The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (9 page)

“Well,” Anna added, her linguistic abilities slightly more developed, “it
was
an apple.”

Bronson nodded. “And what happened to it?”

Louisa looked blankly at her father. Anna spoke up. “Louisa took it. I told her she must not, but she did. And then I took a little bite but I knew I was naughty. So I threw it on the floor, but
Louisa
,” she said, pointing her finger at her sister, “
Louisa
picked it up and ate the rest.”

“Is this true?” Bronson questioned his younger child. Louisa nodded. The notion of telling a lie to cover her misdeeds had not occurred to her.

“I was naughty, wasn’t I, Father?” Anna asked, twisting her fingers together. “I
stole
, didn’t I? Will you punish me for it?”

Bronson thought a moment. “I will answer your question with a question of my own, something I am anxious to know. Did you think you were doing right when you took a bite?”

Anna shook her head. “No, my conscience told me I was not.”

“And next time you will obey that precious voice inside, instead of ignoring it?”

“Yes, Father. I think I shall.”

“Then I shall not punish you.” He sat down in the wide armchair behind his desk and motioned with his index finger for Louisa to approach. She hopped down and toddled around to him, the back of her dress caught up in her lace-edged pantalettes. Bronson pulled Louisa onto his lap. “And what about you, my little hoyden? Why did you take the apple before Father said you could?”

Louisa looked up at her father, surprised by his question. “Because I wanted it.”

Bronson had learned much from his experiment that held true as his daughters grew, and he never declined an opportunity to remind Louisa of how she differed from her older sister. And he was right—Anna was skilled in the womanly art of self-sacrifice. For as long as she could remember, Louisa had prayed for God to change her into someone more like Anna: a reasonable girl ruled by her intellect and sentiment rather than her passion. Anna had never despaired that she had been born a girl. Perhaps it helped that she was beautiful. Louisa wanted with all her heart to be good like Anna, but she knew she wasn’t.

Bronson turned to Louisa. “And last, my little hoyden. What have you written today, Louisa?”

Louisa felt a grim smile stretch across her face. Indeed, how little had changed! She handed over the journal, its pages mashed together with the haste that indicates a disorganized mind. A disintegrating black-eyed Susan, pressed between the pages since the previous summer, fell out on the floor. Bronson took no notice—he had scolded her on her untidy habits many times. He opened to the place she had marked with her thumb, then turned the page forward and back again, drawing his eyebrows together like two dark curtains. “Louisa has written only two sentences: complaints about doing her share of the work and the size of this home we’re lucky to have at all.”

Bronson pressed his lips into a taut line. “While the rest of us feel gratitude for our good fortune, Louisa finds fault in her new surroundings.” He turned to her. “Do you agree that you have indulged in self-pity?”

Louisa looked down at her lap and nodded, shame burning along the edges of her ears.

“Father,” Anna said. “I think what Louisa was
trying
to say is that though she will have to adjust to a new place, she intends to hold herself to a high standard and keep accomplishing her work, even if it is difficult.” She glanced at Louisa, tilting her head tenderly.

“Loyalty is a lovely trait in a sister, but it will not help her improve.” He turned to Louisa once more. “Do you know why I ask the four of you to write?” He waited until their eyes all blinked expectantly at him, save Lizzie’s, which were now drawn in sleep. “The evils of life are not so much social and political as personal, and so we must work toward personal reform. Through writing we reveal what is in our minds. If goodness and selflessness be there, the words will show it. If evil lurks, the words reveal it, and all the better, for we must root it out and improve. Always, always work to improve, my girls.” He closed his Bible and rose, indicating that the evening was ending and in a moment all would go to bed. “It is the very reason we’re alive.”

He shuffled toward his study to begin the work that would keep him awake long into the night while the women slept. Abba kissed each of her girls good night. She was a plump woman with a round face, and her daughters resembled her. When she embraced Louisa, she held her an extra moment and whispered, “You are full of promise and vitality, my darling. Do not let his words discourage you. Bear up under them and resolve to be the best of who you are.” She kissed her daughter’s temple and sent her off toward bed.

 

 

 

D
espite Louisa’s reluctance to commit to another project that would keep her away from Boston, Anna’s enthusiasm prevailed and the Walpole Amateur Dramatic Company assembled a few days later for its first rehearsal. Mrs. Ferguson, keeper of the Elmwood Inn on Washington Square, offered her attic to the company in exchange for free tickets, acknowledgment in the program, and a promise that her son Paul could have a role in the performance.

The Elmwood was a Georgian beauty built in 1762, and the grand old home towered above the neighboring buildings with three full stories and two massive chimneys. The attic proved to be the perfect spot for rehearsals. It formed one open room, spanning the length of the house, and was sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a long table, and decaying velvet drapery. The six dormers, three on either side, let in plenty of light, and there was no chance of anyone peeping in at the clumsy first steps the actors would take as they worked to refine their performances.

Nora had refused to come, saying she couldn’t shake the feeling that they would be laughed at. The others waved off this assertion with slight nervousness. Nicholas and Samuel extracted a commitment from Joseph on the grounds that if they had to be there, he did too. That first day, Louisa, Anna, May, along with Margaret, Harriet, the boys, and Paul Ferguson, climbed the creaking stairs to the attic.

Though Louisa dreaded getting caught up in a lengthy project, she also couldn’t bear to take direction from a Walpolean who couldn’t possibly know as much as she did about the theater. So as she usually did, she took charge and appointed herself director. She brought the group to order with a few claps of her hands. “Thank you for coming. I know with hard work and dedication we will put on an excellent performance. I thought we could try
The Jacobite
. How many have read it?”

A few hands went up, including Joseph’s. Margaret pursed her lips. “I thought we might do something Greek.”

Louisa groaned. She supposed no one could mount a successful argument against the classics, but she felt Planché’s light comedy would have a wider appeal. “My sisters and I have done those tragedies dozens of times. They’re so
sober
. I thought it might be a lark to do something new. Something modern and comical.” Louisa handed her the play. “Just read it over—you’ll see.”

They waited while Margaret scanned the first scene. Samuel shifted his weight from one foot to another. May patted the curls along her forehead to ensure they were in place. Harriet scoffed, annoyed at the delay, and sat down in a chair that scarcely creaked under her paltry weight.

Margaret giggled over a line, then flipped the page closed. “You’re right, Louisa. This
is
quite amusing. Let’s try it.” She stepped toward the center of the room. “So, who will assign the parts?”

Joseph could see vexation rising in Louisa’s face and broke in to stop Margaret from running roughshod over the enterprise. “Louisa knows the story better than anyone else,” Joseph said.

“Well, I suppose that’s true,” said Margaret, unconvinced. She stepped back. Louisa reclaimed the reins.

She flipped to the first page. “There are three male and three female parts,” Louisa said. “Let’s see . . . Lady Somerford. She is the gentlewoman caught up in an affair.”

“Louy, please don’t give me a part. I want to be the prompter,” May said.

Louisa and Anna turned to their youngest sister in surprise.

May giggled, embarrassed. “I know your thoughts—it’s rare indeed that I would pass up the chance to be the center of attention. But this way if Lizzie feels well enough to come, we can work together.”

Anna kissed May on the cheek. “What a kind little sister I have.”

Louisa nodded her approval. “Speaking of roles offstage, we’re going to need someone to work on the sets.” She looked over at Paul Ferguson, who hovered at the back of the group. He looked mortified when all the eyes in the room turned in his direction. “Paul, I happen to know that you are quite the artist yourself. Your mother told me those paintings in the parlor are yours.”

Paul looked down at his shoes and nodded.

“Would you be willing to design and build some sets for us?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he mumbled, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “But perhaps—d-do you know Alfie Howland?”

May’s eyebrows went up. “The painter? Yes! I
worship
his work.”

“He was born in Wa . . . Walpole. Comes here for the summers, though he lives in Boston now.” He took a long breath, as if getting through the last sentence without his stutter had winded him. “Maybe we could ask him to help.”

“Oh, that would be a dream,” said May with her hands clutched at her breast.

Paul gave her a shy smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Paul,” said Louisa. “Now, then—back to Lady Somerford . . .”

“I’ll take that part,” Harriet said. “I don’t really
want
to be in the play at all. But I suppose I could play a noblewoman. Provided the costume is something rather fine.”

Louisa blinked at Harriet and contemplated spontaneously adding a new role to the play: irritating girl who looks like a toad. Instead she decided to ignore Harriet for the moment. “Lady Somerford is engaged to be married to Sir Richard. Samuel, perhaps you could play that role?”

“My pleasure, Miss Louisa,” he said, anxious to be agreeable.

“Samuel, please call me Louisa.” He nodded.

“I wonder,” Margaret piped up, “if it might not be better that
I
play Lady Somerford.” Harriet began to pout. Her hunched shoulders and sallow complexion made her seem like a deflated example of womanhood next to Margaret, who was pure fleshy vivacity. Margaret turned to her with mock solicitude. “Harriet, dear, it’s
only
that, as you know, I have
been
to London—my grandmother was British—and, well, perhaps I can render the upper-class accent a bit more . . . authentically. It’s not
your
fault that you haven’t traveled.”

Harriet pursed her lips and thought a moment. She knew better than to challenge Margaret. “Well, what other female parts are left?”

Louisa glanced at the list. “The Widow Pottle. She owns the tavern. And her daughter Patty.”

“No. I don’t like the sound of either of those,” Harriet said.

“Harriet,” May said. “Why don’t you help with the prompting? We have to copy out the parts for all the characters and whisper their lines to them if they forget.” Harriet nodded reluctantly and went to stand by May.

“Very well,” Louisa said. “Margaret will play Lady Somerford. As I said, she is engaged to be married to Sir Richard—that’s Samuel,” Louisa said, caught up in making her notes on the page, unaware that this statement caused both Samuel and Margaret to blush. “But Sir Richard is cruel to her and she doesn’t love him. Secretly, Major Murray is the
true
object of her affections.”

Margaret’s face fell—she wanted
Samuel
to play the true object of her affections. Louisa looked up at the remaining young men. “Nicholas,” she said, “perhaps you could play the Major?”

Margaret broke in. “Louisa, I don’t mean to
insert
myself where I’m not needed . . .”

“Certainly not,” Louisa said with a sarcasm Margaret ignored.

“. . . but doesn’t it say here that the Major is a ‘tall, fair man’?”

Louisa looked back at the description, exasperated. “Yes. Indeed, it does.”

“Well,” Margaret said. “Perhaps, then, would it not be better if Samuel played the role of the Major? After all, he is a head taller than both Nicholas and Joseph.”

Louisa looked at Samuel. He nodded, smirking at Joseph and Nicholas. “It is true that I am
far
taller than either of my friends.”

“Not very bright, though,” Joseph shot back with a grin. “Without a doubt, you have the feeblest intellect of the three of us.”

“Why don’t
you
take Sir Richard, you lout?” Samuel said, chuck-ling. “Miss Louisa, didn’t you say he is the villain?”

Louisa nodded, ignoring the formal mode of address he seemed unable to abandon. She turned to Joseph. “You don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “Mind a role that asks me to thwart the intentions of Mr. Parker? I believe I was born to play it!”

Louisa rolled her eyes. “Well, now that we finally have
that
settled . . . Anna, will you play Patty Pottle?” Anna nodded. “Oh, thank goodness. And I will take the role of the foulmouthed widow—I suppose no one will argue with me about that.” Joseph smiled. “And that just leaves . . . John Duck. Nicholas, you’re left. Would you mind?”

“Not at all, Louisa.”

“Right then. Let’s read through the first scene. I have only two copies here. So until May and Harriet finish the rest, we’ll have to pass it back and forth. Will you set up the scene for us, May?” Louisa asked, handing her the play.