FAMILY CHANGES.
TRANSFIGURATION.[12]
IN MEMORIAM.
Lines written by Louisa M. Alcott on the death of her mother.
Mysterious death! who in a single hour
Life's gold can so refine,
And by thy art divine
Change mortal weakness to immortal power!
Bending beneath the weight of eighty years,
Spent with the noble strife
Of a victorious life,
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.
But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung,
A miracle was wrought;
And swift as happy thought
She lived again,--brave, beautiful, and young.
Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore
And showed the tender eyes
Of angels in disguise,
Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past years brought their harvest rich and fair;
While memory and love,
Together, fondly wove
A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft,
When every pang of grief
Found balm for its relief
In counting up the treasures she had left?--
Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time;
Hope that defied despair;
Patience that conquered care;
And loyalty, whose courage was sublime;
The great deep heart that was a home for all,--
Just, eloquent, and strong
In protest against wrong;
Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall;
The spartan spirit that made life so grand,
Mating poor daily needs
With high, heroic deeds,
That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead,
Full of the grateful peace
That follows her release;
For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh, noble woman! never more a queen
Than in the laying down
Of sceptre and of crown
To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen;
Teaching us how to seek the highest goal,
To earn the true success,--
To live, to love, to bless,--
And make death proud to take a royal soul.
The history of the next six years offers little variety of incident in
Miss Alcott's busy life. She could not work at home in Concord as well
as in some quiet lodging in Boston, where she was more free from
interruption from visitors; but she spent her summers with her mother,
often taking charge of the housekeeping. In 1872 she wrote "Work," one
of her most successful books. She had begun it some time before, and
originally called it "Success." It represents her own personal
experience more than any other book. She says to a friend: "Christie's
adventures are many of them my own; Mr. Power is Mr. Parker; Mrs.
Wilkins is imaginary, and all the rest. This was begun at eighteen,
and never finished till H. W. Beecher wrote to me for a serial for the
'Christian Union' in 1872, and paid $3,000 for it."
Miss Alcott again sent May to Europe in 1873 to finish her studies,
and herself continued writing stories to pay the expenses of the
family. The mother's serious illness weighed heavily on Louisa's
heart, and through the summer of 1873 she was devoted to the invalid,
rejoicing in her partial recovery, though sadly feeling that she would
never be her bright energetic self again. Mrs. Alcott was able,
however, to keep her birthday (October 8) pleasantly, and out of this
experience came a story called "A Happy Birthday." This little tale
paid for carriages for the invalid. It is included in "Aunt Jo's
Scrap-Bag."
Louisa and her mother decided to spend the winter in Boston, while Mr.
Alcott was at the West. Her thoughts dwell much upon her father's
life, and she is not content that he has not all the recognition and
enjoyment that she would gladly give him. She helps her mother to
perform the sacred duty of placing a tablet on Colonel May's grave,
and the dear old lady recognizes that her life has gone down into the
past, and says, "This isn't my Boston, and I never want to see it any
more."
Louisa was at this time engaged in writing for "St. Nicholas" and "The
Independent."
The return of the young artist, happy in her success, brings
brightness to the home-circle. In the winter of 1875 Miss Alcott takes
her old place at the Bellevue, where May can have her drawing-classes.
She was herself ill, and the words, "No sleep without morphine!" tell
the story of nervous suffering.
_Journal._
_July_, 1872.--May makes a lovely hostess, and I fly round behind
the scenes, or skip out of the back window when ordered out for
inspection by the inquisitive public. Hard work to keep things
running smoothly, for this sight-seeing fiend is a new torment to
us.
_August._--May goes to Clark's Island for rest, having kept hotel
long enough. I say "No," and shut the door. People _must_ learn
that authors have some rights; I can't entertain a dozen a day,
and write the tales they demand also. I'm but a human worm, and
when walked on must turn in self-defence.
Reporters sit on the wall and take notes; artists sketch me as I
pick pears in the garden; and strange women interview Johnny as
he plays in the orchard.
It looks like impertinent curiosity to me; but it is called
"fame," and considered a blessing to be grateful for, I find. Let
'em try it.
_September._--To Wolcott, with Father and Fred. A quaint, lovely
old place is the little house on Spindle Hill, where the boy Amos
dreamed the dreams that have come true at last.
Got hints for my novel, "The Cost of an Idea," if I ever find
time to write it.
Don't wonder the boy longed to climb those hills, and see what
lay beyond.
_October._--Went to a room in Allston Street, in a quiet,
old-fashioned house. I can't work at home, and need to be alone
to spin, like a spider.
Rested; walked; to the theatre now and then. Home once a week
with books, etc., for Marmee and Nan. Prepared "Shawl Straps" for
Roberts.
_November._--Forty on the 29th. Got Father off for the West, all
neat and comfortable. I enjoyed every penny spent, and had a
happy time packing his new trunk with warm flannels, neat shirts,
gloves, etc., and seeing the dear man go off in a new suit,
overcoat, hat, and all, like a gentleman. We both laughed over
the pathetic old times with tears in our eyes, and I reminded him
of the "poor as poverty, but serene as heaven" saying.
Something to do came just as I was trying to see what to take up,
for work is my salvation. H. W. Beecher sent one of the editors
of the "Christian Union" to ask for a serial story. They have
asked before, and offered $2,000, which I refused; now they
offered $3,000, and I accepted.
Got out the old manuscript of "Success," and called it "Work."
Fired up the engine, and plunged into a vortex, with many doubts
about getting out. Can't work slowly; the thing possesses me, and
I must obey till it's done. One thousand dollars was sent as a
seal on the bargain, so I was bound, and sat at the oar like a
galley-slave.
F. wanted eight little tales, and offered $35 apiece; used to pay
$10. Such is fame! At odd minutes I wrote the short ones, and so
paid my own expenses. "Shawl Straps," Scrap-Bag, No. 2, came out,
and went well.
Great Boston fire; up all night. Very splendid and terrible
sight.
_December._--Busy with "Work." Write three pages at once on
impression paper, as Beecher, Roberts, and Low of London all want
copy at once.
[This was the cause of the paralysis of my thumb, which disabled
me for the rest of my life.--L. M. A.]
Nan and the boys came to visit me, and break up the winter.
Rested a little, and played with them.
Father very busy and happy. On his birthday had a gold-headed
cane given him. He is appreciated out there.
During these western trips, Mr. Alcott found that his daughter's fame
added much to the warmth of his reception. On his return he loved to
tell how he was welcomed as the "grandfather of 'Little Women.'" When
he visited schools, he delighted the young audiences by satisfying
their curiosity as to the author of their favorite book, and the truth
of the characters and circumstances described in it.
BOSTON, 1872.
DEAR MARMEE,--Had a very transcendental day yesterday, and at
night my head was "swelling wisibly" with the ideas cast into it.
The club was a funny mixture of rabbis and weedy old ladies, the
"oversoul" and oysters. Papa and B. flew clean out of sight like
a pair of Platonic balloons, and we tried to follow, but
couldn't.
In the P.M. went to R. W. E.'s reading. All the literary birds
were out in full feather. This "'umble" worm was treated with
distinguished condescension. Dr. B. gave me his noble hand to
press, and murmured compliments with the air of a bishop
bestowing a benediction. Dear B. beamed upon me from the depths
of his funny little cloak and said, "We are getting on well,
ain't we?" W. bowed his Jewish head, and rolled his fine eye at
me. Several dreadful women purred about me, and I fled.
M. said what I liked,--that he'd sent my works to his mother, and
the good old lady told him to tell me that she couldn't do a
stroke of work, but just sat and read 'em right through; she
wished she was young so as to have a long life in which to keep
on enjoying such books. The peacock liked that.
I have paid all my own expenses out of the money earned by my
little tales; so I have not touched the family income.
Didn't mean to write; but it has been an expensive winter, and my
five hundred has made me all right. The $500 I lent K. makes a
difference in the income; but I could not refuse her, she was so
kind in the old hard times.
At the reading a man in front of me sat listening and knitting
his brows for a time, but had to give it up and go to sleep.
After it was over some one said to him, "Well, what do you think
of it?" "It's all very fine I have no doubt; but I'm blessed if I
can understand a word of it," was the reply....
The believers glow when the oracle is stuck, rustle and beam when
he is audible, and nod and smile as if they understood perfectly
when he murmurs under the desk! We are a foolish set!
_Journal_.
_January_, 1873.--Getting on well with "Work;" have to go slowly
now for fear of a break-down. All well at home.
A week at Newport with Miss Jane Stewart. Dinners, balls, calls,
etc. Saw Higginson and "H. H." Soon tired of gayety, and glad to
get home to my quiet den and pen.
Roberts Brothers paid me $2,022 for books. S. E. S. invested most
of it, with the $1,000 F. sent. Gave C. M. $100,--a
thank-offering for my success. I like to help the class of
"silent poor" to which we belonged for so many years,--needy, but
respectable, and forgotten because too proud to beg. Work
difficult to find for such people, and life made very hard for
want of a little money to ease the necessary needs.
_February and March._--Anna very ill with pneumonia; home to
nurse her. Father telegraphed to come home, as we thought her
dying. She gave me her boys; but the dear saint got well, and
kept the lads for herself. Thank God!
Back to my work with what wits nursing left me.
Had Johnny for a week, to keep all quiet at home. Enjoyed the
sweet little soul very much, and sent him back much better.
Finished "Work,"--twenty chapters. Not what it should be,--too
many interruptions. Should like to do one book in peace, and see
if it wouldn't be good.
_April_--The job being done I went home to take May's place. Gave
her $1,000, and sent her to London for a year of study. She
sailed on the 26th, brave and happy and hopeful. I felt that she
needed it, and was glad to be able to help her.
I spent seven months in Boston; wrote a book and ten tales;
earned $3,250 by my pen, and am satisfied with my winter's work.
_May._--D. F. wanted a dozen little tales, and agreed to pay $50
apiece, if I give up other things for this. Said I would, as I
can do two a day, and keep house between times. Cleaned and
grubbed, and didn't mind the change. Let head rest, and heels and
feet do the work.
Cold and dull; but the thought of May free and happy was my
comfort as I messed about.
_June and July._--Settled the servant question by getting a neat
American woman to cook and help me with the housework.
Peace fell upon our troubled souls, and all went well. Good
meals, tidy house, cheerful service, and in the P.M. an
intelligent young person to read and sew with us.
It was curious how she came to us. She had taught and sewed, and
was tired, and wanted something else; decided to try for a
housekeeper's place, but happened to read "Work," and thought
she'd do as Christie did,--take anything that came.
I was the first who answered her advertisement, and when she
found I wrote the book, she said, "I'll go and see if Miss A.
practises as she preaches."
She found I did, and we had a good time together. My new helper
did so well I took pale Johnny to the seaside for a week; but was
sent for in haste, as poor Marmee was very ill. Mental
bewilderment came after one of her heart troubles (the dropsy
affected the brain), and for three weeks we had a sad time.
Father and I took care of her, and my good A. S. kept house
nicely and faithfully for me.
Marmee slowly came back to herself, but sadly feeble,--never to
be our brave, energetic leader any more. She felt it, and it was
hard to convince her that there was no need of her doing anything
but rest.
_August, September, October._--Mother improved steadily. Father
went to the Alcott festival in Walcott, A. and boys to Conway
for a month; and it did them all much good.
I had quiet days with Marmee; drove with her, and had the great
pleasure of supplying all her needs and fancies.
May busy and happy in London. A merry time on Mother's birthday,
October 8. All so glad to have her still here; for it seemed as
if we were to lose her.
Made a little story of it for F.,--"A Happy Birthday."--and spent
the $50 in carriages for her.
_November and December._--Decided that it was best not to try a
cold, lonely winter in C., but go to B. with Mother, Nan, and
boys, and leave Father free for the West.
Took sunny rooms at the South End, near the Park, so the lads
could play out and Marmee walk. She enjoyed the change, and sat
at her window watching people, horse-cars, and sparrows with
great interest. Old friends came to see her, and she was happy.
Found a nice school for the boys; and Nan enjoyed her quiet days.
_January_, 1874.--Mother quite ill this month. Dr. Wesselhoeft
does his best for the poor old body, now such a burden to her.
The slow decline has begun, and she knows it, having nursed her
mother to the same end.
Father disappointed and rather sad, to be left out of so much
that he would enjoy and should be asked to help and adorn. A
little more money, a pleasant house and time to attend to it, and
I'd bring all the best people to see and entertain _him_. When I
see so much twaddle going on I wonder those who can don't get up
something better, and have really good things.
When I had the youth I had no money; now I have the money I have
no time; and when I get the time, if I ever do, I shall have no
health to enjoy life. I suppose it's the discipline I need; but
it's rather hard to love the things I do and see them go by
because duty chains me to my galley. If I come into port at last
with all sail set that will be reward perhaps.
Life always was a puzzle to me, and gets more mysterious as I go
on. I shall find it out by and by and see that it's all right, if
I can only keep brave and patient to the end.
May still in London painting Turners, and doing pretty panels as
"pot-boilers." They sell well, and she is a thrifty child. Good
luck to our mid-summer girl.
_February._--Father has several conversations at the Clubs and
Societies and Divinity School. No one pays anything; but they
seem glad to listen. There ought to be a place for him.
Nan busy with her boys, and they doing well at school,--good,
gay, and intelligent; a happy mother and most loving little sons.
I wrote two tales, and got $200. Saw Charles Kingsley,--a
pleasant man. His wife has Alcott relations, and likes my books.
Asked us to come and see him in England; is to bring his
daughters to Concord by and by.
_March._--May came home with a portfolio full of fine work. Must
have worked like a busy bee to have done so much.
Very happy in her success; for she has proved her talent, having
copied Turner so well that Ruskin (meeting her in the National
Gallery at work) told her that she had "caught Turner's spirit
wonderfully." She has begun to copy Nature, and done well. Lovely
sketches of the cloisters in Westminster Abbey, and other
charming things.
I write a story for all my men, and make up the $1,000 I planned
to earn by my "pot-boilers" before we go back to C.
A tablet to Grandfather May is put in Stone Chapel, and one
Sunday A.M. we take Mother to see it. A pathetic sight to see
Father walk up the broad aisle with the feeble old wife on his
arm as they went to be married nearly fifty years ago. Mother sat
alone in the old pew a little while and sung softly the old
hymns; for it was early, and only the sexton there. He asked who
she was and said his father was sexton in Grandfather's time.
Several old ladies came in and knew Mother. She broke down
thinking of the time when she and her mother and sisters and
father and brothers all went to church together, and we took her
home saying, "This isn't my Boston; all my friends are gone; I
never want to see it any more."
[She never did.--L. M. A.]
_April and May._--Back to Concord, after May and I had put all in
fine order and made the old house lovely with her pictures. When
all were settled, with May to keep house, I went to B. for rest,
and took a room in Joy Street.
The Elgin Watch Company offered me a gold watch or $100 for a
tale. Chose the money, and wrote the story "My Rococo Watch"[13]
for them.
_October._--Took two nice rooms at the Hotel Bellevue for the
winter; May to use one for her classes. Tried to work on my book,
but was in such pain could not do much. Got no sleep without
morphine. Tried old Dr. Hewett, who was sure he could cure the
woe....
_November._--Funny time with the publishers about the tale; for
all wanted it at once, and each tried to outbid the other for an
unwritten story. I rather enjoyed it, and felt important with
Roberts, Low, and Scribner all clamoring for my "'umble" works.
No peddling poor little manuscripts now, and feeling rich with
$10. The golden goose can sell her eggs for a good price, if she
isn't killed by too much driving.
_December._--Better and busier than last month.
All well at home, and Father happy among his kind Westerners.
Finish "Eight Cousins," and get ready to do the temperance tale,
for F. offers $700 for six chapters,--"Silver Pitchers."
_January_, 1875.-- ... Father flourishing about the Western
cities, "riding in Louisa's chariot, and adored as the
grandfather of 'Little Women,'" he says.
_February._--Finish my tale and go to Vassar College on a visit.
See M. M., talk with four hundred girls, write in stacks of
albums and school-books, and kiss every one who asks me. Go to
New York; am rather lionized, and run away; but things look
rather jolly, and I may try a winter there some time, as I need a
change and new ideas.
_March._--Home again, getting ready for the centennial fuss.
_April._--On the 19th a grand celebration. General _break-down_,
owing to an unwise desire to outdo all the other towns; too many
people....
Miss Alcott was very much interested in the question of Woman
Suffrage, and exerted herself to get up a meeting in Concord. The
subject was then very unpopular, and there was an ill-bred effort to
destroy the meeting by noise and riot. Although not fond of speaking
in public, she always put herself bravely on the side of the
unpopular cause, and lent to it all the argument of her heroic life.
When Mrs. Livermore lectured at Concord, Miss Alcott sat up all night
talking with her on the great question. She had an opportunity of
trying which was most exhausting, abuse or admiration, when she went
to a meeting of the Women's Congress at Syracuse, in October. She was
introduced to the audience by Mrs. Livermore, and the young people
crowded about her like bees about a honeycomb. She was waylaid in the
streets, petitioned for autographs, kissed by gushing young maidens,
and made emphatically the lion of the hour. It was all so genial and
spontaneous, that she enjoyed the fun. No amount of adulation ever
affected the natural simplicity of her manners. She neither despised
nor overrated her fame; but was glad of it as a proof of success in
what she was ever aiming to do. She spent a few weeks in New York
enjoying the gay and literary society which was freely opened to her;
but finding most satisfaction in visiting the Tombs, Newsboys' Home,
and Randall's Island, for she liked these things better than parties
and dinners.
_Journal._
_June, July, August_, 1875.--Kept house at home, with two Irish
incapables to trot after, and ninety-two guests in one month to
entertain. Fame is an expensive luxury. I can do without it. This
is my worst scrape, I think. I asked for bread, and got a
stone,--in the shape of a pedestal.
_September and October_, 1875.--I go to Woman's Congress in
Syracuse, and see Niagara. Funny time with the girls.
Write loads of autographs, dodge at the theatre, and am kissed to
death by gushing damsels. One energetic lady grasped my hand in
the crowd, exclaiming, "If you ever come to Oshkosh, your feet
will not be allowed to touch the ground: you will be borne in the
arms of the people! Will you come?" "Never," responded Miss A.,
trying to look affable, and dying to laugh as the good soul
worked my arm like a pump-handle, and from the gallery
generations of girls were looking on. "This, this, is fame!"
_November, December._--Take a room at Bath Hotel, New York, and
look about me. Miss Sally Holly is here, and we go about
together. She tells me much of her life among the freedmen, and
Mother is soon deep in barrels of clothes, food, books, etc., for
Miss A. to take back with her.
See many people, and am very gay for a country-mouse. Society
unlike either London or Boston.
Go to Sorosis, and to Mrs. Botta's, O. B. Frothingham's, Miss
Booth's, and Mrs. Croly's receptions.
Visit the Tombs, Newsboys' Home, and Randall's Island on
Christmas Day with Mrs. Gibbons. A memorable day. Make a story of
it. Enjoy these things more than the parties and dinners.
_To Mrs. Dodge._
NEW YORK, Oct. 5, 1875.
DEAR MRS. DODGE,--So far, New York seems inviting, though I have
not seen or done much but "gawk round" as the country folks do. I
have seen Niagara, and enjoyed my vacation very much, especially
the Woman's Congress in Syracuse. I was made a member, so have
the honor to sign myself,
Yours truly,
L. M. ALCOTT, M. C.
_To her Father._
NEW YORK, Nov. 26, 1875.
DEAR SEVENTY-SIX,--As I have nothing else to send you on our
joint birthday, I'll despatch a letter about some of the people I
have lately seen in whom you take an interest.
Tuesday we heard Gough on "Blunders," and it was very good,--both
witty and wise, earnest and sensible. Wednesday eve to Mr.
Frothingham's for his Fraternity Club meeting. Pleasant people.
Ellen F.; Abby Sage Richardson, a very lovely woman; young Putnam
and wife; Mrs. Stedman; Mattie G. and her spouse, Dr. B., who
read a lively story of Mormon life; Mrs. Dodge; O. Johnson and
wife, and many more whose names I forget.
After the story the given subject for discussion was brought
up,--"Conformity and Noncomformity." Mr. B., a promising young
lawyer, led one side, Miss B. the other, and Mr. F. was in the
chair. It was very lively; and being called upon, I piped up, and
went in for nonconformity when principle was concerned. Got
patted on the head for my remarks, and didn't disgrace myself
except by getting very red and talking fast.
Ellen F. was very pleasant, and asked much about May. Proudly I
told of our girl's achievements, and E. hoped she would come to
New York. Mrs. Richardson was presented, and we had some
agreeable chat. She is a great friend of O. B. F., and is
lecturing here on "Literature." Shall go and hear her, as she is
coming to see me.
O. B. F. was as polished and clear and cool and witty as usual;
most gracious to the "'umble" Concord worm; and Mrs. F. asked me
to come and see them.
Yesterday took a drive with Sally H. in Central Park as it was
fine, and she had no fun on her Thanksgiving. I dined at Mrs.
Botta's, for she kindly came and asked me. Had a delightful time,
and felt as if I'd been to Washington; for Professor Byng, a
German ex-consul, was there, full of Capitol gossip about Sumner
and all the great beings that there do congregate. Mr. Botta you
know,--a handsome, long-haired Italian, very cultivated and
affable.
Also about Lord H., whom B. thought "an amiable old woman," glad
to say pretty things, and fond of being lionized. Byng knew Rose
and Una, and asked about them; also told funny tales of Victor
Emmanuel and his Court, and queer adventures in Greece, where he,
B., was a consul, or something official. It was a glimpse into a
new sort of world; and as the man was very accomplished, elegant,
and witty, I enjoyed it much.
We had music later, and saw some fine pictures. Durant knew Miss
Thackeray, J. Ingelow, and other English people whom I did, so we
had a good dish of gossip with Mrs. Botta, while the others
talked three or four languages at once.
It is a delightful house, and I shall go as often as I may, for
it is the sort of thing I like much better than B. H. and
champagne.
To-night we go to hear Bradlaugh; to-morrow, a new play; Sunday,
Frothingham and Bellows; and Monday, Mrs. Richardson and
Shakespeare.
But it isn't all play, I assure you. I'm a thrifty butterfly,
and have written three stories. The "G." has paid for the little
Christmas tale; the "I." has "Letty's Tramp;" and my "girl paper"
for "St. Nick" is about ready. Several other papers are waiting
for tales, so I have a ballast of work to keep me steady in spite
of much fun.
Mr. Powell has been twice to see me, and we go to visit the
charities of New York next week. I like to see both sides, and
generally find the busy people most interesting.
So far I like New York very much, and feel so well I shall stay
on till I'm tired of it. People begin to tell me how much better
I look than when I came, and I have not an ache to fret over.
This, after such a long lesson in bodily ails, is a blessing for
which I am duly grateful.
Hope all goes well with you, and that I shall get a line now and
then. I'll keep them for you to _bind_ up by and by instead of
mine....
We can buy a carriage some other time, and a barn likewise, and a
few other necessities of life. Rosa has proved such a good
speculation we shall dare to let May venture another when the
ship comes in. I am glad the dear "rack-a-bones" is a comfort to
her mistress, only don't let her break my boy's bones by any
antics when she feels her oats.
I suppose you are thinking of Wilson just now, and his quiet
slipping away to the heavenly council chambers where the good
senators go. Rather like Sumner's end, wasn't it? No wife or
children, only men and servants. Wilson was such a genial,
friendly soul I should have thought he would have felt the
loneliness very much. Hope if he left any last wishes his mates
will carry them out faithfully....
Now, dear Plato, the Lord bless you, and keep you serene and
happy for as many years as He sees fit, and me likewise, to be a
comfort as well as a pride to you.
Ever your loving
FORTY-THREE
_To her Nephews._
NEW YORK, Dec. 4, 1875.
DEAR FRED AND DONNY,--We went to see the news-boys, and I wish
you'd been with us, it was so interesting. A nice big house has
been built for them, with dining-room and kitchen on the first
floor, bath-rooms and school-room next, two big
sleeping-places,--third and fourth stories,--and at the top a
laundry and gymnasium. We saw all the tables set for
breakfast,--a plate and bowl for each,--and in the kitchen great
kettles, four times as big as our copper boiler, for tea and
coffee, soup, and meat. They have bread and meat and coffee for
breakfast, and bread and cheese and tea for supper, and get their
own dinners out. School was just over when we got there, and one
hundred and eighty boys were in the immense room with desks down
the middle, and all around the walls were little cupboards
numbered. Each boy on coming in gives his name, pays six cents,
gets a key, and puts away his hat, books, and jacket (if he has
'em) in his own cubby for the night. They pay five cents for
supper, and schooling, baths, etc., are free. They were a
smart-looking set, larking round in shirts and trousers,
barefooted, but the faces were clean, and the heads smooth, and
clothes pretty decent; yet they support themselves, for not one
of them has any parents or home but this. One little chap, only
six, was trotting round as busy as a bee, locking up his small
shoes and ragged jacket as if they were great treasures. I asked
about little Pete, and the man told us his brother, only nine,
supported him and took care of him entirely; and wouldn't let
Pete be sent away to any home, because _he_ wished to have "his
family" with him.
Think of that, Fred! How would it seem to be all alone in a big
city, with no mamma to cuddle you; no two grandpa's houses to
take you in; not a penny but what you earned, and Donny to take
care of? Could you do it? Nine-year-old Patsey does it capitally;
buys Pete's clothes, pays for his bed and supper, and puts
pennies in the savings-bank. There's a brave little man for you!
I wanted to see him; but he is a newsboy, and sells late papers,
because, though harder work, it pays better, and the coast is
clear for those who do it.
The savings-bank was a great table all full of slits, each one
leading to a little place below and numbered outside, so each boy
knew his own. Once a month the bank is opened, and the lads take
out what they like, or have it invested in a big bank for them to
have when they find homes out West, as many do, and make good
farmers. One boy was putting in some pennies as we looked, and I
asked how much he had saved this month. "Fourteen dollars,
ma'am," says the thirteen-year-older, proudly slipping in the
last cent. A prize of $3 is offered to the lad who saves the most
in a month.
The beds upstairs were in two immense rooms, ever so much larger
than our town hall,--one hundred in one, and one hundred and
eighty in another,--all narrow beds with a blue quilt, neat
pillow, and clean sheet. They are built in long rows, one over
another, and the upper boy has to climb up as on board ship. I'd
have liked to see one hundred and eighty all in their "by-lows"
at once, and I asked the man if they didn't train when all were
in. "Lord, ma'am, they're up at five, poor little chaps, and are
so tired at night that they drop off right away. Now and then
some boy kicks up a little row, but we have a watchman, and he
soon settles 'em."
He also told me how that very day a neat, smart young man came
in, and said he was one of their boys who went West with a farmer
only a little while ago; and now he owned eighty acres of land,
had a good house, and was doing well, and had come to New York to
find his sister, and to take her away to live with him. Wasn't
that nice? Lots of boys do as well. Instead of loafing round the
streets and getting into mischief, they are taught to be tidy,
industrious, and honest, and then sent away into the wholesome
country to support themselves.
It was funny to see 'em scrub in the bath-room,--feet and
faces,--comb their hair, fold up their old clothes in the dear
cubbies, which make them so happy because they feel that they
_own_ something.
The man said every boy wanted one, even though he had neither
shoes nor jacket to put in it; but would lay away an old rag of a
cap or a dirty tippet with an air of satisfaction fine to see.
Some lads sat reading, and the man said they loved it so they'd
read all night, if allowed. At nine he gave the word, "Bed!" and
away went the lads, trooping up to sleep in shirts and trousers,
as nightgowns are not provided. How would a boy I know like
that,--a boy who likes to have "trommin" on his nighties? Of
course, I don't mean dandy Don! Oh, dear no!
After nine [if late in coming in] they are fined five cents;
after ten, ten cents; and after eleven they can't come in at all.
This makes them steady, keeps them out of harm, and gives them
time for study. Some go to the theatre, and sleep anywhere; some
sleep at the Home, but go out for a better breakfast than they
get there, as the swell ones are fond of goodies, and live well
in their funny way. Coffee and cakes at Fulton Market is "the
tip-top grub," and they often spend all their day's earnings in a
play and a supper, and sleep in boxes or cellars after it.
Lots of pussies were round the kitchen; and one black one I
called a bootblack, and a gray kit that yowled loud was a
newsboy. That made some chaps laugh, and they nodded at me as I
went out. Nice boys! but I know some nicer ones. Write and tell
me something about my poor Squabby.
By-by, your
WEEDY.
_To her Family._
SATURDAY EVENING, Dec. 25, 1875.
DEAR FAMILY,-- ... I had only time for a word this A.M., as the
fourth letter was from Mrs. P. to say they could not go; so I
trotted off in the fog at ten to the boat, and there found Mr.
and Mrs. G. and piles of goodies for the poor children. She is a
dear little old lady in a close, Quakerish bonnet and plain suit,
but wide-awake and full of energy. It was grand to see her tackle
the big mayor and a still bigger commissioner, and tell them what
_ought_ to be done for the poor things on the Island, as they are
to be routed; for the city wants the land for some dodge or
other. Both men fled soon, for the brave little woman was down on
'em in a way that would have made Marmee cry "Ankore!" and clap
her dress-gloves to rags.
When the rotundities had retired, she fell upon a demure priest,
and read him a sermon; and then won the heart of a boyish
reporter so entirely that he stuck to us all day, and helped
serve out dolls and candy like a man and a brother. Long life to
him!
Mr. G. and I discussed pauperism and crime like two old
wiseacres; and it was sweet to hear the gray-headed couple say
"thee" and "thou," "Abby" and "James," to one another, he
following with the bundles wherever the little poke-bonnet led
the way. I've had a pretty good variety of Christmases in my day,
but never one like this before. First we drove in an old
ramshackle hack to the chapel, whither a boy had raced before us,
crying joyfully to all he met, "She's come! Miss G.--she's come!"
And all faces beamed, as well they might, since for thirty years
she has gone to make set after set of little forlornities happy
on this day.
The chapel was full. On one side, in front, girls in blue gowns
and white pinafores; on the other, small chaps in pinafores
likewise; and behind them, bigger boys in gray suits with cropped
heads, and larger girls with ribbons in their hair and pink
calico gowns. They sang alternately; the girls gave "Juanita"
very well, the little chaps a pretty song about poor children
asking a "little white angel" to leave the gates of heaven ajar,
so they could peep in, if no more. Quite pathetic, coming from
poor babies who had no home but this.
The big boys spoke pieces, and I was amused when one bright lad
in gray, with a red band on his arm, spoke the lines I gave
G.,--"Merry Christmas." No one knew me, so I had the joke to
myself; and I found afterward that I was taken for the mayoress,
who was expected. Then we drove to the hospital, and there the
heart-ache began, for me at least, so sad it was to see these
poor babies, born of want and sin, suffering every sort of
deformity, disease, and pain. Cripples half blind, scarred with
scrofula, burns, and abuse,--it was simply awful and
indescribable!
As we went in, I with a great box of dolls and the young
reporter with a bigger box of candy, a general cry of delight
greeted us. Some children tried to run, half-blind ones stretched
out their groping hands, little ones crawled, and big ones
grinned, while several poor babies sat up in their bed, beckoning
us to "come quick."
One poor mite, so eaten up with sores that its whole face was
painted with some white salve,--its head covered with an oilskin
cap; one eye gone, and the other half filmed over; hands
bandaged, and ears bleeding,--could only moan and move its feet
till I put a gay red dolly in one hand and a pink candy in the
other; then the dim eye brightened, the hoarse voice said feebly,
"Tanky, lady!" and I left it contentedly sucking the sweetie, and
_trying_ to _see_ its dear new toy. It can't see another
Christmas, and I like to think I helped make this one happy, even
for a minute.
It was pleasant to watch the young reporter trot round with the
candy-box, and come up to me all interest to say, "One girl
hasn't got a doll, ma'am, and looks _so_ disappointed."
After the hospital, we went to the idiot house; and there I had a
chance to see faces and figures that will haunt me a long time. A
hundred or so of half-grown boys and girls ranged down a long
hall, a table of toys in the middle, and an empty one for Mrs.
G.'s gifts. A cheer broke out as the little lady hurried in
waving her handkerchief and a handful of gay bead necklaces, and
"Oh! Ohs!" followed the appearance of the doll-lady and the candy
man.
A pile of gay pictures was a new idea, and Mrs. G. told me to
hold up some bright ones and see if the poor innocents would
understand and enjoy them. I held up one of two kittens lapping
spilt milk, and the girls began to mew and say "Cat! ah,
pretty." Then a fine horse, and the boys bounced on their benches
with pleasure; while a ship in full sail produced a cheer of
rapture from them all.
Some were given out to the good ones, and the rest are to be
pinned round the room; so the pictures were a great success. All
wanted dolls, even boys of nineteen; for all were children in
mind. But the girls had them, and young women of eighteen cuddled
their babies and were happy. The boys chose from the toy-table,
and it was pathetic to see great fellows pick out a squeaking dog
without even the wit to pinch it when it was theirs. One dwarf of
thirty-five chose a little Noah's ark, and brooded over it in
silent bliss.
Some with beards sucked their candy, and stared at a toy cow or
box of blocks as if their cup was full. One French girl sang the
Marseillaise in a feeble voice, and was so overcome by her new
doll that she had an epileptic fit on the spot, which made two
others go off likewise; and a slight pause took place while they
were kindly removed to sleep it off.
A little tot of four, who hadn't sense to put candy in its mouth,
was so fond of music that when the girls sang the poor vacant
face woke up, and a pair of lovely soft hazel eyes stopped
staring dully at nothing, and went wandering to and fro with
light in them, as if to find the only sound that can reach its
poor mind.
I guess I gave away two hundred dolls, and a soap-box of candy
was empty when we left. But rows of sticky faces beamed at us,
and an array of gay toys wildly waved after us, as if we were
angels who had showered goodies on the poor souls.
Pauper women are nurses; and Mrs. G. says the babies die like
sheep, many being deserted so young nothing can be hoped or done
for them. One of the teachers in the idiot home was a Miss C.,
who remembered Nan at Dr. Wilbur's. Very lady-like, and all
devotion to me. But such a life! Oh, me! Who _can_ lead it, and
not go mad?
At four, we left and came home, Mrs. G. giving a box of toys and
sweeties on board the boat for the children of the men who run
it. So leaving a stream of blessings and pleasures behind her,
the dear old lady drove away, simply saying, "There now, I shall
feel better for the next year!" Well she may; bless her!
She made a speech to the chapel children after the Commissioner
had prosed in the usual way, and she told 'em that _she_ should
come as long as she could, and when she was gone her children
would still keep it up in memory of her; so for thirty years more
she hoped this, their one holiday, would be made happy for them.
I could have hugged her on the spot, the motherly old dear!
Next Wednesday we go to the Tombs, and some day I am to visit the
hospital with her, for I like this better than parties, etc.
I got home at five, and then remembered that I'd had no lunch; so
I took an apple till six, when I discovered that all had dined at
one so the helpers could go early this evening. Thus my Christmas
day was without dinner or presents, for the first time since I
can remember. Yet it has been a very memorable day, and I feel as
if I'd had a splendid feast seeing the poor babies wallow in
turkey soup, and that every gift I put into their hands had come
back to me in the dumb delight of their unchild-like faces trying
to smile.
After the pleasant visit in New York, Miss Alcott returned to Boston,
where she went into society more than usual, often attending clubs,
theatres, and receptions. She was more lionized than ever, and had a
natural pleasure in the attention she received.
The summer of 1876 she spent at Concord, nursing her mother, who was
very ill. She here wrote "Rose in Bloom," the sequel to "Eight
Cousins," in three weeks. It was published in November.
Louisa was anxious that her sister should have a home for her young
family. Mrs. Pratt invested what she could of her husband's money in
the purchase, and Louisa contributed the rest. This was the so-called
Thoreau House on the main street in Concord, which became Mrs. Pratt's
home, and finally that of her father.
Louisa spent the summer of 1877 in Concord. Her mother's illness
increased, and she was herself very ill in August. Yet she wrote this
summer one of her brightest and sweetest stories, "Under the Lilacs."
Her love of animals is specially apparent in this book, and she
records going to the circus to make studies for the performing dog
Sanch.
During the winter of 1877, Miss Alcott went to the Bellevue for some
weeks, and having secured the necessary quiet, devoted herself to the
writing of a novel for the famous No Name Series published by Roberts
Brothers. This book had been in her mind for some time, as is seen by
the journal. As it was to appear anonymously, and was not intended for
children, she was able to depart from her usual manner, and indulge
the weird and lurid fancies which took possession of her in her
dramatic days, and when writing sensational stories. She was much
interested, and must have written it very rapidly, as it was published
in April. She enjoyed the excitement of her _incognito_, and was much
amused at the guesses of critics and friends, who attributed the book
to others, and were sure Louisa Alcott did not write it, because its
style was so unlike hers.
It certainly is very unlike the books Miss Alcott had lately written.
It has nothing of the home-like simplicity and charm of "Little
Women," "Old-Fashioned Girl," and the other stories with which she was
delighting the children, and, with "Moods," must always be named as
exceptional when speaking of her works. Still, a closer study of her
life and nature will reveal much of her own tastes and habits of
thought in the book; and it is evident that she wrote _con amore_, and
was fascinated by the familiars she evoked, however little charm they
may seem to possess to others. She was fond of Hawthorne's books. The
influence of his subtle and weird romances is undoubtedly perceptible
in the book, and it is not strange that it was attributed to his son.
She says it had been simmering in her brain ever since she read
"Faust" the year before; and she clearly wished to work according to
Goethe's thought,--that the Prince of Darkness was a gentleman, and
must be represented as belonging to the best society.
The plot is powerful and original. A young poet, with more ambition
than genius or self-knowledge, finds himself, at nineteen, friendless,
penniless, and hopeless, and is on the point of committing suicide.
He is saved by Helwyze, a middle-aged man, who has been severely
crippled by a terrible fall, and his heart seared by the desertion of
the woman he loved. A man of intellect, power, imagination, and
wealth, but incapable of conscientious feeling or true love, he is a
dangerous savior for the impulsive poet; but he takes him to his home,
warms, feeds, and shelters him, and promises to bring out his book.
The brilliant, passionate woman who gave up her lover when his health
and beauty were gone, returned to him when youth had passed, and would
gladly have devoted herself to soothing his pain and enriching his
life. Her feeling is painted with delicacy and tenderness.
But Helwyze's heart knew nothing of the divine quality of forgiveness;
for his love there was no resurrection; and he only valued the power
he could exercise over a brilliant woman, and the intellectual
entertainment she could bring him. A sweet young girl, Olivia's
protegee, completes the very limited _dramatis personæ_.
The young poet, Felix Canaris, under the guidance of his new friend,
wins fame, success, and the young girl's heart; but his wayward fancy
turns rather to the magnificent Olivia. The demoniac Helwyze works
upon this feeling, and claims of Olivia her fair young friend Gladys
as a wife for Felix, who is forced to accept her at the hands of his
master. She is entirely responsive to the love which she fancies she
has won, and is grateful for her fortunate lot, and devotes herself to
the comfort and happiness of the poor invalid who delights in her
beauty and grace. For a time Felix enjoys a society success, to which
his charming wife, as well as his book, contribute. But at last this
excitement flags. He writes another book, which he threatens to burn
because he is dissatisfied with it. Gladys entreats him to spare it,
and Helwyze offers to read it to her. She is overcome and melted with
emotion at the passion and pathos of the story; and when Helwyze asks,
"Shall I burn it?" Felix answers, "No!" Again the book brings success
and admiration, but the tender wife sees that it does not insure
happiness, and that her husband is plunging into the excitement of
gambling.
The demon Helwyze has complete control over the poet, which he
exercises with such subtle tyranny that the young man is driven to the
dreadful thought of murder to escape from him; but he is saved from
the deed by the gentle influence of his wife, who has won his heart at
last, unconscious that it had not always been hers.
Helwyze finds his own punishment. One being resists his power,--Gladys
breathes his poisoned atmosphere unharmed. He sends for Olivia as his
ally to separate the wife from her husband's love. A passion of
curiosity possesses him to read her very heart; and at last he resorts
to a strange means to accomplish his purpose. He gives her an exciting
drug without her knowledge, and under its influence she speaks and
acts with a rare genius which calls forth the admiration of all the
group. Left alone with her, Helwyze exercises his magnetic power to
draw forth the secrets of her heart; but he reads there only a pure
and true love for her husband, and fear of the unhallowed passion
which he is cherishing. The secret of his power over the husband is at
last revealed. Canaris has published as his own the work of Helwyze,
and all the fame and glory he has received has been won by deceit, and
is a miserable mockery.
The tragic result is inevitable. Gladys dies under the pressure of a
burden too heavy for her,--the knowledge of deceit in him she had
loved and trusted; while the stricken Helwyze is paralyzed, and lives
henceforth only a death in life.
With all the elements of power and beauty in this singular book, it
fails to charm and win the heart of the reader. The circumstances are
in a romantic setting, but still they are prosaic; and tragedy is only
endurable when taken up into the region of the ideal, where the
thought of the universal rounds out all traits of the individual. In
Goethe's Faust, Margaret is the sweetest and simplest of maidens; but
in her is the life of all wronged and suffering womanhood.
The realism which is delightful in the pictures of little women and
merry boys is painful when connected with passions so morbid and lives
so far removed from joy and sanity. As in her early dramas and
sensational stories, we do not find Louisa Alcott's own broad,
generous, healthy life, or that which lay around her, in this book,
but the reminiscences of her reading, which she had striven to make
her own by invention and fancy.
This note refers to "A Modern Mephistopheles":--
[1877.]
DEAR MR. NILES,--I had to keep the proof longer than I meant
because a funeral came in the way.
The book as last sent is lovely, and much bigger than I expected.
Poor "Marmee," ill in bed, hugged it, and said, "It is perfect!
only I do wish your name could be on it." She is very proud of
it; and tender-hearted Anna weeps and broods over it, calling
Gladys the best and sweetest character I ever did. So much for
home opinion; now let's see what the public will say.
May clamors for it; but I don't want to send this till she has
had one or two of the others. Have you sent her "Is That All?" If
not, please do; then it won't look suspicious to send only "M.
M."
I am so glad the job is done, and hope it won't disgrace the
series. Is not another to come before this? I hope so; for many
people suspect what is up, and I could tell my fibs about No. 6
better if it was not mine.
Thanks for the trouble you have taken to keep the secret. Now the
fun will begin.
Yours truly,
L. M. A.
P. S.--Bean's expressman grins when he hands in the daily parcel.
He is a Concord man.
By Louisa's help the younger sister again went abroad in 1876; and her
bright affectionate letters cheered the little household, much
saddened by the mother's illness.
_Journal._
_January_, 1876.--Helped Mrs. Croly receive two hundred
gentlemen.
A letter from Baron Tauchnitz asking leave to put my book in his
foreign library, and sending 600 marks to pay for it. Said, "Yes,
thank you, Baron."
Went to Philadelphia to see Cousin J. May installed in Dr.
Furness's pulpit. Dull place is Philadelphia. Heard Beecher
preach; did not like him....
Went home on the 21st, finding I could not work here. Soon tire
of being a fine lady.
_February and March._--Took a room in B., and fell to work on
short tales for F. T. N. wanted a centennial story; but my
frivolous New York life left me no ideas. Went to Centennial Ball
at Music Hall, and got an idea.
Wrote a tale of "'76," which with others will make a catchpenny
book. Mother poorly, so I go home to nurse her.
_April, May, and June._--Mother better. Nan and boys go to P.
farm. May and I clean the old house. It seems as if the dust of
two centuries haunted the ancient mansion, and came out spring
and fall in a ghostly way for us to clear up.
Great freshets and trouble.
Exposition in Philadelphia; don't care to go. America ought to
pay her debts before she gives parties. "Silver Pitchers," etc.,
comes out, and goes well. Poor stuff; but the mill must keep on
grinding even chaff.
_June._--Lovely month! Keep hotel and wait on Marmee.
Try to get up steam for a new serial, as Mrs. Dodge wants one,
and Scribner offers $3,000 for it. Roberts Brothers want a novel;
and the various newspapers and magazines clamor for tales. My
brain is squeezed dry, and I can only wait for help.
_July, August._--Get an idea and start "Rose in Bloom," though I
hate sequels.
_September._--On the 9th my dear girl sails in the "China" for a
year in London or Paris. God be with her! She has done her
distasteful duty faithfully, and deserved a reward. She cannot
find the help she needs here, and is happy and busy in her own
world over there.
[She never came home.--L. M. A.]
Finish "Rose."
* * * * *
_November._--"Rose" comes out; sells well.
... Forty-four years old. My new task gets on slowly; but I keep
at it, and can be a prop, if not an angel, in the house, as Nan
is.
_December._--Miss P. sends us a pretty oil sketch of May,--so
like the dear soul in her violet wrapper, with yellow curls piled
up, and the long hand at work. Mother delights in it.
She (M.) is doing finely, and says, "I am getting on, and I feel
as if it was not all a mistake; for I have some talent, and will
prove it." Modesty is a sign of genius, and I think our girl has
both. The money I invest in her pays the sort of interest I like.
I am proud to have her show what she can do, and have her depend
upon no one but me. Success to little Raphael! My dull winter is
much cheered by her happiness and success.
_January, February, 1877._--The year begins well. Nan keeps
house; boys fine, tall lads, good and gay; Father busy with his
new book; Mother cosey with her sewing, letters, Johnson, and
success of her "girls."
Went for some weeks to the Bellevue, and wrote "A Modern
Mephistopheles" for the No Name Series. It has been simmering
ever since I read Faust last year. Enjoyed doing it, being tired
of providing moral pap for the young. Long to write a novel, but
cannot get time enough.
May's letters our delight. She is so in earnest she will not stop
for pleasure, rest, or society, but works away like a Trojan. Her
work admired by masters and mates for its vigor and character.
_March._--Begin to think of buying the Thoreau place for Nan. The
$4,000 received from the Vt. and Eastern R. Rs. must be invested,
and she wants a home of her own, now the lads are growing up.
Mother can be with her in the winter for a change, and leave me
free to write in B. Concord has no inspiration for me.
_April._--May, at the request of her teacher, M. Muller, sends a
study of still life to the Salon. The little picture is accepted,
well hung, and praised by the judges. No friend at court, and the
modest work stood on its own merits. She is very proud to see her
six months' hard work bear fruit. A happy girl, and all say she
deserves the honor.
"M. M." appears and causes much guessing. It is praised and
criticised, and I enjoy the fun, especially when friends say, "I
know _you_ didn't write it, for you can't hide your peculiar
style."
Help to buy the house for Nan,--$4,500. So she has _her_ wish,
and is happy. When shall I have mine? Ought to be contented with
knowing I help both sisters by my brains. But I'm selfish, and
want to go away and rest in Europe. Never shall.
_May, June._--Quiet days keeping house and attending to Marmee,
who grows more and more feeble. Helped Nan get ready for her new
home.
Felt very well, and began to hope I had outlived the neuralgic
worries and nervous woes born of the hospital fever and the hard
years following.
May living alone in Paris, while her mates go jaunting,--a
solitary life; but she is so busy she is happy and safe. A good
angel watches over her. Take pleasant drives early in the A.M.
with Marmee. She takes her comfort in a basket wagon, and we
drive to the woods, picking flowers and stopping where we like.
It keeps her young, and rests her weary nerves.
_July._--Got too tired, and was laid up for some weeks. A curious
time, lying quite happily at rest, wondering what was to come
next.
_August._--As soon as able began "Under the Lilacs," but could
not do much.
Mrs. Alcott grew rapidly worse, and her devoted daughter recognized
that the final parting was near. As Louisa watched by the bedside she
wrote "My Girls," and finished "Under the Lilacs."
The journal tells the story of the last days of watching, and of the
peaceful close of the mother's self-sacrificing yet blessed life.
Louisa was very brave in the presence of death. She had no dark
thoughts connected with it; and in her mother's case, after her long,
hard life, she recognized how "growing age longed for its peaceful
sleep."
The tie between this mother and daughter was exceptionally strong and
tender. The mother saw all her own fine powers reproduced and
developed in her daughter; and if she also recognized the passionate
energy which had been the strength and the bane of her own life, it
gave her only a more constant watchfulness to save her child from the
struggles and regrets from which she had suffered herself.
_Journal._
_September_, 1877.--On the 7th Marmee had a very ill turn, and
the doctor told me it was the beginning of the end. [Water on the
chest.] She was so ill we sent for Father from Walcott; and I
forgot myself in taking care of poor Marmee, who suffered much
and longed to go.
As I watched with her I wrote "My Girls," to go with other tales
in a new "Scrap Bag," and finished "Under the Lilacs." I foresaw
a busy or a sick winter, and wanted to finish while I could, so
keeping my promise and earning my $3,000.
Brain very lively and pen flew. It always takes an exigency to
spur me up and wring out a book. Never have time to go slowly and
do my best.
_October._--Fearing I might give out, got a nurse and rested a
little, so that when the last hard days come I might not fail
Marmee, who says, "Stay by, Louy, and help me if I suffer too
much." I promised, and watched her sit panting life away day
after day. We thought she would not outlive her seventy-seventh
birthday, but, thanks to Dr. W. and homoeopathy, she got
relief, and we had a sad little celebration, well knowing it
would be the last. Aunt B. and L. W. came up, and with fruit,
flowers, smiling faces, and full hearts, we sat round the brave
soul who faced death so calmly and was ready to go.
I overdid and was very ill,--in danger of my life for a
week,--and feared to go before Marmee. But pulled through, and
got up slowly to help her die. A strange month.
_November._--Still feeble, and Mother failing fast. On the 14th
we were both moved to Anna's at Mother's earnest wish.
A week in the new home, and then she ceased to care for
anything. Kept her bed for three days, lying down after weeks in
a chair, and on the 25th, at dusk, that rainy Sunday, fell
quietly asleep in my arms.
She was very happy all day, thinking herself a girl again, with
parents and sisters round her. Said her Sunday hymn to me, whom
she called "Mother," and smiled at us, saying, "A smile is as
good as a prayer." Looked often at the little picture of May, and
waved her hand to it, "Good-by, little May, good-by!"
Her last words to Father were, "You are laying a very soft pillow
for me to go to sleep on."
We feared great suffering, but she was spared that, and slipped
peacefully away. I was so glad when the last weary breath was
drawn, and silence came, with its rest and peace.
On the 27th it was necessary to bury her, and we took her quietly
away to Sleepy Hollow. A hard day, but the last duty we could do
for her; and there we left her at sunset beside dear Lizzie's
dust,--alone so long.
On the 28th a memorial service, and all the friends at
Anna's,--Dr. Bartol and Mr. Foote of Stone Chapel. A simple,
cheerful service, as she would have liked it.
Quiet days afterward resting in her rest.
My duty is done, and now I shall be glad to follow her.
_December._--Many kind letters from all who best knew and loved
the noble woman.
I never wish her back, but a great warmth seems gone out of life,
and there is no motive to go on now.
My only comfort is that I _could_ make her last years
comfortable, and lift off the burden she had carried so bravely
all these years. She was so loyal, tender, and true; life was
hard for her, and no one understood all she had to bear but we,
her children. I think I shall soon follow her, and am quite
ready to go now she no longer needs me.
_January_, 1878.--An idle month at Nan's, for I can only suffer.
Father goes about, being restless with his anchor gone. Dear Nan
is house-mother now,--so patient, so thoughtful and tender; I
need nothing but that cherishing which only mothers can give.
May busy in London. Very sad about Marmee; but it was best not to
send for her, and Marmee forbade it, and she has some very
_tender friends_ near her.
_February._--... Wrote some lines on Marmee.
_To Mrs. Dodge._
CONCORD, June 3 [1877].
DEAR MRS. DODGE,--The tale[14] goes slowly owing to
interruptions, for summer is a busy time, and I get few quiet
days. Twelve chapters are done, but are short ones, and so will
make about six or seven numbers in "St. Nicholas."
I will leave them divided in this way that you may put in as many
as you please each month; for trying to suit the magazine hurts
the story in its book form, though this way does no harm to the
monthly parts, I think.
I will send you the first few chapters during the week for Mrs.
Foote, and with them the schedule you suggest, so that my infants
may not be drawn with whiskers, and my big boys and girls in
pinafores, as in "Eight Cousins."
I hope the new baby won't be set aside too soon for my
illustrations; but I do feel a natural wish to have one story
prettily adorned with good pictures, as hitherto artists have
much afflicted me.
I am daily waiting with anxiety for an illumination of some sort,
as my plot is very vague so far; and though I don't approve of
"sensations" in children's books, one must have a certain thread
on which to string the small events which make up the true sort
of child-life.
I intend to go and simmer an afternoon at Van Amburg's great
show, that I may get hints for the further embellishment of Ben
and his dog. I have also put in a poem by F. B. S.'s small
son,[15] and that hit will give Mrs. Foote a good scene with the
six-year-old poet reciting his verses under the lilacs.
I shall expect the small tots to be unusually good, since the
artist has a live model to study from. Please present my
congratulations to the happy mamma and Mr. Foote, Jr.
Yours _warmly_,
L. M. A.
AUGUST 21, 1879.
DEAR MRS. DODGE,--I have not been able to do anything on the
serial.... But after a week at the seaside, to get braced up for
work, I intend to begin. The Revolutionary tale does not seem to
possess me. I have casually asked many of my young folks, when
they demand a new story, which they would like, one of that sort
or the old "Eight Cousin" style, and they all say the latter. It
would be much the easier to do, as I have a beginning and a plan
all ready,--a village, and the affairs of a party of children. We
have many little romances going on among the Concord boys and
girls, and all sorts of queer things, which will work into "Jack
and Jill" nicely. Mrs. Croly has been anxious for a story, and I
am trying to do a short one, as I told her you had the refusal
of my next serial. I hope you will not be very much disappointed
about the old-time tale. It would take study to do it well, and
leisure is just what I have not got, and I shall never have, I
fear, when writing is to be done. I will send you a few chapters
of "Jack and Jill" when in order, if you like, and you can decide
if they will suit. I shall try to have it unlike the others if
possible, but the dears _will_ cling to the "Little Women" style.
I have had a very busy summer, but have been pretty well, and
able to do my part in entertaining the four hundred philosophers.
Yours truly,
L. M. A.
SEPTEMBER 17 [1879].
DEAR MRS. DODGE,--Don't let me _prose_. If I seem to be declining
and falling into it, pull me up, and I'll try to prance as of
old. Years tame down one's spirit and fancy, though they only
deepen one's love for the little people, and strengthen the
desire to serve them wisely as well as cheerfully. Fathers and
mothers tell me they use my books as helps for themselves; so now
and then I like to slip in a page for them, fresh from the
experience of some other parent, for education seems to me to be
_the_ problem in our times.
Jack and Jill are right out of our own little circle, and the
boys and girls are in a twitter to know what is going in; so it
will be a "truly story" in the main.
Such a long note for a busy woman to read! but your cheery word
was my best "starter;" and I'm, more than ever,
Yours truly,
L. M. A.
MAY ALCOTT NIERIKER.
Born at Concord, July, 1840. Died in Paris, December, 1879.
This younger sister became so dear to Louisa, and through the legacy
which she left to her of an infant child, exercised so great an
influence over the last ten years of her life, that it will not be
uninteresting to trace out the course of her life and the development
of her character. May was born before the experiments at Fruitlands,
and her childhood passed during the period when the fortunes of the
family were at the lowest ebb; but she was too young to feel in all
their fulness the cares which weighed upon the older sisters. Her
oldest sister--the affectionate, practical Anna--almost adopted May as
her own baby, and gave her a great deal of the attention and care
which the mother had not time for amid her numerous avocations. The
child clung to Anna with trust and affection; but with her quick fancy
and lively spirit, she admired the brilliant qualities of Louisa.
Hasty in temperament, quick and impulsive in action, she quarrelled
with Louisa while she adored her, and was impatient with her rebukes,
which yet had great influence over her. She had a more facile nature
than the other sisters, and a natural, girlish love of attention, and
a romantic fondness for beauty in person and style in living. Graceful
in figure and manners, with a fine complexion, blue eyes, and a
profusion of light wavy hair, she was attractive in appearance; and a
childish frankness, and acceptance of sympathy or criticism, disarmed
those who were disposed to find fault with her.
May is very truly described in "Little Women," and her character is
painted with a discerning but loving hand: "A regular snow maiden,
with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and
slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her
manners." Many little touches of description show the consciousness of
appearance and love of admiration which she innocently betrayed, and
illustrate the relation of the sisters: "'Don't stop to quirk your
little finger and prink over your plate, Amy,' cried Jo." Her mother
says of this daughter in her diary: "She does all things well; her
capabilities are much in her eyes and fingers. When a child, I
observed with what ease and grace she did little things."
According to Louisa, "If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial
of her life was, she would have answered at once, 'My nose.' No one
minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow; but Amy felt
deeply the want of a Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome
ones to console herself." "Little Raphael," as the sisters called her,
very early developed a love and talent for drawing which became the
delight of her life. She covered her books with sketches, but managed
to escape reprimand by being a model of deportment. Always having in
her mind an ideal of elegant life, the many little trials of their
times of poverty were of course severe mortifications to her; and the
necessity of wearing dresses which came to her from others, and which
were ugly in themselves or out of harmony with her own appearance,
caused her much affliction. She was always generous and easily
reconciled after a quarrel, and was a favorite with her companions,
and the heroine of those innocent little love episodes which, as
Tennyson says,--
"Are but embassies of love
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found
Empire for life."[16]
While May was too young to take the part in the support of the family
which fell to Anna and Louisa, she was yet a blessing and comfort by
her kind, bright nature. After the death of Elizabeth in 1858, her
mother speaks of "turning to the little May for comfort," and her
father's letters show how dear she was to him, although she never
entered into his intellectual life.
May shared in the blessing of Louisa's first success, for she went to
the School of Design in 1859 for the lessons in her art, for which she
longed so eagerly. In 1860 an old friend sent her thirty dollars for
lessons in drawing, and she had the best instruction she could then
receive in Boston.
In 1863, Louisa procured for her the great advantage of study with Dr.
Rimmer, who was then giving his precious lessons in art anatomy in
Boston. Under his instructions, May gave some attention to modelling,
and completed an ideal bust. Although she did not pursue this branch
of art, it was undoubtedly of great service in giving her more
thorough knowledge of the head, and a bolder and firmer style of
drawing than she would have gained in any other way.
As will be seen from Louisa's journal, May was frequently with her in
Boston, engaged in studying or teaching. By the kindness of a friend,
she went to Europe in 1870, when Louisa accompanied her. Louisa sent
her to Europe for a year of study in 1873, and again in 1877. In
London and Paris she had good opportunities for study, and improved
rapidly in her art. She made some admirable copies from Turner which
attracted the attention of Ruskin; and a picture from still life was
accepted at the Paris Salon, which event gave great happiness to the
family circle and friends at home.
May was very generous in giving to others help in the art she loved.
While at home, in the intervals of her studies in Europe, she tried to
form an art centre in Concord, and freely gave her time, her
instruction, and the use of her studio to young artists. She wrote a
little book to aid them in prosecuting their studies abroad, called
"Studying Art Abroad, and How to do it Cheaply."
Like the rest of the family, May composed with great ease, and
sometimes wrote little stories. Her letters are very sprightly and
agreeable.
While residing in London, May had become acquainted with a young Swiss
gentleman, whose refined and artistic tastes were closely in unison
with her own. During the sad days of bereavement caused by her
mother's death he was a kind and sympathetic friend, soothing her
grief and cheering her solitude by his music. Thus, frequently
together, their friendship became love, and they were betrothed. The
course of this true love, which for a time ran swiftly and smoothly,
is most exquisitely depicted in May's letters to her family. The
charming pictures of herself and her young lover are so like Amy and
her Laurie in his happiest moods, that we almost feel as if Miss
Alcott had been prophetic in her treatment of these characters in
"Little Women."
I wish I could give her own natural, frank account of this event. May
had the secret of perpetual youth, at least in spirit; and in reading
her letters, one has no consciousness that more than thirty years had
passed over her head, for they had taken no drop of freshness from her
heart.
The union of this happy pair was not a surprise to the friends at
home, who had read May's heart, revealed in her frank, innocent
letters, more clearly than she had supposed. When the claims of
business called Mr. Nieriker from London, the hearts of the young
couple quailed before the idea of separation, and they decided to be
married at once, and go together. The simple ceremony was performed in
London, March 22, 1878; and May started on her journey, no longer
alone, but with a loving friend by her side.
May's letters are full of the most artless joy in her new life. The
old days of struggle and penury are gone; the heart-loneliness is no
more; the world is beautiful, and everybody loving and kind. Life in
the modest French home is an idyllic dream, and she writes to her
sisters of every detail of her household. The return of her husband at
sunset is a feast, and the evening is delightful with poetry and
music. Her blue dress, her crimson furniture, satisfy her artistic
sense. She does not neglect her art, but paints with fresh
inspiration, and waits for his criticism and praise. She says, "He is
very ambitious for my artistic success, and is my most severe critic."
In the morning she finds her easel set out for her, a fire burning
ready for her comfort, and her husband in the big arm-chair waiting to
read to her, or to take his violin and pose for his picture in gray
velvet paletot and red slippers.[17]
For the time conjugal love is all sufficient, and May wonders at
herself that the happiness of the moment can so drown every
remembrance of sorrow. Yet a pathetic note is occasionally heard, as
she mourns for the mother who is gone, or yearns for the sister who
has been such a strength to her through life. The picturesqueness and
ease of French life make America look stupid and forlorn, and she has
no wish to go home, but only to have her dear ones share in her
happiness. Her work in art was successful; and the money she received
for it was not unacceptable, although her husband's income sufficed
for their modest wants. She was justified in her grateful feeling that
she was singularly blessed. Her husband's family were German-Swiss of
high standing, artistic temperament, and warm affections. His mother
and sister came to visit them, and took May to their hearts with
cordial love.
Among the pictures painted by May at this time the most remarkable is
the portrait of a negro girl, which is a very faithful study from
life, and gives the color and characteristic traits of a beautiful
negro without exaggeration. The expression of the eyes is tender and
pathetic, well-suited to the fate of a slave girl. Such earnest study
would have borne richer fruit if longer life had been hers.
May's own nature seems to have blossomed out like a flower in this
sunny climate. In her youth at home she was impulsive, affectionate,
and generous, but quick in temper and sometimes exacting; but the
whole impression she made upon her husband and his family was of grace
and sweetness, and she herself declares that her sisters at home would
not recognize her, she has "become so sweet in this atmosphere of
happiness."
We would gladly linger over these records of a paradisiacal home where
Adam and Eve renewed their innocent loves and happy labors. When
musing over the sorrows of humanity it refreshes us to know that such
joy is possible, and needs only love and simple hearts to make it
real.
May's note of happiness is touchingly echoed from the heart of her
bereaved father, who recalls the days of his own courtship. He
cherished every tender word from her; and the respectful and loving
words of his new son, to whom he responds affectionately, were like
balm to his stricken heart.
May's joy was heightened by the expectation of motherhood. Her health
was excellent, and she had the loving care of her new mother and
sister. The anxious family at home received the news of the birth of a
daughter with heartfelt delight. It was a great disappointment to
Louisa that she could not be with her sister at this time; but her
health was not equal to the voyage, and she felt that May had most
loving and sufficient care. An American friend in Paris kindly wrote
to Louisa full details of the little niece and of the mother's
condition. "It is difficult," she says, "to say which of that happy
household is the proudest over that squirming bit of humanity."
For about two weeks all seemed well; but alarming symptoms began to
appear, and the mother's strength failed rapidly. The brain was the
seat of disease; and she was generally unconscious, although she had
intervals of apparent improvement, when she recognized her friends.
She passed away peacefully December 29, 1879.
An American clergyman in Paris took charge of the funeral service,
which according to May's expressed desire was very simple, and she was
laid in the tranquil cemetery of Montrouge outside of the
fortifications.
Foreseeing the possibility of a fatal termination to her illness, May
had made every preparation for the event, and obtained a promise from
her sister-in-law that she would carry the baby to Louisa to receive
the devoted care that she knew would be given it. The child became a
source of great comfort to Miss Alcott as will be seen from the
journals. After her death Mr. Nieriker visited his little girl in
America, and in June, 1889, her aunt took her to his home in Zurich,
Switzerland.
Before the sad letters describing May's illness could reach America,
came the cable message of her death. It was sent to Mr. Emerson, the
never-failing friend of the family, who bore it to Louisa, her father
being temporarily absent. His thoughtfulness softened the blow as much
as human tenderness could, but still it fell with crushing weight upon
them all.
The father and sister could not sleep, and in the watches of the night
he wrote that touching ode, the cry of paternal love and grief
entitled "Love's Morrow."
_To Mrs. Bond._
CONCORD, Jan. 1, 1880.
DEAR AUNTIE,--It is hard to add one more sorrow to your already
full heart, particularly one of this sort, but I did not want you
to hear it from any one but us. Dear May is dead. Gone to begin
the new year with Mother, in a world where I hope there is no
grief like this. Gone just when she seemed safest and happiest,
after nearly two years of such sweet satisfaction and love that
she wrote us, "If I die when baby comes, remember I have been so
unspeakably happy for a year that I ought to be content...."
And it is all over. The good mother and sister have done
everything in the most devoted way. We can never repay them. My
May gave me her little Lulu, and in the spring I hope to get my
sweet legacy. Meantime the dear grandma takes her to a home full
of loving friends and she is safe. I will write more when we
know, but the cruel sea divides us and we must wait.
Bless you dear Auntie for all your love for May; she never forgot
it, nor do we.
Yours ever,
LOUISA.
JANUARY 4.
DEAR AUNTIE,--I have little further news to tell, but it seems to
comfort me to answer the shower of tender sympathetic letters
that each mail brings us....
So we must wait to learn how the end came at last, where the dear
dust is to lie, and how soon the desolate little home is to be
broken up. It only remains for May's baby to be taken away to
fill our cup to overflowing. But perhaps it would be best so, for
even in Heaven with Mother, I know May will yearn for the darling
so ardently desired, so tenderly welcomed, bought at such a
price.
In all the troubles of my life I never had one so hard to bear,
for the sudden fall from such high happiness to such a depth of
sorrow finds me unprepared to accept or bear it as I ought.
Sometime I shall know why such things are; till then must try to
trust and wait and hope as you do.... Sorrow has its lonely side,
and sympathy is so sweet it takes half its bitterness away.
Yours ever,
L.
After May's marriage and death Louisa remained awhile in Concord,
trying to forget her grief in care for others. She went to the prison
in Concord, and told a story to the prisoners which touched their
hearts, and was long remembered by some of them.
She wrote some short stories for "St Nicholas," among them "Jimmy's
Cruise in the Pinafore," called out by the acting of the popular opera
of that name by a juvenile troupe.
She spent some weeks at Willow Cottage, Magnolia, which she has
described in her popular story of "Jack and Jill." The scene of the
story is mostly laid in Concord, or "Harmony" as she calls it, and she
has introduced many familiar scenes and persons into the book.
This summer, too, the long-dreamed of School of Philosophy was
established. The opening of the School was a great event to Mr.
Alcott, as it was the realization of the dream of years. Louisa
enjoyed his gratification, and took pains to help him to reap full
satisfaction from it. She carried flowers to grace the opening
meeting, and was friendly to his guests. She occasionally attended
lectures given by her friends,--Dr. Bartol, Mrs. Howe, and
others,--and she could not fail to enjoy meeting many of the bright
people who congregated there; but she did not care for the speculative
philosophy. Her keen sense of humor led her to see all that was
incongruous or funny or simply novel in the bearing of the
philosophers. She felt that her father had too much of the trying
details, and perhaps did not appreciate how much joy of recognition it
brought him. She had not much faith in the practical success of the
experiment. Philosophy was much associated in her mind with early
poverty and suffering, and she did not feel its charms. She was
usually at the seashore at this season, as she suffered from the heat
at Concord. Frequent allusions to the school appear in her journal.
The following anecdote is given by a friend.
"It was at Concord on Emerson day. After a morning with Bartol and
Alcott and Mrs. Howe, I lunched with the Alcotts', who had for guest
the venerable Dr. McCosh. Naturally the conversation turned on the
events of the morning. 'I was thinking,' said the Doctor, 'as I looked
among your audience, that there were no young men; and that with none
but old men your school would soon die with them. By the way, madam,'
he continued, addressing Miss Alcott, 'will you tell me what is your
definition of a philosopher?'
"The reply came instantly, 'My definition is of a man up in a balloon,
with his family and friends holding the ropes which confine him to
earth and trying to haul him down.'
"The laugh which followed this reply was heartily joined in by the
philosopher himself."
_Journal._
_March_, 1878.--A happy event,--May's marriage to Ernest
Nieriker, the "tender friend" who has consoled her for Marmee's
loss, as John consoled Nan for Beth's. He is a Swiss, handsome,
cultivated, and good; an excellent family living in Baden, and E.
has a good business. May is old enough to choose for herself, and
seems so happy in the new relation that we have nothing to say
against it.
They were privately married on the 22d, and went to Havre for the
honeymoon, as E. had business in France; so they hurried the
wedding. Send her $1,000 as a gift, and all good wishes for the
new life.
_April._--Happy letters from May, who is enjoying life as one can
but once. E. writes finely to Father, and is a son to welcome I
am sure. May sketches and E. attends to his business by day, and
both revel in music in the evening, as E. is a fine violin
player.
How different our lives are just now!--I so lonely, sad, and
sick; she so happy, well, and blest. She always had the cream of
things, and deserved it. My time is yet to come somewhere else,
when I am ready for it.
Anna clears out the old house; for we shall never go back to it;
it ceased to be "home" when Marmee left it.
I dawdle about, and wait to see if I am to live or die. If I
live, it is for some new work. I wonder what?
_May._--Begin to drive a little, and enjoy the spring. Nature is
always good to me.
May settles in her own house at Meudon,--a pretty apartment, with
balcony, garden, etc.... I plan and hope to go to them, if I am
ever well enough, and find new inspiration in a new life. May and
E. urge it, and I long to go, but cannot risk the voyage yet. I
doubt if I ever find time to lead my own life, or health to try
it.
_June and July._--Improving fast, in spite of dark predictions
and forebodings. The Lord has more work for me, so I am spared.
Tried to write a memoir of Marmee; but it is too soon, and I am
not well enough.
* * * * *
May has had the new mother and brother-in-law with her, and finds
them most interesting and lovable. They seem very proud of her,
and happy in her happiness. Bright times for our youngest! May
they last!
[They did.--L. M. A.]
* * * * *
Got nicely ready to go to May in September; but at the last
moment gave it up, fearing to undo all the good this weary year
of ease has done for me, and be a burden on her. A great
disappointment; but I've learned to wait. I long to see her happy
in her own home.
Nan breaks her leg; so it is well I stayed, as there was no one
to take her place but me. Always a little chore to be done.
_October, November._--Nan improved. Rode, nursed, kept house, and
tried to be contented, but was not. Make no plans for myself now;
do what I can, and should be glad not to have to sit idle any
longer.
On the 8th, Marmee's birthday, Father and I went to Sleepy Hollow
with red leaves and flowers for her. A cold, dull day, and I was
glad there was no winter for her any more.
_November 25th._--A year since our beloved Marmee died. A very
eventful year. May marries, I live instead of dying, Father comes
to honor in his old age, and Nan makes her home our refuge when
we need one.
_December._--A busy time. Nan gets about again. I am so well I
wonder at myself, and ask no more.
Write a tale for the "Independent," and begin on an art novel,
with May's romance for its thread. Went to B. for some weeks, and
looked about to see what I could venture to do....
So ends 1878,--a great contrast to last December. Then I thought
I was done with life; now I can enjoy a good deal, and wait to
see what I am spared to do. Thank God for both the sorrow and the
joy.
_January_, 1879.--At the Bellevue in my little room writing.
Got two books well started, but had too many interruptions to do
much, and dared not get into a vortex for fear of a break-down.
Went about and saw people, and tried to be jolly. Did Jarley for
a fair, also for Authors' Carnival at Music Hall. A queer time;
too old for such pranks. A sad heart and a used-up body make play
hard work, I find.
Read "Mary Wollstonecraft," "Dosia," "Danieli," "Helène," etc. I
like Gréville's books.
Invest $1,000 for Fred's schooling, etc. Johnny has his $1,000
also safely in the bank for his education and any emergency.
_February._--Home to Concord rather used up. Find a very quiet
life is best; for in B. people beset me to do things, and I try,
and get so tired I cannot work. Dr. C. says rest is my salvation;
so I rest. Hope for Paris in the spring, as May begs me to come.
She is leading what she calls "an ideal life,"--painting, music,
love, and the world shut out. People wonder and gossip; but M.
and E. laugh and are happy. Wise people to enjoy this lovely
time!
Went to a dinner, at the Revere House, of the Papyrus Club. Mrs.
Burnett and Miss A. were guests of honor. Dr. Holmes took me in,
and to my surprise I found myself at the president's right hand,
with Mrs. B., Holmes, Stedman, and the great ones of the land.
Had a gay time. Dr. H. very gallant. "Little Women" often toasted
with more praise than was good for me.
Saw Mrs. B. at a lunch, and took her and Mrs. M. M. Dodge to
Concord for a lunch. Most agreeable women.
A visit at H. W.'s. Mission time at Church of the Advent. Father
Knox-Little preached, and waked up the sinners. H. hoped to
convert me, and took me to see Father K.-L., a very interesting
man, and we had a pleasant talk; but I found that we meant the
same thing, though called by different names; and his religion
had too much ceremony about it to suit me. So he gave me his
blessing, and promised to send me some books.
[Never did.--L. M. A.]
Pleasant times with my "rainy-day friend," as I call Dr. W. She
is a great comfort to me, with her healthy common-sense and
tender patience, aside from skill as a doctor and beauty as a
woman. I love her much, and she does me good.
* * * * *
Happy letters from May. Her hopes of a little son or daughter in
the autumn give us new plans to talk over. I _must_ be well
enough to go to her then.
_April._--Very poorly and cross; so tired of being a prisoner to
pain. Long for the old strength when I could do what I liked, and
never knew I had a body. Life not worth living in this way; but
having over-worked the wonderful machine, I must pay for it, and
should not growl, I suppose, as it is just.
To B. to see Dr. S. Told me I was better than she ever dreamed I
could be, and need not worry. So took heart, and tried to be
cheerful, in spite of aches and nerves. Warm weather comforted
me, and green grass did me good.
Put a fence round A.'s garden. Bought a phaeton, so I might
drive, as I cannot walk much, and Father loves to take his guests
about.
_May and June._--Go to B. for a week, but don't enjoy seeing
people. Do errands, and go home again. Saw "Pinafore;" a pretty
play.
Much company.
E.'s looked at the Orchard House and liked it; will hire it,
probably. Hope so, as it is forlorn standing empty. I never go by
without looking up at Marmee's window, where the dear face used
to be, and May's, with the picturesque vines round it. No
golden-haired, blue-gowned Diana ever appears now; she sits
happily sewing baby-clothes in Paris. Enjoyed fitting out a box
of dainty things to send her. Even lonely old spinsters take an
interest in babies.
_June._--A poor month. Try to forget my own worries, and enjoy
the fine weather, my little carriage, and good friends. Souls are
such slaves to bodies it is hard to keep up out of the slough of
despond when nerves jangle and flesh aches.
Went with Father on Sunday to the prison, and told the men a
story. Thought I could not face four hundred at first; but after
looking at them during the sermon, I felt that I could at least
_amuse_ them, and they evidently needed something new. So I told
a hospital story with a little moral to it, and was so interested
in watching the faces of some young men near me, who drank in
every word, that I forgot myself, and talked away "like a
mother." One put his head down, and another winked hard, so I
felt that I had caught them; for even one tear in that dry, hard
place would do them good. Miss McC. and Father said it was well
done, and I felt quite proud of my first speech. [Sequel later.]
_July._--Wrote a little tale called "Jimmy's Cruise in the
Pinafore," for "St. Nicholas;" $100.
_14th._--The philosophers begin to swarm, and the buzz starts
to-morrow. How much honey will be made is still doubtful, but the
hive is ready and drones also.
On the 15th, the School of Philosophy began in the study at
Orchard House,--thirty students; Father, the dean. He has his
dream realized at last, and is in glory, with plenty of talk to
swim in. People laugh, but will enjoy something new in this dull
old town; and the fresh Westerners will show them that all the
culture of the world is not in Concord. I had a private laugh
when Mrs. ---- asked one of the new-comers, with her superior
air, if she had ever looked into Plato. And the modest lady from
Jacksonville answered, with a twinkle at me, "We have been
reading Plato in _Greek_ for the past six years." Mrs. ----
subsided after that.
[Oh, wicked L. M. A., who hates sham and loves a joke.--L. M. A.]
Was the first woman to register my name as a voter.
_August._--To B. with a new "Scrap Bag." "Jimmy" to the fore.
Wrote a little tale.
The town swarms with budding philosophers, and they roost on our
steps like hens waiting for corn. Father revels in it, so we keep
the hotel going, and try to look as if we liked it. If they were
philanthropists, I should enjoy it; but speculation seems a waste
of time when there is so much real work crying to be done. Why
discuss the "unknowable" till our poor are fed and the wicked
saved?
A young poet from New York came; nice boy.
Sixteen callers to-day. Trying to stir up the women about
suffrage; so timid and slow.
Happy letters from May. Sophie N. is with her now. All well in
the Paris nest.
Passed a week in Magnolia with Mrs. H. School ended for this
year. Hallelujah!
_September._--Home from the seaside refreshed, and go to work on
a new serial for "St. Nicholas,"--"Jack and Jill." Have no plan
yet but a boy, a girl, and a sled, with an upset to start with.
Vague idea of working in Concord young folks and their doings.
After two years of rest, I am going to try again; it is so easy
to make money now, and so pleasant to have it to give. A chapter
a day is my task, and not that if I feel tired. No more fourteen
hours a day; make haste slowly now.
Drove about and drummed up women to my suffrage meeting. So hard
to move people out of the old ruts. I haven't patience enough;
if they won't see and work, I let 'em alone, and steam along my
own way.
May sent some nice little letters of an "Artist's Holiday," and I
had them printed; also a book for artists abroad,--very useful,
and well done.
Eight chapters done. Too much company for work.
_October 8th._--Dear Marmee's birthday. Never forgotten. Lovely
day. Go to Sleepy Hollow with flowers. Her grave is green;
blackberry vines with red leaves trail over it. A little white
stone with her initials is at the head, and among the tall grass
over her breast a little bird had made a nest; empty now, but a
pretty symbol of the refuge that tender bosom always was for all
feeble and sweet things. Her favorite asters bloomed all about,
and the pines sang overhead. So she and dear Beth are quietly
asleep in God's acre, and we remember them more tenderly with
each year that brings us nearer them and home.
Went with Dr. W. to the Woman's Prison, at Sherburne. A lovely
drive, and very remarkable day and night. Read a story to the
four hundred women, and heard many interesting tales. A much
better place than Concord Prison, with its armed wardens, and
"knock down and drag out" methods. Only women here, and they work
wonders by patience, love, common-sense, and the belief in
salvation for all.
First proof from Scribner of "Jack and Jill." Mrs. D. likes the
story, so I peg away very slowly. Put in Elly D. as one of my
boys. The nearer I keep to nature, the better the work is. Young
people much interested in the story, and all want to "go in." I
shall have a hornet's nest about me if all are not _angels_.
Father goes West.
I mourn much because all say I must not go to May; not safe; and
I cannot add to Mamma Nieriker's cares at this time by another
invalid, as the voyage would upset me, I am so sea-sick.
Give up my hope and long-cherished plan with grief. May sadly
disappointed. I know I shall wish I had gone; it is my luck.
_November._--Went to Boston for a month, as some solace for my
great disappointment. Take my room at the Bellevue, and go about
a little. Write on "J. and J." Anxious about May.
_8th._--Little Louisa May Nieriker arrived in Paris at 9 p. m.,
after a short journey. All doing well. Much rejoicing. Nice
little lass, and May very happy. Ah, if I had only been there!
Too much happiness for me.
_25th._--Two years since Marmee went. How she would have enjoyed
the little granddaughter, and all May's romance! Perhaps she
does.
Went home on my birthday (forty-seven). Tried to have a little
party for Nan and the boys, but it was rather hard work.
Not well enough to write much, so give up my room. Can lie round
at home, and it's cheaper.
_December._--May not doing well. The weight on my heart is not
all imagination. She was too happy to have it last, and I fear
the end is coming. Hope it is my nerves; but this peculiar
feeling has never misled me before.
Invited to the breakfast to O. W. H. No heart to go.
_8th._--Little Lu one month old. Small, but lively. Oh, if I
could only be there to see,--to help! This is a penance for all
my sins. Such a tugging at my heart to be by poor May, alone, so
far away. The N.'s are devoted, and all is done that can be; but
not one of her "very own" is there.
Father came home.
_29th._--May died at 8 a. m., after three weeks of fever and
stupor. Happy and painless most of the time. At Mr. W.'s funeral
on the 30th, I _felt_ the truth before the news came.
_Wednesday, 31st._--A dark day for us. A telegram from Ernest to
Mr. Emerson tells us "May is dead." Anna was gone to B.; Father
to the post-office, anxious for letters, the last being overdue.
I was alone when Mr. E. came. E. sent to him, knowing I was
feeble, and hoping Mr. E. would soften the blow. I found him
looking at May's portrait, pale and tearful, with the paper in
his hand. "My child, I wish I could prepare you; but alas, alas!"
There his voice failed, and he gave me the telegram.
I was not surprised, and read the hard words as if I knew it all
before. "I _am_ prepared," I said, and thanked him. He was much
moved and very tender. I shall remember gratefully the look, the
grasp, the tears he gave me; and I am sure that hard moment was
made bearable by the presence of this our best and tenderest
friend. He went to find Father but missed him, and I had to tell
both him and Anna when they came. A very bitter sorrow for all.
The dear baby may comfort E., but what can comfort us? It is the
distance that is so hard, and the thought of so much happiness
ended so soon. "Two years of perfect happiness" May called these
married years, and said, "If I die when baby comes, don't mourn,
for I have had as much happiness in this short time as many in
twenty years." She wished me to have her baby and her pictures. A
very precious legacy! Rich payment for the little I could do for
her. I see now why I lived,--to care for May's child and not
leave Anna all alone.
_January 1st_, 1880.--A sad day mourning for May. Of all the
trials in my life I never felt any so keenly as this, perhaps
because I am so feeble in health that I cannot bear it well. It
seems so hard to break up that happy little home and take May
just when life was richest, and to leave me who had done my task
and could well be spared. Shall I ever know why such things
happen?
Letters came telling us all the sad story. May was unconscious
during the last weeks, and seemed not to suffer. Spoke now and
then of "getting ready for Louy," and asked if she had come. All
was done that love and skill could do, but in vain. E. is
broken-hearted, and good Madame N. and Sophie find their only
solace in the poor baby.
May felt a foreboding, and left all ready in case she died. Some
trunks packed for us, some for the N. sisters. Her diary written
up, all in order. Even chose the graveyard where she wished to
be, out of the city. E. obeys all her wishes sacredly.
Tried to write on "J. and J." to distract my mind; but the wave
of sorrow kept rolling over me, and I could only weep and wait
till the tide ebbed again.
_February._--More letters from E. and Madame N. Like us, they
find comfort in writing of the dear soul gone, now there is
nothing more to do for her. I cannot make it true that our May is
dead, lying far away in a strange grave, leaving a husband and
child whom we have never seen. It all reads like a pretty
romance, now death hath set its seal on these two happy years;
and we shall never know all that she alone could tell us.
Many letters from friends in France, England, and America, full
of sympathy for us, and love and pride and gratitude for May,
who was always glad to help, forgive, and love every one. It is
our only consolation now.
Father and I cannot sleep, but he and I make verses as we did
when Marmee died. Our grief seems to flow into words. He writes
"Love's Morrow" and "Our Madonna."
Lulu has gone to Baden with Grandmamma.
Finish "J. and J." The world goes on in spite of sorrow, and I
must do my work. Both these last serials were written with a
heavy heart,--"Under the Lilacs" when Marmee was failing, and
"Jack and Jill" while May was dying. Hope the grief did not get
into them.
Hear R. W. E. lecture for his one hundredth time. Mary Clemmer
writes for a sketch of my life for a book of "Famous Women."
Don't belong there.
Read "Memoirs of Madame de Rémusat." Not very interesting.
Beauties seldom amount to much. Plain Margaret Fuller was worth a
dozen of them. "Kings in Exile," a most interesting book, a very
vivid and terrible picture of Parisian life and royal weakness
and sorrow.
Put papers, etc., in order. I feel as if one should be ready to
go at any moment....
_March._--A box came from May, with pictures, clothes, vases, her
ornaments, a little work-basket, and, in one of her own sepia
boxes, her pretty hair tied with blue ribbon,--all that is now
left us of this bright soul but the baby, soon to come. Treasures
all.
A sad day, and many tears dropped on the dear dress, the blue
slippers she last wore, the bit of work she laid down when the
call came the evening Lulu was born. The fur-lined sack feels
like May's arms round me, and I shall wear it with pleasure. The
pictures show us her great progress these last years.
To Boston for a few days on business, and to try to forget. Got
gifts for Anna's birthday on the 16th,--forty-nine years old. My
only sister now, and the best God ever made. Repaired her house
for her.
Lulu is not to come till autumn. Great disappointment; but it is
wiser to wait, as summer is bad for a young baby to begin here.
_29th._--Town meeting. Twenty women there, and voted first,
thanks to Father. Polls closed,--in joke, we thought, as Judge
Hoar proposed it; proved to be in earnest, and _we_ elected a
good school committee. Quiet time; no fuss.
JANUARY 20, 1880.
DEAR MRS. DODGE,--I have been so bowed down with grief at the
loss of my dear sister just when our anxiety was over that I have
not had a thought or care for anything else.
The story is done; but the last chapters are not copied, and I
thought it best to let them lie till I could give my mind to the
work.
I never get a good chance to do a story without interruption of
some sort. "Under the Lilacs" was finished by my mother's bedside
in her last illness, and this one when my heart was full of care
and hope and then grief over poor May.
I trust the misery did not get into the story; but I'm afraid it
is not as gay as I meant most of it to be.
I forgot to number the pages of the last two chapters, and so
cannot number these. I usually keep the run, but this time sent
off the parcel in a hurry. Can you send me the right number to go
on with in chapter seventeen? I can send you four more as soon as
I hear.
I don't believe I shall come to New York this winter. May left
me her little daughter for my own; and if she comes over soon, I
shall be too busy singing lullabies to one child to write tales
for others, or go anywhere, even to see my kind friends.
A sweeter little romance has just ended in Paris than any I can
ever make; and the sad facts of life leave me no heart for
cheerful fiction.
Yours truly,
L. M. ALCOTT.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] This poem was first published anonymously in "The Masque of
Poets," in 1878.
[13] In Spinning-Wheel Stories.
[14] Under the Lilacs.
[15] Under the Lilacs, page 78.
[16] Gardener's Daughter.
[17] This interesting picture is in the possession of her sister.