On the island’s further side is a chasm, a
great split in the rock on Gull’s Perch through which the sea flows. The chasm
bears likeness to that deeply cut fissure in the ledge near Magnolia,
Massachusetts, known as Rafe’s Chasm, a rockbound channel through which the sea
rushes with tremendous force.44 What she saw, Louisa Alcott used,
molding scenes and characters — along with her convictions and her furies —
into the tales she told.
The
connections between Alcott’s life and literature may now be further explored.
Assuredly, there are intriguing queries still awaiting firm answers. Which
particular performance of Macbeth induced her to pick up her pen and
indite “A Pair of Eyes”? Was it indeed Fuseli’s portrait of Lady Macbeth or
some other that she depicted on Max Erdmann’s canvas? Was it her
own “Captive of Castile” or another Spanish play she had in mind when
she wrote “A Double Tragedv” for Erank Leslie? Was she herself ever mesmerized,
or did she rely simply upon the text of Dr. Theodore Leger? What initially
attracted her to the dark theme of Hindu Thuggism? Was it Meadows Taylor’s
triple-decker alone? Most important, what power struggles beyond
father-daughter relations and the experience in domestic service — struggles
thus far hidden from her biographers — did she win or lose and weave into her stories?
As more of her sensational tales emerge, so too do enigmas
that eall for solutions.
[43.] Louisa
May Alcott, “Life in a Pension,” The Independent (7 November 1867), 2.
[44.] Although
“Rafe’s Chasm is at the water’s edge in Magnolia, a section of Gloucester, and not on an island”
(Marion A. Harding, Cape Ann Historical Association), it bears a striking
resemblance to the chasm in “Ariel.”
Always
one persistent question remains: VVhat further anonymous Aleott stories with
still more varied themes lie buried in the crumbling pages of
nineteenth-century periodicals, how many more graphically illustrated
installments of other tales of darkness — written in secret and published
without a name — await the pursuit of researcher, the delight of avid reader?
Although
it may not be necessary to rewrite Alcott’s biography, it is necessary to rcw
rite more radically our concept of this Concord author, this delver into dark and diverse
themes, this keeper of many secrets. Her achievement, ranging from the exotic
to the domestic, appears to be even grander and more varied than had been
suspected. It is time it was fully recognized and reassessed.
A
DOUBLE LIFE reprints five stories written by Louisa May Aleott and published
anonymously in nineteenth-century newspapers and magazines. The sources for
these texts are:
“A
Pair of Eyes; or, Modern Magic,” Frank Leslies Illustrated Newspaper; 24
and 31 October 1863, 69-71, 85-87.
“The
Fate of the Forrests,” Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, 11,
18, and 25 February 1865, 325-326, 341-343, 362-363.
“A Double Tragedy. An Actor’s Story,” Frank
Leslie's Chimney Corner; 3 June
1865, 1-3.
“Ariel. A Legend of the Lighthouse,” Frank Leslie's
Chimney Corner, 8 and 15 July 1865, 81-83, 99-101.
“Taming
a Tartar,” Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper; 30 November, and 7, 14,
and 21 December 1867, 166-167, 186-187, 202-203, 219.
In
preparing these stories for publication, we have made emendations only where
the text would be obviously in error or unclear without them. For example, we
have corrected obvious spelling and typographical errors, inserted words and
punctuation marks for clarity, and provided missing single or double quotation
marks. We have let stand nineteenth-century spellings (such as “to-day”) and
inconsistencies in capitalization, hyphenation, and commas in series. We have
also declined to alter such technical matters as the error in “The Fate of the
Forrests” when in Part I Felix whispers “three words” in Kate’s ear and in Part
II tells Ursula that they were “‘To win my heart.’” Alcott was careless in
preparing her manuscripts for publication, and compositors for
nineteenth-century newspapers and magazines were not particularly careful in
setting type from even the best-prepared copy, so we have in general tried to
modernize or “correct” these texts as little as possible.
I was
DISAPPOINTED — the great actress had not given me what I wanted, and my picture
must still remain unfinished for want of a pair of eyes. I knew w hat they
should be, saw them clearly in my fancy, but though they haunted me by night
and day I could not paint them, could not find a model who would represent the
aspect I desired, could not describe it to any one, and though I looked into
every face I met, and visited afflicted humanity in many shapes, I could find
no eyes that visibly presented the vacant yet not unmeaning stare of Ladv
Macbeth in her haunted sleep. It fretted me almost beyond endurance to be
delayed in my work so near its completion, for months of thought and labor had
been bestow ed upon it; the few w ho had seen it in its imperfect state had
elated me with commendation, whose critical sincerity I kjnew the worth of; and
the many not admitted were impatient for a sight of that which others praised,
and to w hich the memory of former successes lent an interest beyond mere
curiosity. All was done, and well done, except the eyes; the dimly lighted
chamber, the listening attendants, the ghostly figure with wan face framed in
hair, that streamed shadowy and long against white draperies, and whiter arms,
whose gesture told that the parted lips were uttering that mournful cry —
“Here’s
the smell of blood still!
All the perfumes of Arabia will not
Sweeten this little hand — ”
The
eyes alone baffled me, and for want of these my work waited, and my last
success was yet unwon.
I
was in a curious mood that night, weary yet restless, eager yet impotent to
seize the object of my search, and full of haunting images that would not stay
to be reproduced. My friend was absorbed in the play, which no longer possessed
any charm for me, and leaning back in my seat I fell into a listless reverie,
still harping on the one idea of my life; for impetuous and resolute in all
things, l had given myself body and soul to the profession I had chosen and
followed through many vicissitudes for fifteen years. Art was wife, child,
friend, food and fire to me; the pursuit of fame as a reward for my long labor
was the object for which I lived, the hope which gave me courage to press on
over every obstacle, sacrifice and suffering, for the word “defeat” was not in
my vocabulary. Sitting thus, alone, though in a crowd, I slowly became aware of
a disturbing influence whose power invaded my momentary isolation, and soon
took shape in the uncomfortable conviction that some one was looking at me.
Every one has felt this, and at another time I should have cared little for it,
but just then I was laboring under a sense of injury, for of all the myriad
eyes about me none would give me the expression I longed for; and unreasonable
as it was, the thought that I was watched annoyed me like a silent insult. I
sent a searching look through the boxes on either hand, swept the remoter
groups with a powerful glass, and scanned the sea of heads below, but met no
answering glance; all faces were turned stage- ward, all minds seemed intent
upon the tragic scenes enacting there.
Failing
to discover any visible cause for my fancy, I tried to amuse myself with the
play, but having seen it many times and being in an ill-humor with the heroine
of the hour, my thoughts soon wandered, and though still apparently an
interested auditor, I heard nothing, saw nothing, for the instant my mind
became abstracted the same uncanny sensation returned. A vague consciousness
that some stronger nature was covertly exerting its power upon my own; I smiled
as this whim first suggested itself, but it rapidly grew upon me, and a curious
feeling of impotent resistance took possession of me, for I was indignant
without knowing why, and longed to rebel against — I knew not what. Again I
looked far and wide, met several inquiring glances from near neighbors, but
none that answered my demand by any betrayal of especial interest or malicious
pleasure. Baffled, yet not satisfied, I turned to myself, thinking to find the
cause of my disgust there, but did not succeed. I seldom drank wine, had not
worked intently that day, and except the picture had no anxiety to harass me;
vet without anv physical or mental cause that I could discover, every nerve
seemed jangled out of tune, my temples beat, my breath came short, and the air
seemed feverishly close, though I had not perceived it until then. I did not
understand this mood and with an impatient gesture took the playbill from my friends knee, gathered it into my hand and fanned myself
like a petulant woman, I suspect, for Louis turned and surveyed me with
surprise as he asked:
“What
is it, Max; you seem annoyed?”
“I
am, but absurd as it is, I don’t know why, except a foolish fancy that someone
whom I do not see is looking at me and wishes me to look at him.”
Louis
laughed — “Of course there is, aren’t you used to it yet? And are you so modest
as not to know that many eyes take stolen glances at the rising artist, whose
ghosts and goblins make their hair stand on end so charmingly? I had the
mortification to discover some time ago that, young and comely as I take the
liberty of thinking myself, the upturned lorgnettes are not levelled at me, but
at the stern-faced, black-bearded gentleman beside me, for he looks
particularly moody and interesting to-night.”
“Bah!
I just wish I could inspire some of those starers with gratitude enough to set
them w alking in their sleep for my benefit and their own future glory. Your
suggestion has proved a dead failure, the woman there cannot give me what I
want, the picture will never get done, and the whole affair will go to the
deuce for want of a pair of eyes.”
I rose to go as I spoke, and there
they were behind me!
What
sort of expression my face assumed I cannot tell, for I forgot time and place,
and might have committed some absurdity if Louis had not pulled me down with a
look that made me aware that I was staring with an utter disregard of common
courtesy.
“Who
are those people? Do you know them?” I demanded in a vehement whisper.
“Yes,
but put down that glass and sit still or I’ll call an usher to put you out,” he
answered, scandalized at my energetic
demonstrations.
.
“Good!
then introduce me — now at once — Come on,” and I rose
again, to be again arrested.
“Are
you possessed to-night? You have visited so many fever wards and madhouses in
your search that you’ve unsettled your own wits, Max. What whim has got into
your brain now? And why do you want to know those people in such haste?”
“Your
suggestion has not proved failure, a woman can give me what I want, the picture
will be finished, and nothing will go to the deuce, for I’ve found the eves —
now be obliging and help me to secure them.”
Louis
stared at me as if he seriously began to think me a little mad, but restrained
the explosive remark that rose to his lips and answered hastily, as several
persons looked round as if our whispering annoyed them.
“I’ll
take you in there after the play if you must go, so for heavens sake behave
like a gentleman till then, and let me enjoy myself in peace.”
I
nodded composedly, he returned to his tragedy and shading my eyes with my hand,
I took a critical survey, feeling more and more assured that my long search was
at last ended. Three persons occupied the^box, a well-dressed elderly lady
dozing behind her fan, a lad leaning over the front absorbed in the play, and a
young lady looking straight before her with the aspect I had waited for with
such impatience. T his figure I scrutinized with the eye of an artist which
took in every accessory of outline, ornament and hue.
Framed in darkest hair, rose a face delicately cut, but cold and colorless as that
of any statue in the vestibule without. The lips were slightly parted with the
long slow breaths that came and went, the forehead was femininely broad and
low, the brows straight and black, and underneath them the mysterious eyes
fixed on vacancy, full of that weird regard so hard to counterfeit, so
impossible to describe; for though absent, it was not expressionless, and
through its steadfast shine a troubled meaning wandered, as if soul and body
could not be utterly divorced by any effort of the will. She seemed unconscious
of the scene about her, for the fixture of her glance never changed, and
nothing about her stirred but the jewel on her bosom, whose changeful glitter
seemed to vary as it rose and fell. Emboldened by this apparent absorption, I
prolonged my scrutiny and scanned this countenance as I had never done a womans
face before.
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