The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott (5 page)

Bronson’s eyes widened. “He doesn’t identify himself?” To two men quite enamored of the sight of their own names in print, the news was shocking.

“None. Only this.” Emerson opened to the frontispiece. “A daguerreotype of the poet. Dressed like a scoundrel, I might add.”

He handed the book to Bronson, who flipped slowly through its pages. “And what is the nature of the verse?”

“It is the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom an American has ever contributed.”

Bronson, who knew his friend was not prone to exaggeration, raised his eyebrows.

“His words and form are
transcendental
in every meaning of the word. There’s nothing else like it I’ve ever seen.”

Louisa realized she had been holding her breath. The hole in the much-darned stocking remained, the needle pinched between her index finger and thumb. She had never heard Mr. Emerson talk this way before. He sat on the edge of his chair, his typically sober demeanor alive with excitement.

“You will find, I think . . .” Emerson hesitated. “ . . . that his subject matter is . . . peculiar. A bit shocking.” He gave a quick glance in Louisa’s direction. “And certainly not meant for the eyes of our counterparts.” Louisa realized glumly that he’d been aware of her presence all along. “In any case, they wouldn’t be able to make much sense of it, I don’t think. This is the poet of the man, the American man, and the meaning and responsibilities of his radical freedom.”

Bronson turned the volume in his hands. “And you know nothing of his identity?”

“Aha.” Emerson raised an index finger. “I did not, until a few nights ago. I saw an advertisement with a picture of the book, and beneath that, for the first time, the poet’s name. Mr. Walt Whitman, of Brooklyn, New York. You must read it as soon as you can, my friend. I am anxious to hear your thoughts on his work.”

“I will begin it as soon as we part. Your recommendation is enough to convince me.” Bronson smeared butter on a slice of bread he’d been eyeing throughout the conversation. “And your own work—does it go well?”

Emerson nodded. “I am finishing a volume of essays on my visits to England.” He pulled his watch from his waist pocket and squinted at it. “In fact, I should be on my way now. It is nearly afternoon.”

The men rose. Bronson walked his friend to the front door and shook his hand. Emerson nodded to Louisa and asked Bronson to wish Mrs. Alcott well. When Bronson turned back, his eyes registered Louisa’s presence, but he took no notice of her. His mind was far away on something else. He reached for the strange volume of poetry Emerson had been so eager to show him and turned toward his study.

Louisa set down her mending and followed him. “Father?”

Bronson turned, startled. “Yes, child? ”

She had to think quickly now. “Do you think . . . do you think Mr. Emerson will be thought of in the future as a philosopher? The way we think of Plato now?” She hadn’t actually meant to ask that, but now that the question was out, she did want to know the answer. Just as she’d hoped, he began walking slowly toward his study. She walked alongside, her hands clasped in front of her.

He thought a moment before he spoke. “There is no question that Emerson’s mind knows no equal. But he is too interested in fame and scholarship, not enough in the divine.” Bronson squared his shoulders, forever at the podium. “He sees all but doesn’t always feel. Do you understand my meaning? He has a capital intellect but an undeveloped soul.”

Louisa nodded, surprised to hear her father speak so critically. They reached his study and he walked around to his desk, pulling out the chair and settling in to shuffle through the disorganized stacks of papers. His face glowed in the light of the green-shaded brass lamp on the corner of his desk. He laid the mysterious volume of poetry off to the side and placed his journal on top of it, then looked up, surprised to see Louisa still standing in the room.

As he opened his mouth to speak, they both turned toward soft footfalls in the hallway. Lizzie appeared at the door holding a small tray that held a tarnished coffeepot. She entered the room behind Louisa and placed the tray on a table under the window, then turned to Bronson. “Father, I’m sorry to interrupt your conversation.”

“No need to apologize, little bird. What is it?”

Louisa wondered at her sister’s ethereal appearance, the dove-gray cotton of her dress doing nothing to enliven her pale complexion and light hair. She seemed at times like a slender ghost who fluttered from room to room, enamored with the textures of domesticity: the smooth bone of the knitting needle, the snap and flutter of a sheet in the breeze. They called her their little bird, little housewife, though Lizzie brushed off this praise.

“Marmee says there’s a family on River Road that has the scarlet fever?”

Bronson nodded. “Yes, I believe I heard something about that in town just yesterday.”

Lizzie reached into the right pocket of her apron and pulled out a handful of coins. A bulge in the left pocket squirmed and two orange ears poked out.

Louisa giggled, pointing at the kitten. “I see you’ve already taken on a new charge,” she whispered. The sisters had long joked that stray kittens throughout the northeast flocked to Lizzie, knowing she wouldn’t refuse them. Once, in Concord, Bronson finally put his foot down and ordered them out of the house when he found a whole litter scattered in the spaces on his bookshelf. Louisa had helped Lizzie hide them under the bed until he forgot about his prohibition.

Lizzie smiled, putting her finger to her lips. Bronson was flipping through a hefty book and failed to notice the feline interloper. Lizzie pushed the fuzzy head back into her pocket and held out the money. “Father, I’d like to send this to them, and I have some brown bread cooling. Marmee says they have no flour.”

He looked up. “This is a kind gesture, Elizabeth, and it gives me pride to see it.”

She smiled. “It wouldn’t be right
not
to give, when we can.” Louisa felt humbled by her sister’s generosity, though she wondered about whether they truly had anything to spare. Lizzie floated out into the hallway but then turned back. Bronson sighed impatiently.

“Will you be going into town today?” she asked.

“Yes,” Bronson said with a little irritation. “Just as soon as I have a moment to complete this letter. I will deliver your gifts then.”

Lizzie nodded. “Thank you, Father.”

Bronson turned back to Louisa, who stood waiting patiently to reclaim the thread of their conversation. “And now to you. Did I answer your question about Mr. Emerson well, my child? It is time for me to work.”

“Yes, Father. Very well.” Louisa marked the place on the desk where Whitman’s book lay concealed, already calculating the hours until her father’s evening constitutional when the study would be empty and she might slip in and claim it. “Very well indeed.”

 

 

That evening,
Louisa climbed wearily up the steps under the strain of a feigned headache and waited until she was safely ensconced in the attic room before liberating the book from the waistband of her dress. She settled upon the sagging bed and leaned back against the wall, feeling her chignon press against the faded wallpaper.

The book felt smaller than she’d expected after dreaming about it all afternoon. She stared at the frontispiece image of the poet. He did indeed look like a scoundrel, with his hat tipped to the side and a rumpled shirt, open at the collar. He reminded her of the vagrants she’d seen lurking in Boston Common when she crossed the park on walks with her father. All the poets she’d ever seen had gray hair, wore neat, if not new, frock coats and top hats, and took their tea in parlors. Whitman looked like the sort who might tear across a parlor like a maniac, frightening the ladies and overturning all the furniture. She thought back to Mr. Emerson’s warning that the book was not meant for a woman’s eyes, though she didn’t for a second consider retreating from her investigations.

And then she turned past the introduction to the opening verse.

She turned the pages and a glowing candle on the table beside the bed sank into its pricket. The verse was at once crude and reverent, panoramic and microscopic. With a kinetic rhythm, the poet wrote of an America Louisa scarcely knew, of bodies at work, sweating, cursing, praying; of slaves; of lovers; of buds folded in the earth. Line by line, the words lapped at her like waves crawling the shore. When she finally slept she dreamed of train whistles and the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer, her hand clutched as if it held a pen.

 

N
ew Englanders spent much of the year shrouding their bodies from winter’s frigid gloom, but August, hot and fragrant, drew them into the open. Out-of-doors became a state of mind as well as a place. In the meadows, vanilla-scented wildflowers the locals called “ joe pye weed” broke into pink feathering blossoms and were soon papered with monarchs. Spicy bergamot edged the woods. In the shadow of the canopy, the crisp scent of teaberry filled the air; beneath its waxy leaves, white flowers draped like a string of pearls. A week passed in which no rain fell and the heat stretched from mid-morning until late into the evening. All that sunlight was cultivating something in Louisa as well, though she wouldn’t know it for a while.

Louisa and Anna walked with Margaret Lewis along the narrow forest path that led from town to the muddy bank of the Connecticut River. Besides the relatives who had provided their accommodations, Margaret was the only other person in town the sisters had known before they arrived. Margaret’s uncle lived in Concord with his wife and children, and she had visited the relatives for a fortnight each spring and fall. Unfortunately, she could scarcely bear the company of her cousins, three dreadfully dull and pious young ladies who shunned music, dancing, and parties as works of the devil they lived to thwart. Margaret often found her way across the two yards that separated the Lewis home from Hillside. She was Anna’s age and found in the Alcott girls a bit more spirit of adventure.

Louisa carried a bundle that contained their lunch and clothes for swimming. She had been hunched over a meandering draft—a story about a vicious family feud that finally ends one New Year’s Eve because of a child called Alice—late into the previous night, and her back ached. With her free hand she slapped away a cloud of mosquitoes that seemed to be following them all the way through the damp woods.

Anna clapped her hands. “Girls, what do you think about putting on a play? ”

Margaret squealed with unencumbered delight. “That’s a wonderful idea! Assuming I get to play the lead, of course.”

Louisa felt a small wave of dread. A play would take months to arrange and would interfere with her Boston plans. But she tried to cover her feelings with wary enthusiasm. “It could be fun.”

“Do you think anyone else would be interested?” Anna asked her.

“Oh, yes,” Margaret said. The quiver in her substantial bosom threatened to settle once and for all the ongoing battle between her flesh and the seams of her dress. “There is little to interest the young people of this town in the way of entertainment.” Margaret had an affected way of speaking that Louisa found irritating but tried to ignore.

“Well,” Louisa said, “we will have to ask the others about it today.”

They reached a bright clearing where the ground sloped toward the river. Anna and Margaret, uncertain how to appear dignified, slowly descended the steep path down to the bank where the rest of the group lounged in the sunlight mottled with shadows the shape of birch leaves. Louisa, who didn’t mind her manners as well as her sister, let her momentum build untempered and nearly careened into a girl with curly red hair who sat with her back to the path, eating a handful of blueberries.

“Please excuse me,” Louisa said, embarrassed.

The girl smiled. “It’s all right.” She offered a friendly smile. “I’m Nora. You must be one of these Alcott girls I’ve been hearing about.”

Louisa stuck out her hand. “Louisa Alcott,” she said. After a surprised look, Nora took her hand and gave it an awkward shake. In her experience, only men shook hands. Louisa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. So many girls, especially in the small towns, were still being raised in the old way—demure bows and curtsies. But why shouldn’t they shake hands, the way men did, with dignity?

“And this,” Louisa gestured behind her as her sister and Margaret approached, “is my sister Anna.”

Anna tilted her head and smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Nora.”

“That’s my brother over there,” Nora said, pointing toward a pair of boys struggling to secure a tent between two trees. “Nicholas. The one with the dark hair. He’s older than I am—closer in age to you and your sister. That is, I think so—well, how old are you?” Nicholas was a full head shorter than his friend. He sported the bushy sideburns just coming into fashion and his hair was precisely combed and greased.

“I’m twenty-two,” Louisa said.

“Our little Nora’s but nineteen,” Margaret said, then sighed.

“That’s Samuel next to Nicholas. Is he not the tallest young man you’ve ever seen?”