The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  A memory of receiving the reviews of Little Women burned through her mind. She flinched and closed her eyes briefly before looking at her friend. She knew the pain of rejection all too well and uncurled her fingers from the arms of her chair, straightening them to stretch the blood back into each one. “Your painting was beautiful. Those roses, all of the texture, and subtly with shading—it showed great skill. The judges got it wrong. I’m sorry, but please, don’t quit Paris, don’t leave.”

  “Thank you, you’re kind, but my mind is made up,” Alice said with a taut expression. “Don’t worry, I’ll pay my part of the rent through June.”

  “Rent is my last concern. I shall miss you.”

  After that evening, Alice never confessed to feeling disappointed again, but things shifted, and a distance yawned between the two women. As Alice closed her affairs in Paris, she no longer sought May out for any last shopping trips or excursions. Conversations felt stilted. May missed the easy companionship they once enjoyed. Alice remained true to her word and left Paris for Boston within two weeks.

  MARY CASSATT’S PAINTING also suffered disappointment. May dreaded facing her, but nevertheless visited her friend’s studio on rue de Laval and found Mary sitting on a couch reading a letter. Every aspect of Mary’s studio showed an eye for beauty: the geometric patterned Turkish carpet; the brightly colored Moorish pottery standing on the mantel; the handsome mahogany furniture in the room. Although evening approached, bright light suffused the room, testament to the high rent the space required. Mary’s expression looked weary, but she greeted May warmly, congratulating her on the acceptance to the Salon. “You’ve been working with such dedication. I’m thrilled to see your success,” she assured May.

  “Thank you. I’d be completely disingenuous if I claimed to not care. My family is going to be so pleased by this.”

  “They should be. I’m stung by my own rejection, but am beginning to wonder if this is an indication I need to rethink my approach to painting. We’ll see.” She looked down at a letter dangling loosely in her hand, bit her lip, and attempted to smile.

  “What’s happened?” May’s first thought was that Mary had received news from home about her sister, Lydia, who was beset by chronic health problems.

  Mary stood and drifted to the window. “One of my dearest friendships appears to have ended.”

  May rose to stand by her side.

  The blue light of the late afternoon gave Mary’s complexion a waxy appearance and made the shadows of her face a dark violet. May followed her friend’s gaze out across the street to the view of windows across the way. Lights flickered on, and the outlines of people darted in and out of the windows. Olive greens and indigos appeared in the shadowed stonework of the buildings, and a brilliant flame of orange outlined the mansard rooftops in the distance as the sun began its slow burn downward.

  “My friend, Emily Sartain, and I appear to have fallen out of favor with one another. She is closed to any new ideas about painting and thinks I’m crazy to be entertaining the possibility of exhibiting with the Impressionists next year.”

  A maid entered the studio carrying a tray of hot chocolate and biscuits, distracting May from her surprise at Mary’s revelation about joining the Impressionists. The women left the window and took seats to serve themselves from the tea platter. The teacups were so delicate and thin, they let the light through like the pink of a rabbit’s ear. Swirls of gold paint and roses decorated the china. May took a sip of her chocolate and admired the array of paintings and lithographs dotting the walls.

  Mary pointed to a canvas hanging above them. “I recently purchased this from Berthe Morisot. Do you like it?”

  “Her colors are so vivid.” Almost lurid, May thought.

  “Yes, Madame Morisot is a talent. I envy the way she has boldly created a unique style for herself.” Mary’s face looked wistful.

  “It’s easy to be bold when you have resources to fall back upon,” May said, knowing of Madame Morisot’s wealthy aristocratic Parisian family.

  Mary stirred her hot chocolate. The ticking of a clock on the mantel echoed through the studio. “You’re always so practical.”

  “I have to be. I’m trying to support myself.”

  “Many of the Impressionist painters we saw in that show are also trying to support themselves.”

  “Yes, and they’re making it dreadfully hard to earn a living by distancing themselves from the establishment.”

  “Well, I’m considering joining this group of painters because I’m tired of the Salon. Its system is too rigid in its values. I’ve worked too hard to be a victim of the politics of the game any longer. Monsieur Degas has been pressing his case for me to join his band of renegade painters for several months now.”

  May thought back to the man with the intense expression she had glimpsed at the art show the previous month, and Mary’s reticence toward discussing him. Now it seemed the two artists were in regular communication with each other. May put down her teacup, for she didn’t want her shaking hands to betray her shock. Since childhood, Mary’s art instruction had been exemplary. In America, she’d enrolled at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, and, once abroad, she joined the master studios of Chaplin, Couture, and Gérôme—Mary represented everything May admired and respected. Now Mary stood poised to push her ambitions to a point that appeared inconceivable to May. “So you’re really going to do it?”

  “Yes. Why should the government tell us what art should look like? Artists should have the freedom to represent the world as they see it without fear they will be ridiculed by a government-sponsored show.” Mary placed an uneaten cookie back on her plate. “I apologize for getting my dander up, but I’ve worked too hard to suffer these indignities any further.”

  “I admire your daring.” May wondered if Mary’s emotions would settle as time passed and excitement over the Salon died down. Perhaps this rebellion would be short lived.

  “I know, I know, it probably seems crazy, but I just can’t pretend to make something that doesn’t feel authentic to me.”

  “You remind me of my sister. She writes all of these books that don’t really interest her. She would be happier if she could simply write what she wants.”

  They both nodded, looking into their teacups. After making plans to meet at the Salon the following week, Mary walked May to the door and took her hand. “Thank you.”

  “For what? You’re the one who served me a delightful tea,” May said, laughing as she looked into her friend’s dark eyes.

  “For understanding me.”

  “Honestly, I don’t understand what you’re doing, but I suppose I understand why you’re doing it.”

  “I can always count on you to be opinionated and honest, yet you don’t judge. It’s a rare combination.”

  The two women squeezed hands, and May walked out the door.

  When Mary had first befriended her, May often wondered what the more accomplished artist saw in her; undoubtedly Mary possessed connections to wealthier society types, and her commissions and fluent French provided her with access into the world of Parisian artists. But over time, May came to see Mary for what she was: a woman caught in between spheres that did not quite fit together. The expatriate American society in Paris bored Mary; the insular male-dominated culture of painters in Paris did not fully accept her. May understood the challenge, for she didn’t fit neatly into a category either.

  Chapter 30

  Varnishing Day was upon them, the day to preview her painting at the Salon, the day to touch up her work and make adjustments before the show’s doors opened to the public. May’s hands felt clammy just thinking about it all. What if her beloved still life was hanging in some out-of-the-way corner? What if the lighting was too dark?

  Rose Peckham, a woman from her class, joined her at the Palais de l’Industrie, and May was thankful she did. Paint boxes littered the floors, and ladders blocked many of the walls. The sheer magnitude of the number of pieces of art took May�
�s breath away.

  “How on earth will I find my painting?” May grimaced as she looked at the thickness of the program in her hand.

  “It’s alphabetical. See?” Rose smiled and pointed to the first page of names and led May forward along the hallway. “Your painting can’t be too far in here.” Each room looked like a motley collection of assorted genres, colors, and sizes that left May’s head spinning.

  “I’m just so worried that my little still life is going to be tucked behind a door somewhere.”

  Rose grabbed her arm. “Here. I’ve found your painting, and it’s right on the sight line. Could you be any luckier?” She tugged May over to a wall. May followed with her heart in her throat and stopped in front of her work. Her humble little still life could have been dwarfed by some of the larger canvases surrounding it, but its vibrant colors made it glow proudly, a nudge over the line that was considered to be the ideal placement. May stopped breathing. It was here, at the Salon. Her painting. Thousands had been turned down, but her work was accepted. Her pulse raced and she inhaled deeply. If only Marmee could see it.

  “I don’t dare touch it. Am I daft?”

  “Your location couldn’t be any better.” Rose took a step back and squinted. “I’m not sure I’d take the chance either. It looks perfect.”

  “I’m so dizzy with excitement, I’m worried my hands would shake and splatter paint everywhere.”

  “Well then, let’s not take any chances. Shall we go mingle?”

  Rose took her arm and the two women roamed the hallways, previewing the other art. May caught sight of a familiar figure, standing by herself in a black dress, a cigarette held between two fingers.

  “Miss Gardner?”

  The woman turned. The same narrow pale face from Boston one year earlier gazed back at May. “So, you finally made it to Paris. Do you have some work here?”

  “Yes, a small still life.”

  “Good for you.” Miss Gardner’s distracted smile became warmer. “Now the hard work really begins—you’ll have to capitalize on this victory.” She gave a rueful laugh and turned to look at the wall crowded with paintings, all vying for attention.

  “Which one is yours?” May asked.

  Miss Gardner nodded her head to a large frame of two women standing over the baby Moses in a basket by the water’s edge. “This painting has been the death of me. I’ve been working on it for over a year.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you. The critics say it resembles my mentor’s work too much. I’ve told those bloody reviewers that if my work looks like his, good—after all, Bouguereau’s the best.” She dropped the cigarette to the floor and crushed it out with the toe of her boot. “And God knows, this isn’t my first show. Maybe his work looks like mine, but no, they never say a man’s work is derivative.”

  May and Rose watched the other American chew her lip.

  Miss Gardner glanced over at them. “Sorry, you’re catching me in a strange mood.”

  “Well, this is a strange day. We all show up to see our work and size up everyone else’s while the anticipation of tomorrow hangs over everyone.”

  “Yes, tomorrow’s the real circus. Normally I enjoy the pageantry of it all, but this year . . .” She sighed and put her hands on her hips while her eyes swept over the room to see if anyone was watching them. She took a step closer to May. “This year has been a tough one for me.”

  May leaned in closer to hear more.

  “I’ve been studying with Bouguereau, and he’s inspired me in so many ways—he’s a true kindred spirit to me. But his wife died last week, and it’s turned everything to rot.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure you can.” She paused and spoke quietly as if speaking to herself. “I can barely understand what’s happening myself.”

  They stood side by side, an island in the midst of surging currents of people surrounding them. Miss Gardner appeared to be in a bad way: chapped lips, shadows under her eyes, and ragged cuticles on her fingers. She fidgeted at her dress’s collar below her chin.

  “Miss Gardner, it will all be fine. Go home and get some rest for tomorrow.”

  “Look how the tables have turned; now you’re the one propping me up. And honestly, we’ve known each other for too long for you to still be calling me Miss Gardner. Call me Jane.” She rummaged inside the small satchel she was carrying before handing May a card. “Please, call on me. Good luck tomorrow.”

  May watched as Jane’s slender figure cut through the crowds. People recognized her and spread to open a path.

  THAT EVENING MAY wrote a letter home to tell her family all about her thrilling day. Nearly eight months had passed since she exchanged letters with Louisa; it was time to extend an olive branch. She ended it with an upbeat boast.

  Who would have imagined my good fortune would finally arrive in the form of a painting barely larger than a postage stamp? This is proof that Louisa does not monopolize all of the Alcott talent! Ha! Sister, this is the first feather plucked from your cap, and I shall endeavor to fill mine with so many waving in the breeze that you will be quite ready to lay down your pen and rest on the laurels you’ve already won.

  Love,

  May

  The thrill of Opening Day filled May with a pride that threatened to make her burst. It all passed by in a crushing swirl of bright colors, cigar smoke, feathers, silk, satin, top hats, and sparkling jewelry. She saw all of her classmates and teachers from Monsieur Krug’s and caught glimpses of some of the well-known artists, reporters, and writers working in Paris. Even the famous actress Sarah Bernhardt toured the exhibition.

  At the end of the day, May and Rose collapsed in the drawing room of May’s apartment after stopping at Tortoni on boulevard des Italiens for ices and sorbet.

  “My feet might be permanently stuck in these boots—they feel swollen from walking around so much today,” May said. Her cheeks ached from smiling.

  “Did you see the man who came through with the parrot perched on his shoulder?”

  “Only in Paris.”

  Over the next few days, her victory at the Salon seemed increasingly hollow. May missed Alice. Her dearest friend had left without a backward glance, and it stung. May tried not to think that their relationship was over. Despite the positive reviews May’s painting received in the Salon, no commission inquiries came her way. Without long-standing roots and connections in Paris, she couldn’t sell her work. No sales meant no summer classes with master painters out in the country. No sales meant that she couldn’t afford the apartment on rue Mansart either. She did not have a plan for what to do when she ran out of money. The only thing she knew was that she couldn’t ask Louisa to pay for anything.

  The summer closure of Monsieur Krug’s studio also meant the disbandment of her circle of fellow artists. During her discussions with her other painters, the town of Grez kept popping up. The village, south of Paris on the outskirts of the Fontainebleau Forest, had become an informal artist’s colony during the summer, an alternative to better-known Barbizon and Giverny. Grez sounded more and more like the ideal spot for May to shore up her options for fall, but she needed a travel companion and ticked the possibilities off on her fingers—Mary had left for Italy with her family; Alice was gone; Rose Peckham planned to visit Switzerland—but then an idea struck her. May knew exactly who she’d ask.

  Chapter 31

  July 25, 1877

  Grez-sur-Loing, France

  Dearest Violet,

  I’ve pulled up stakes from Paris to escape to a quaint artist’s retreat south of Paris. This tiny enclave is just the respite I need after all of my hard work in the city last winter. I’ve brought my friend Jane Gardner with me. When I visited her studio to invite her to join me, she practically had her bag packed before I was done telling her about Grez. You would adore her adventurous spirit and irreverent sense of humor. Now that I think on it, you would adore everything about this getaway.

  Grez is
so small, there’s only room for two modest hotels. It’s really more of a jumble of stone buildings with slate roofs than a village. Jane and I decided to stay at the Pension Laurent, for its quaint stone façade promised to stay cool, no matter how warm the days become. We’ve been adopted into a motley assortment of writers and painters who have descended upon this little treasure of a spot, ostensibly to hone their craft, but in reality their time is spent drinking red wine, cavorting in the river, playing games, dancing, and carousing late into the early hours of each day. Their prescription for recovery from the highs and lows of artistic life has been just what I needed.

  There’s one fellow, a Scotsman, who offered some romance, but he’s a poet, and I’ve no need for more writers in my life. I served as a muse for Louisa once—I have no interest in reprising that role. Though I’ve always admired your marriage with Mr. Keith, I’ve begun to think that I’ve missed my opportunity to find a similar partnership. My thirty-seventh birthday arrives tomorrow, and against all of my expectations, I’m still on my own. I know what you’re thinking—I can practically hear you calling out to me to take a chance on love, but I’m just too far down this path and must stay focused on the job at hand: art.

  Yours,

  May

  She put down her pen and leaned back, stretching her arms up overhead, wishing that Violet was not half a world away. Though she kept telling herself that age meant nothing, she knew that wasn’t exactly true, time was passing—was it passing her by? Her life did not seem to be unfolding the way she had always pictured, and though she continued to remind herself to enjoy the unexpected delights in her path, a sense of absence lingered.

  She let herself think back to when she and Jane had arrived in Grez. Eager to stretch out their legs after the hour-long train ride, the two women had walked away from the village to the river.

  They followed a worn path that dipped down into a copse of trees to meet the riverbank, leading them to encounter a group of men and women picnicking beside the water. Abandoned empty wine bottles glittered in the grass and several rowboats appeared to be racing on the river. One veered in toward the shore where May and Jane watched with growing interest.