The Other Alcott

by Elise Hooper

  Ernest let go of May’s waist, but he remained standing next to her.

  She thought about the envelope containing the check hidden behind the painting in her studio. If she fetched it now and presented it to Ernest, the check would solve everything. Yet it was Louisa’s money. Once again, she would be indebted to her sister. Her hair rose on the back of her neck. She could not be reduced to that position again. They both looked out onto the dusky valley below, saying nothing before turning back to go into the kitchen. After a quiet supper, Ernest retired upstairs, complaining of a wearisome day with several of the agents with whom he worked.

  May settled into her studio. She sifted through her receipts from her dealers and scratched out some numbers onto a scrap of paper. She glanced up at her watercolor of Orchard House, but left it untouched and went upstairs. When she entered the bedroom, she found Ernest resting his elbows on the windowsill and looking out at the dark sky. The smell of the honeysuckle bush below their window drifted through the open shutters. May changed into her nightgown and brushed out her hair before moving to stand behind her husband at the window.

  “I just looked at my bills of sale. I can pay for classes at Monsieur Julian’s while also bringing in some extra money through my work with the galleries.”

  Ernest continued to stare out the window. “How will you find the time to do all of this?”

  “I will paint on the weekends. We may not always have time to loll around on Sunday afternoons anymore, but there will still be time for us.” May reached out to lay a hand on Ernest’s shoulder, and he rose from stooping at the window. She stepped next to him, feeling the warmth of his body against the cool air drifting in from the window, and wrapped her arms around him while stepping backward to lead him toward bed.

  AFTERWARD, THEY LAY on their backs in the dark with their eyes open. Ernest rolled onto his side and stroked May’s bare shoulder. “I said I would never ask you to give up your painting.”

  May said nothing and felt his hand as it moved down and brushed along her breasts. Sharp callouses on his fingertips gave her a jolt of wakefulness, and she turned her head to look at him.

  He gave a tired smile. “I meant what I said. I would never ask you to give up your art, but we will barely be able to afford your new studio time.”

  “I know.” May looked away and closed her eyes. If she simply walked downstairs and removed the check from the back of the watercolor of Orchard House, she could alleviate Ernest’s concerns about money. But there would be a cost to that decision she was unwilling to pay. She remained in bed.

  Chapter 39

  On a cloudy day in September, under a low ceiling of clouds, May took the train into Paris and walked to the Passage des Panoramas for her first day at the Académie Julian. A damp breeze nipped at her skirts as she strode down the sidewalk, making her wonder if the weather would improve or if rain was on the way.

  When she arrived in the airy studio, her feet froze in the doorway. She almost turned and walked back out. Instead, she was greeted by the studio’s assistant and completed the terms of joining the class. There was no acceptance process here in Paris. If an art student had the money, she could join a teaching studio. If she was bad, she would be ridiculed and told to leave and find a new profession. Paris had no room for niceties.

  She found an open easel and placed her paint box down, watching a model move into her first pose at the front of the room. The woman stood with her head tilted away from May. Loosely draped gauzy fabric revealed the fullness of her breasts, the taper of her hips, and the roundness of her backside. She stood proudly with her long arms resting gracefully along her sides and curly hair loosely gathered atop her head. Her weight rested to one side to form a long sinuous line. Forty other women stood at their easels, focused on their work. May turned toward her paint box and pulled out tubes of paint and some brushes, hoping if she looked confident, perhaps she would feel it.

  Two years had passed since she had worked from a live model. Closing her eyes, May reduced the figure in her mind’s eye to its most basic lines and shapes. After opening her eyes and assessing the model, May decided the figure would stand at about seven heads tall, so she drew a vertical line down the paper before creating a slightly curved streak like a single parenthesis on top of the vertical line to represent the woman’s off-center positioning. Next, she divided up the model’s proportions. She found the shoulder and hip marks on the arcing line and blocked in the rib cage and pelvic areas. The process was returning to her, and her arm moved in familiar motions. She sketched in a race against the clock before the model shifted to a new pose. May wanted to get far enough in her sketch to put in tonal variations. She resisted the temptation to look around at the surrounding easels to view the work of her classmates and instead rounded in the shoulders, back, breasts, hips, buttocks, thighs, and calves. A quick rendering of the elbow and knee joints came next, followed by the small lines of fingers and toes. Shading the planes of the body brought out the dimensions of the woman, and May settled into a rhythm. The morning flashed by in a series of poses and a quick refreshing of new paper on her easel. She forgot the fidgeting of classmates around her, the movement of daylight across the floor of the studio, and her body’s own needs as she lost herself in feeling her years of training coming back to her as she created sketch after sketch.

  Monsieur Robert-Fleury, the master painter who ran the atelier, stopped by her easel. “You understand this is life painting, yes?”

  May nodded. She stared at the unsmiling man’s long slope-nosed face.

  “But I see no life here. Just lines and shapes.”

  May was about to explain she was out of practice, but he continued.

  “You must bring something unique to your figure. Clients want to see something of themselves in anything you create.”

  May felt a sting of unfairness. She was simply trying to get a feel for the human figure again, but she said nothing and got out a new sheet of paper. When the class took a break for lunch, May stayed in the studio and looked at the art pinned on the walls. Like Monsieur Krug’s, the studio ran a series of weekly contests to encourage student improvement, but the quality of drawing and painting vastly exceeded the work at her old studio. A line of cartoons ran down the side of a different wall, and she could see several unflattering pictures of Monsieur Robert-Fleury amongst the collection.

  “You’ll want to avoid finding a picture of yourself on this part of the wall,” said a woman’s voice behind her. May turned to see one of her classmates from Monsieur Krug’s studio, standing behind her.

  “Miss Klumpke, I didn’t know you were studying here, too.” The young American’s familiar face was a relief. “Doesn’t Monsieur get mad about these cartoons?”

  “No, some of the women sell them in the newspapers and magazines. Any art form that produces recognition—and better yet, money—is encouraged. It’s much different here than it was at Monsieur Krug’s.”

  “I can tell.”

  Miss Klumpke chuckled. “And just wait until the Russian arrives.”

  “There’s a Russian instructor as well?”

  “No, Monsieur Julian and Monsieur Robert-Fleury are the only regular teachers. But we do have a classmate who fancies herself above the rest of us.” Miss Klumpke gave May a conspiratorial smile. “She’s some sort of Russian nobility, and it’s a one-woman show whenever she’s around. She hasn’t arrived yet. Probably sleeping off too much champagne from last night’s opera.”

  Within minutes the rest of the class returned, and women clustered together talking quietly and reviewing each other’s work in a murmuring of English, German, French, and Italian. A loud commotion at the door and a staccato rapping of heels called everyone’s attention to the back of the room. A young woman, about twenty years old, stomped into the room, a small Roman wolf dog cradled in her arms. She gazed around for an open easel. May realized with dismay that the only one sat next to her. The woman spotted it and elbowed her way through the room,
knocking other people’s materials askew as she passed.

  When she arrived at the open easel, she wrinkled her nose in disdain. “This is a dreadful place. I can’t see a thing.” The Russian glared at everyone, and Monsieur Robert-Fleury picked his way through the room toward her. The woman noticed May. “You’re new.” It was a complaint.

  “Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff, this is Madame Nieriker.” Monsieur Robert-Fleury now stood next to the Russian and gestured at May. His earlier abrasiveness vanished, and he appeared to be slinking around the Russian, trying to appease her. “She exhibited a painting in the Salon of ’77.”

  The Russian’s eyes narrowed, and she took a closer look at May, studying her up and down, before turning to a maid following behind her. “Take Pincio out for a walk but make sure he doesn’t get wet. Use an umbrella.” She held up the little black-and-white furry face and kissed its nose before handing it off to the swaddling arms of the maid. She gave a dismissive wave at Monsieur Robert-Fleury before unfastening her gray silk mantle, letting it drop to the floor in a pile. She kicked it aside to reach her art box and tugged out a handful of paintbrushes.

  Once everyone resumed painting, May discovered her momentum from the morning had vanished. She struggled to try to create something acceptable. The only good thing about standing next to the Russian appeared to be that Monsieur Robert-Fleury avoided her area of the studio, so at least May did not worry he was going to come back to review her work. She returned to working on basic figure sketches. She caught Miss Bashkirtseff looking at her easel with contempt. May looked over at the Russian’s easel, expecting to be mutually unimpressed, but she was amazed to see a graceful rendering of the model in oils.

  At the end of the day, May left the studio wondering if she had made a terrible mistake by returning to the city. She overtook Miss Klumpke in the dank stairwell that reeked of spoiled fruits and vegetables from the market below. The younger woman moved slowly because she walked with a limp; one leg was slightly longer than the other.

  “I fear I shouldn’t have joined this class. I feel so out of practice.”

  “Don’t worry, every day we’re expected to sit somewhere new in the room, so tomorrow let’s sit together.”

  “I could kiss you right now for your generous offer. Thank you.” May shifted her paint box to her other arm. “I recall you being a talented portraitist. Do you think you could help me?”

  “Of course.” They walked a block together discussing basic portraiture strategies. After they separated, May walked alone to the train station, relieved to have found an ally in the new studio. The competition at the Académie Julian appeared to be fiercer than anything she had encountered before.

  May regaled Ernest with all of the details of her new studio at dinner that evening. After they finished their meal and moved into the parlor, their house girl, Sabine, interrupted them with a letter she had forgotten to deliver earlier.

  May recognized the handwriting of Una Hughes and tore the envelope eagerly. “Oh, this is just what I needed after a long day—some happy news from London. I’ll need to write to Una and tell her all about Académie Julian. It’s so different from London.”

  Ernest tuned his violin while May leaned back in the love seat across from him and read her letter. She let out a small cry, causing Ernest to look up from his instrument.

  “What does she say?”

  “It’s Caroline.” May rested her hand at her chest. “She died.”

  Ernest stared at her.

  “Dear God, it says she died after giving birth to a son.” May dropped the letter to her lap and stared at Ernest. “The baby survived.”

  “When did all of this happen?”

  May swallowed back tears, looked back to the letter, and raised it up again to continue reading. “A month ago, apparently. Una reports she’s been caring for the baby to help Robert.” May scanned the letter. “Oh my, she and Robert plan to marry within the next few months.”

  “That’s rather sudden, but I suppose there’s the baby to care for.” At the sight of May’s distraught expression, Ernest propped his violin and bow against the chair and moved to sit next to May on the love seat.

  May was not naïve enough to believe that a widower with a small infant would remain unmarried for long, but she could not help but be a little shocked by the suddenness of it all. “I always admired Caroline. She was so passionate about her poetry.” She leaned into Ernest, remembering Caroline’s talent to affect voices as she read aloud. He took her hands into his.

  “It’s a shame. She was a good friend to you. But at least this way, Una can honor Caroline’s memory by raising her son. It’s better than Robert marrying a stranger.”

  May buried her face into his shoulder and let the wool of Ernest’s jacket scratch her forehead. His Swiss pragmatism was admirable, but her chest ached and her eyes burned. She knew his own mother survived all nine of her pregnancies—a feat that defied all explanation. May understood the dangers of childbirth, but this knowledge did not make the grief any easier to bear.

  “I’m just so tired of losing people. First Lizzie, then John and Marmee, and now Caroline.”

  Ernest nodded his chin against her head. “We will all miss Caroline. What bad luck.”

  May closed her eyes against her husband’s words, thinking about how she had lost Louisa, too.

  MAY BURIED HER sorrow by working and attending the daily sessions at the Académie Julian. Through Monsieur Robert-Fleury’s scalding comments and Miss Klumpke’s more constructive suggestions, May could see improvement in her painting. She had always avoided portraiture in the past, but now she welcomed any opportunity to experiment and try it.

  At the end of one of the afternoon sessions, Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff came by May’s easel. “I hear your older sister is a famous writer in America. I just read her book Little Women. You’re Amy?”

  May nodded as she bent toward her canvas to add more shading to a section.

  “Interesting. I didn’t think it was you, since she is described as beautiful.” The Russian shrugged, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Did you really try sleeping with a clothespin on your nose to make it smaller?”

  May stared at her canvas for a moment to settle her composure before arranging a smile onto her face. “It’s a shame you’ve never met my sister. You’re exactly the type of woman who would be in one of her books.”

  A surprised smile lit the Russian’s face. “Yes, I’ve always thought a book should be written about me.”

  “Absolutely.” It was all May could do to contain her laughter. Louisa would consider the woman a treasure trove of absurdities for a character.

  Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff nodded and swept off, but not before calling out over her shoulder, “It’s good to know the clothespin trick doesn’t work.”

  May shook her head at the woman’s nerve, but as she packed up her materials for the day, she sighed. She missed Louisa terribly.

  ON THE TRAIN home, May extended her stiff legs in front of her. All of the other women in the studio were so much younger. They relished the competition of the class, but May felt weary of it all. Once home, she sat with Ernest in the drawing room after a quiet dinner. May halfheartedly sketched her Venus de Milo statue resting on the mantel before switching to sewing a button back on one of Ernest’s shirts. He folded up a letter and leaned back in his chair.

  “My mother wants to come and visit.”

  May’s needle slipped and stabbed her index finger. She watched a tiny bead of blood appear there. “When?”

  “Perhaps next month. She’s not sure yet.”

  “Would they stay here?”

  “There’s room in there.” Ernest pointed to the small room off the drawing room that May used as a studio. “It would only be for a couple of days. My parents are looking forward to meeting you. It’s been six months since we married, and they’re eager to meet you.”

  “What have you told them about me? What do they think of our ag
e difference?”

  Ernest stacked the letter on top of his newspaper. “Our ages are not a topic that will concern them.”

  May dropped her sewing into her lap and stared at her husband. “Have you not written anything about my age?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “They’re Swiss; they’re simply pleased I’m married and settled. Remember, my mother has eight other children; she does not dwell on my decisions. She doesn’t have the time.”

  Her heart stopped. Ernest was putting too much faith in European pragmatism. Her age was probably closer to Ernest’s mother’s than it was to Ernest’s. She placed her needle in a pincushion and felt her shoulders tighten as she imagined how Frau Nieriker would react when she met her. She doubted Ernest’s understanding of his mother; men could be immune to the machinations of women. She feared she would have more in common with Ernest’s mother than she cared to admit.

  Chapter 40

  Three days. That was the promised length of their visit. When Herr and Frau Nieriker disembarked from the train on Saturday morning, they made a distinctive couple. She possessed the stout figure of a pickling jar whereas he resembled a fork, long and thin with a thatch of white hair that stuck straight upward in tines. Each carried a small valise. As her in-laws approached from the train, May tried for a surreptitious glimpse of her reflection in the glass window of the station, but other travelers blocked her view. Before leaving the house, she had arranged her hair into a coil of braids, hoping the hairdo gave her a more youthful appearance. When the older couple reached May and Ernest, Frau Nieriker took May’s face in her hands. She inspected her new daughter-in-law for a moment, nodded, and leaned in to kiss May on both cheeks.

  At the house, May watched Frau Nieriker circle the drawing room and realized there was no clearer way to see the shortcomings in one’s own home than to look at it alongside a stranger. The room was small and the furniture showed signs of its previous owners, but May took pride in the way she positioned the gilt mirror across from the biggest window to reflect the natural light. Her strategic arrangement of chairs in the center of the room made the space seem larger and covered up a few rents laddering the Turkish carpet. She had done the best she could with limited resources. Frau Nieriker stopped to inspect two of May’s watercolors: one of Westminster Abbey and one from Dinan.