her sister’s ability to escape her grief by burying herself in writing. Even in Dr. Rimmer’s class, May had never felt completely absorbed in her art the way Louisa seemed to lose herself in writing. Responsibility weighed on May—she had to take care of Louisa, their parents, the care of Apple Slump. Somehow Louisa pushed aside all domestic pressures and thoughts of the outside world while she worked. Her single-mindedness verged on obsession, leaving her ill, exhausted, and difficult. May certainly didn’t want to behave the same way, but nevertheless, she couldn’t help but wonder: Did her lack of obsession make her less serious, less of an artist? She had managed to squeeze in some quick sketching sessions here and there, but it had been months since May had dedicated herself to a daily practice of creating art. Could she have lost all of the progress she had made in Boston? She needed to find out.

  Chapter 13

  Anne Whitney, a sturdy woman with white frizzled hair, greeted May into her studio on Via di San Nicola da Tolentino and gestured her toward a circle of chairs set up around a small table in a corner near the fireplace. “Addy?” She called over her shoulder toward the back of the studio. “Remember my friend Miss Alcott, the writer? Come and meet the other Alcott sister.” She turned back to May, revealing spatters of clay dotting her black silk dress. “Sorry, for the spartan entertaining quarters. I don’t like to host salons when I should be working.”

  May, with her fair hair curled into ringlets running down her spine, realized she probably looked as though she was on her way to a salon. In her navy blue silk dress bedecked with fashionable braid trim (to hide a fraying hem) and a purse that coordinated too much with her outfit—no doubt she resembled a dilettante. She regretted spending so much time at her toilette, but then shook off her doubts. What was she supposed to do? Smear some paint on her dress to make her more acceptable to Miss Whitney? She sat up straighter and smoothed down the bodice of her dress, ignoring Anne’s impatient greeting. “You have a pleasant spot. The lighting is good.”

  The walls were crowded with lithographs, photographs, and sketches, some framed, others simply tacked up. A damp, earthy smell of clay hung in the air.

  Anne eyed May suspiciously as if she could see right through her. “Where are you two living?”

  “We took some rooms off the Piazza Barberini.”

  Anne raised her bushy eyebrows. “You picked a fashionable area.” She said it in a tone that implied fashion was to be avoided at all costs. “It took us a while to figure out renting an apartment is the most economical way to live around here. We used an American agent. I don’t trust the Italians as far as I can throw them.”

  May ran a hand over her mouth to hide a smile; Anne’s broad shoulders and stout build made the sculptor appear to be quite capable of giving most Italians a sizable toss. “A friend of ours recommended the neighborhood.”

  Anne narrowed her eyes. “Who?”

  “George Healy. He painted my sister’s portrait when we first arrived.”

  “Did she like the final painting?”

  “Oh, yes, she took quite a shine to him. He has such a lively studio.” A visit to Mr. Healy’s studio always promised great fun, for he regaled the sisters endlessly with gossip about everyone in Rome. Unfortunately for May, demand for his portraiture services prevented him from offering lessons. “Since we will be staying here for a bit while Louisa writes a new book, I’m looking for some art instruction. Do you know of anyone offering lessons?”

  “Well, there’s young Frederic Crownover from Boston. He’s part of a three-ring circus involving many of the male artists over on Via Margutta.” Anne looked dour. “It’s a wonder he has any time to paint. These men, they’re a bunch of rowdies, but I’ve heard he takes students. Or he may know of someone else who does.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a younger woman joining them. She wiped her charcoal-smudged hands on a rag, smoothed down her dark hair, and gave May a kind smile. Anne introduced her as Adeline Manning.

  “Shall we give her a taste of home?” Miss Manning asked Anne.

  The older woman gave a gruff assent. “Loretta can make a serviceable Indian pie.” Sure enough, their Italian maid brought out a round dish of corn bread. “I’ve been working with her to create a repertoire of American foods for us to eat. How do you find the food here?”

  “I like Roman food more than I liked French food, though when we first arrived, we tried some of those restaurant meals that arrive in tins.”

  “Those can be pretty dreadful,” Addy said, with a sympathetic grimace as she took a seat next to May.

  “True, they inspired us to find a housekeeper, who is a marvelous cook. I’ve become quite addicted to eating the artichokes our Lavinia prepares.”

  “I’m not sure saying Italian food is better than the Frenchie’s is saying much.” Anne leaned back while she waited for Loretta to slice up the corn bread. Their housekeeper handed out pieces of bread with a blank expression while the American women talked about Louisa’s recent successes for several minutes. “So, your sister wrote that you paint. What kind of painting do you do?”

  “Mostly watercolor landscapes.”

  “Watercolor landscapes?” Anne stopped with a forkful of corn bread midway to her mouth. “And what do you bring to these?”

  May wondered what in the world she was supposed to say.

  “Well, what’s the point of your landscapes? Are you experimenting with a new composition or technique? Anyone can paint watercolor landscapes.”

  Addy gave a scolding look to Anne, who ignored her.

  May wanted to rise and leave without saying another word. Visiting this old harpy was a terrible idea. Did May need a political cause behind her art? A message about the state of humanity? “I’m trying to record the beauty of what’s around me,” she said lamely.

&
nbsp; “You’re going to need more than a wishy-washy idea of beauty if you’re really trying to make a career as an artist.” Several crumbs of corn bread remained caught in the white whiskery hairs above her upper lip, and Addy leaned in toward Anne, brushing the crumbs from the older woman’s face gently. Anne tossed her linen napkin onto the table and rubbed at her fingers as if to emphasize that the physicality of sculpture was exhausting. More exhausting than painting, of course. “Now, let’s take a tour of my studio. I have important work to show you.”

  WHEN SHE RETURNED home that evening, May picked at her dinner while Louisa sat at her desk, massaging her left shoulder with her right hand. “These awful steel-nibbed pens are making my right thumb go numb, so I’ve taught myself to write with my left hand. It’s still a little awkward, but I’m getting better.”

  May looked over at the handwriting on the page in front of her sister and saw it was legible—a bit of a scrawl, but definitely legible.

  “Now I can switch back and forth between hands. When one gets tired, I just switch to the other.”

  “So now you really can write all day and all night.” May rubbed her temples. “Come on, take a break with me.”

  The two women curled up on the love seat in front of the fireplace. May took her sister’s feet onto her lap and massaged some circulation into them.

  “Did you get a letter of introduction for Crownover?”

  “No, I couldn’t take a single favor from that woman. I’ll figure something out.”

  “You can be too proud. She could help you, if you let her.”

  “I know, you’re right, but I just couldn’t help myself. Anne was tiresome, but the thing is . . . when I looked at her sculptures today, I felt so . . . so inconsequential.”

  May thought back to the moment earlier in the day when the sculptor had pulled a clay-streaked cloth off a lump on the table in her studio to reveal the figure of a seated old woman carved in clay. Anne spluttered her disgust at how the Romans frittered away money on building one palazzo after another while ignoring the needs of the poor and elderly. “That money—church money”—Anne had shaken a fist as she spoke—“the Papists should be using it to serve those in need. These Papists are a load of hypocrites.”

  The Catholic excesses in the city went against everything in May’s Protestant upbringing, but still, she could not help but be fascinated by the pomp of the ceremonies, and the endless festivals clogging Rome’s streets, and the mangy relics. (Really, how many digits did some of these saints have? And how many pieces of the cross could there possibly be?) She loved to sit in the pews of Rome’s many cathedrals and stare up at the putti flitting around on a soaring dome overhead. She would imagine herself back in the Renaissance and feel the awe a peasant from the countryside must have felt when entering one of these magnificent buildings for the first time. Yes, it was all overdone, but May could see why people believed in God when she absorbed the beauty of Rome’s churches and cathedrals.

  May grabbed a poker and stoked the fire from her spot next to the fireplace. “It’s just that she’s creating work of importance. It’s all infused with meaning and morality, it all has a message. And I’ve just been scratching away at landscapes.” She closed her eyes, trying to find comfort in the warmth of the blaze across her face.

  “Being political all of the time is overvalued. Look where it took Father.”

  “I know. And really, it’s just not in me to be political. All I want to do is create beauty.”

  “So? Create beauty. The world needs more of it.” The embers crumbled, and the fire shifted and sighed. A series of cat screeches outside of the window pierced the night.

  “Miss Whitney pegged me as a mere dabbler.”

  “Don’t mind her. Anne’s always been self-important. Back in the day, she’d carry on at those abolitionist meetings endlessly. She was a poet at the time. Few people think they’re more profound than poets.” Louisa chuckled and turned away from May, her face hidden in the dark. “This fellow Crownover will accept you. People always want to help you.”

  “Me? People are interested in you. I’m merely the other Alcott.”

  “I’m famous for writing a book I would never have chosen to write. And everyone expects to meet Jo March when they meet me. Then they see I’m not the vivacious girl they’ve pictured. I’m old and plain and certainly not as pretty as you.” She pulled her feet off May’s lap and wrapped her arms around her knees. “And now I’m giving them even more with this new manuscript.”

  “More of what?”

  “More reasons to lurk in our yard staring up at the door, more reasons to flood me with requests to baptize babies. More reasons to meet me and be disappointed with what they find, I suppose. I’m continuing with the character Jo March, and she has started a school with her husband. I’m thinking of calling it Little Men.”

  “Is Amy March in this one?”

  Louisa sighed and leaned her head against the back of the couch. “I’m sorry you’ve never liked her.”

  “But do you really think I’m like her?”

  Louisa stretched her arms over her head and shuddered as several joints cracked. “I needed a comedic character, a foil to Jo. Using Amy seemed like a good idea. You’ve always been so golden, so popular, so resilient. I didn’t think you’d mind. Don’t forget every sister, with the exception of Beth, has some humbling moments in the story. You’ve taken Amy March too personally. So, to answer your original question, no, Amy March isn’t in this story. You’re free to live your real life. No more fiction.”

  May contemplated a life without Little Women. Where would she be if Amy March did not exist? Probably back in Concord calling one of her old Art Club meetings to order. Although May hated to admit it, Louisa’s book set her off on a path from which there was no deviating now that she understood what was possible in the world. “You must enjoy your success and stop worrying.”

  “But that’s impossible while you all depend on me.”

  Louisa’s matter-of-fact words woke May to the reality of their situation as if she had been carried outside and dumped into the icy waters of the Triton fountain. Louisa was at the center of the family; her income supported them all. As Anne Whitney had made all too clear, May was out of her depth and depended entirely upon her sister. Her parents did, too. Father’s lectures received fresh life from Louisa’s rise to literary fame; on his lecture pamphlets, he always made sure to include wording to emphasize he was the father of the famous authoress. And now Anna and her children were dependent.

  “Once I’m an artist, I’ll be able to help the family out, too. I really will.”

  “But aren’t you an artist now? When will you—as you say—become an artist?”

  May fiddled with the fabric of her skirt. “I need more training.”

  “We all probably need more training. At a certain point, you just have to move forward and hope for the best. You have talent. For more than just art. I envy your ability to rise along over the waves that threaten to tug the rest of us down. You’re unsinkable.”

  May pulled at a tassel on the shawl around her shoulders. There was so much she did not know how to do. The reviews of Little Women made that clear to her, and everyone else, for that matter. When would she feel ready to declare herself an artist? When would the moment of transformation occur? At what point would she feel as though she knew what she was doing? The first time she sold a painting? May tried to think back to a demarcation between Louisa’s dreaming of being a writer and when her ambitions were realized and could come up with nothing.

  Chapter 14

  May searched the placards next to each door along the Via Margutta, pushing tentacles of ivy away from house numbers on the ocher-colored stucco walls. Planks of wood leaned next to a doorway, waiting to be hammered into canvas frames. The clink of chiseling emerged from an open window. The neighborhood boasted a long history dating back to the Middle Ages of being an enclave of artists and craftsmen from all over Europe. When she found
a small tile painted with F. Crownover next to a dark green door, she almost did a jig, right there on the cobblestoned street.

  It seemed mad to simply show up at the doorstep of his studio, but she took a deep breath and knocked anyway. A young man with dark blond hair and a Vandyke beard answered the door and raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Good day, I’m looking for Mr. Crownover.”

  The man appeared perplexed, but grinned good-naturedly. “Well, look no farther. You’ve found him.” The artist signaled May to come in as she spoke. Behind him, on a white sheet, a plump gurgling baby lay on his back, perched on a long table. “My son is modeling for me today,” he explained. An attractive woman with copper-colored hair pulled into a chignon appeared at his elbow.

  “How do you do? I’m May Alcott, from Boston.” May paused, unsure how to proceed, and looked down at the baby trying to wrangle a pudgy foot into his mouth. “I . . . I’m spending the winter here in Rome and am looking for some art instruction.”

  Crownover shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t take students.”

  May blinked and struggled for something to say. She needed this plan to work. She couldn’t leave empty-handed.

  His wife stepped forward, looking intently at May. “Your last name is Alcott? Did you say you’re from Boston? What are you doing here in Rome?”

  May explained she was in Europe for the first time, traveling with her sister.

  The woman nodded with a satisfied smile. “Welcome, I’m Helen Crownover. Frederic, we can’t possibly leave a fellow Bostonian in the lurch. At least, let’s see your portfolio, shall we?” She led May farther into the room with whitewashed exposed brick walls. “Tell us about how you got here.”

  May described her lessons in Boston and itinerary through Europe while spreading out her work. Mr. Crownover hung her best sketches on clips strung along the wall. May studied the selection of what he had chosen and chewed the inside of her cheek. Were the lines too wobbly on her landscape sketches of the viaduct in Dinan? How had she never noticed the neck was too long on that figure study from Rimmer’s class—why had she included it in her portfolio? She tried to steal a sideways glance at the man to gauge what he was thinking.