(1832-1888)
He is a hard-hearted churl who can read with unmoistened eyes this
journal of a brave and talented girl.
With what genuine, _personal_ pleasure one remembers that a full
measure of success and recognition was finally won by her efforts.
From "Louisa Mary Alcott: Her Life, Letters, and Journals." Little,
Brown & Co., 1889.
1852.--_High Street, Boston_.--After the smallpox summer, we went to a
house in High Street. Mother opened an intelligence office, which grew
out of her city missionary work and a desire to find places for good
girls. It was not fit work for her, but it paid; and she always did
what came to her in the work of duty or charity, and let pride, taste,
and comfort suffer for love's sake.
Anna and I taught; Lizzie was our little housekeeper--our angel in a
cellar kitchen; May went to school; father wrote and talked when he
could get classes or conversations. Our poor little home had much love
and happiness in it, and it was a shelter for lost girls, abused wives,
friendless children, and weak or wicked men. Father and mother had no
money to give, but gave them time, sympathy, help; and if blessings
would make them rich, they would be millionaires. This is practical
Christianity.
My first story was printed, and $5 paid for it. It was written in
Concord when I was sixteen. Great rubbish! Read it aloud to sisters,
and when they praised it, not knowing the author, I proudly announced
her name.
Made a resolution to read fewer novels, and those only of the best.
List of books I like:
Carlyle's French Revolution and Miscellanies.
Hero and Hero-Worship.
Goethe's poems, plays, and novels.
Plutarch's Lives.
Madame Guion.
Paradise Lost and Comus.
Schiller's Plays.
Madame de Staël.
Bettine.
Louis XIV.
Jane Eyre.
Hypatia.
Philothea.
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Emerson's Poems. . . .
1853.--In January I started a little school--E. W., W. A., two L's, two
H's--about a dozen in our parlor. In May, when my school closed, I
went to L. as second girl. I needed the change, could do the wash, and
was glad to earn my $2 a week. Home in October with $34 for my wages.
After two days' rest, began school again with ten children. Anna went
to Syracuse to teach; father to the West to try his luck--so poor, so
hopeful, so serene. God be with him! Mother had several boarders, and
May got on well at school. Betty was still the home bird, and had a
little romance with C.
Pleasant letters from father and Anna. A hard year. Summer
distasteful and lonely; winter tiresome with school and people I didn't
like; I miss Anna, my one bosom friend and comforter.
1854.--_Pinckney Street_.--I have neglected my journal for months, so
must write it up. School for me month after month. Mother busy with
boarders and sewing. Father doing as well as a philosopher can in a
money-loving world. Anna at S.
I earned a good deal by sewing in the evening when my day's work was
done.
In February father came home. Paid his way, but no more. A dramatic
scene when he arrived in the night. We were waked by hearing the bell.
Mother flew down, crying "My husband!" We rushed after, and five white
figures embraced the half-frozen wanderer who came in hungry, tired,
cold, and disappointed, but smiling bravely and as serene as ever. We
fed and warmed and brooded over him, longing to ask if he had made any
money; but no one did till little May said, after he had told all the
pleasant things, "Well, did people pay you?" Then, with a queer look,
he opened his pocketbook and showed one dollar, saying with a smile
that made our eyes fill, "Only that! My overcoat was stolen, and I had
to buy a shawl. Many promises were not kept, and travelling is costly;
but I have opened the way, and another year shall do better."
I shall never forget how beautifully mother answered him, though the
dear, hopeful soul had built much on his success; but with a beaming
face she kissed him, saying, "I call that doing _very well_. Since you
are safely home, dear, we don't ask anything more."
Anna and I choked down our tears, and took a little lesson in real
love, which we never forgot, nor the look that the tired man and the
tender woman gave one another. It was half tragic and comic, for
father was very dirty and sleepy, and mother in a big nightcap and
funny old jacket.
[I began to see the strong contrasts and the fun and follies in
every-day life about this time--L. M. A.]
Anna came home in March. Kept our school all summer. I got "Flower
Fables" ready to print.
Louisa also tried service with a relative in the country for a short
time, but teaching, sewing, and writing were her principal occupations
during this residence in Boston.
These seven years, from Louisa's sixteenth to her twenty-third year,
might be called an apprenticeship to life. She tried various paths,
and learned to know herself and the world about her, although she was
not even yet certain of success in the way which finally opened before
her and led her so successfully to the accomplishment of her
life-purpose. She tried teaching, without satisfaction to herself or
perhaps to others. The kind of education she had herself received
fitted her admirably to understand and influence children, but not to
carry on the routine of a school. Sewing was her resource when nothing
else offered, but it is almost pitiful to think of her as confined to
such work when great powers were lying dormant in her mind. Still
Margaret Fuller said that a year of enforced quiet in the country
devoted mainly to sewing was very useful to her, since she reviewed and
examined the treasures laid up in her memory; and doubtless Louisa
Alcott thought out many a story which afterward delighted the world
while her fingers busily plied the needle. Yet it was a great
deliverance when she first found that the products of her brain would
bring in the needed money for family support.
[_L. in Boston to A. in Syracuse_]
THURSDAY, 27th.
DEAREST NAN: I was so glad to hear from you, and hear that all are well.
I am grubbing away as usual, trying to get money enough to buy mother a
nice warm shawl. I have eleven dollars, all my own earnings--five for
a story, and four for the pile of sewing I did for the ladies of Dr.
Gray's society, to give him as a present.
. . . I got a crimson ribbon for a bonnet for May, and I took my straw
and fixed it nicely with some little duds I had. Her old one has
haunted me all winter, and I want her to look neat. She is so graceful
and pretty and loves beauty so much it is hard for her to be poor and
wear other people's ugly things. You and I have learned not to mind
_much_; but when I think of her I long to dash out and buy the finest
hat the limited sum often dollars can procure. She says so sweetly in
one of her letters: "It is hard sometimes to see other people have so
many nice things and I so few; but I try not to be envious, but
contented with my poor clothes, and cheerful about it." I hope the
little dear will like the bonnet and the frills I made her and some
bows I fixed over from bright ribbons L. W. threw away. I get half my
rarities from her rag-bag, and she doesn't know her own rags when fixed
over. I hope I shall live to see the dear child in silk and lace, with
plenty of pictures and "bottles of cream," Europe, and all she longs
for.
For our good little Betty, who is wearing all the old gowns we left, I
shall soon be able to buy a new one, and send it with my blessing to
the cheerful saint. She writes me the funniest notes, and tries to
keep the old folks warm and make the lonely house in the snowbanks
cosey and bright.
To father I shall send new neckties and some paper; then he will be
happy, and can keep on with the beloved diaries though the heavens fall.
Don't laugh at my plans; I'll carry them out, if I go to service to do
it. Seeing so much money flying about, I long to honestly get a little
and make my dear family more comfortable. I feel weak-minded when I
think of all they need and the little I can do.
Now about you: Keep the money you have earned by so many tears and
sacrifices, and clothe yourself; for it makes me mad to know that my
good little lass is going round in shabby things, and being looked down
upon by people who are not worthy to touch her patched shoes or the hem
of her ragged old gowns. Make yourself tidy, and if any is left over
send it to mother; for there are always many things needed at home,
though they won't tell us. I only wish I, too, by any amount of
weeping and homesickness could earn as much. But my mite won't come
amiss; and if tears can add to its value, I've shed my quart--first,
over the book not coming out; for that was a sad blow, and I waited so
long it was dreadful when my castle in the air came tumbling about my
ears. Pride made me laugh in public; but I wailed in private, and no
one knew it. The folks at home think I rather enjoyed it, for I wrote
a jolly letter. But my visit was spoiled; and now I'm digging away for
dear life, that I may not have come entirely in vain. I didn't mean to
groan about it; but my lass and I must tell some one our trials, and so
it becomes easy to confide in one another. I never let mother know how
unhappy you were in S. till Uncle wrote.
My doings are not much this week. I sent a little tale to the Gazette,
and Clapp asked H. W. if five dollars would be enough. Cousin H. said
yes, and gave it to me, with kind words and a nice parcel of paper,
saying in his funny way, "Now, Lu, the door is open, go in and win."
So I shall try to do it. Then cousin L. W. said Mr. B. had got my
play, and told her that if Mrs. B. liked it as well, it must be clever,
and if it didn't cost too much, he would bring it out by and by. Say
nothing about it yet. Dr. W. tells me Mr. F. is very sick; so the
farce cannot be acted yet. But the Doctor is set on its coming out,
and we have fun about it. H. W. takes me often to the theatre when L.
is done with me. I read to her all the P. M. often, as she is poorly,
and in that way I pay my debt to them.
I'm writing another story for Clapp. I want more fives, and mean to
have them, too.
Uncle wrote that you were Dr. W.'s pet teacher, and every one loved you
dearly. But if you are not well, don't stay. Come home, and be
cuddled by your old
Lu.
_Pinckney Street, Boston_, January 1, 1855.--The principal event of the
winter is the appearance of my book "Flower Fables." An edition of
sixteen hundred. It has sold very well, and people seem to like it. I
feel quite proud that the little tales that I wrote for Ellen E. when I
was sixteen should now bring money and fame.
I will put in some of the notices as "varieties," mothers are always
foolish over their first-born.
Miss Wealthy Stevens paid for the book, and I received $32.
[A pleasing contrast to the receipts of six months only, in 1886, being
$8,000 for the sale of books, and no new one; but I was prouder over
the $32 than the $8,000.--L. M. A., 1886.]
_April_, 1855.--I am in the garret with my papers round me, and a pile
of apples to eat while I write my journal, plan stories, and enjoy the
patter of rain on the roof, in peace and quiet.
[Jo in the garret.--L. M. A.]
Being behindhand, as usual, I'll make note of the main events up to
date, for I don't waste ink in poetry and pages of rubbish now. I've
begun to live, and have no time for sentimental musing.
In October I began my school; father talked, mother looked after her
boarders, and tried to help everybody. Anna was in Syracuse teaching
Mrs. S------'s children.
My book came out; and people began to think that topsy-turvy Louisa
would amount to something after all, since she could do so well as
housemaid, teacher, seamstress, and story-teller. Perhaps she may.
In February I wrote a story for which C. paid $5 and asked for more.
In March I wrote a farce for W. Warren, and Dr. W. offered it to him;
but W. W. was too busy.
Also began another tale, but found little time to work on it, with
school, sewing, and housework. My winter's earnings are:
School, one quarter . . . . . $50
Sewing . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Stories . . . . . . . . . . . 20
if I am ever paid.
A busy and a pleasant winter, because, though hard at times, I do seem
to be getting on a little; and that encourages me.
Have heard Lowell and Hedge lecture, acted in plays, and thanks to our
rag-money and good cousin H., have been to the theatre several
times--always my great joy.
Summer plans are yet unsettled. Father wants to go to England: not a
wise idea, I think. We shall probably stay here, and A. and I go into
the country as governesses. It's a queer way to live, but dramatic,
and I rather like it; for we never know what is to come next. We are
real "Micawbers," and always "ready for a spring."