A Whisper In The Dark Part 1

A Whisper in the Dark.

Louisa May Alcott.

Foreword.

The secret is out: Louisa May Alcott led a double literary life! During the same years in which she carved a ni good and evil, brooding atmospheric settings, and chilling supernaturalism. In her hands, the basic materials of these stories-the diabolical villain, the imperiled innocent, the conflict of the heart-became tools for shaping character studies as vibrant as those in her non-thrillers. Hints of her interest in this type of writing appear in her fiction as early as 1854 and recur throughout her work thereafter.

Nevertheless, Louisa felt ambivalent toward her thrillers and refused to allow them to appear under her own name, even when publishers interested in exploiting her reputation offered her more money to do so. Several appeared bylined "L. M. Alcott" or attributed cryptically to "A Well-Known Author," but the majority were published anonymously or under the pseudonym A. M. Barnard. Their steady output continued until 1870, by which time the runaway success of Little Women ensured that she would never have to write another such story unless she chose to-which she did in 1877, when a publisher encouraged her to follow through on an idea that had been simmering in her imagination for more than a decade: her Gothic opus, A Modern Mephistopheles. Louisa planned to own up to her authorship of this novel and her earlier thriller, "A Whisper in the Dark," when the two were reprinted in a single volume in 1889, but she died shortly before the book's publication.

Louisa May Alcott's reticence to acknowledge her thrillers in her lifetime is understandable from her standpoint as a profes sional, but unfortunate as far as her literary legacy is concerned. Although she dismissed these efforts as mere commercial necessities-a verdict she also rendered for her children's books, indicating that she may not have been the best judge of how posterity would see her-any embarra.s.sment she felt toward them is wholly unjustified. The literary quality that distinguished these stories from others of their kind is still evident today.

The earliest of this volume's selections, "Marion Earle; or, Only an Actress!" was first published in 1858, and the latest, A Modern Mephistopheles, nearly two decades later. This period coincides with her most fruitful years as a writer, and all of the work she produced during that time reflects her growth and maturation into the writer who is today a recognized figure in America's literary pantheon. It is hard to believe that someone as committed to her art as Louisa May Alcott was would devote the care and attention she clearly lavished on her thrillers if she thought of them only as anomalous creations undeserving of preservation. If, as Alcott scholar Madeleine Stern has written, the unmarried Louisa took "her pen as her bridegroom," then we must consider all of her stories her progeny and her thrillers her prodigal children. It is time to welcome them back into the family after their long exile.

-Stefan Dziemianowicz New York City, 1996

Introduction.

Louisa May Alcott

The "Spinning Spider"

Louisa May Alcott is known to most readers as the woman who penned Yet sooner or later demons must be reckoned with if we (meaning men and women) are to experience moral growth-at least this seems to be the theme of the majority of Alcott's stories in the present volume. Alcott wrote these works both before and after Little Women as she persisted in widening her imaginative landscape and testing her literary wings. There are echoes here of Poe, Hawthorne, and the English gothic writers, but the voice itself, no matter what the guise, is unremittingly Alcott's: graceful, emotionally heightened, teetering on the brink of sentimentality but never quite allowing herself to plunge into it.

A Modern Mephistopheles is the longest and perhaps the most ambitious tale. Essentially it's a rewriting of Goethe's Faust-there is even a Walpurgis Night-but with fascinating differences. In Alcott's version, the heroine, Gladys, possesses a purity that's endangered by the machinations of a jaded aristocrat, Jasper Helwyze.

Helwyze liked to see her [Gladys] among the flowers; for there was something peculiarly innocent and fresh about her then, as if the woman forgot her griefs, and was a girl again. It struck him anew, as she stood there in the sunshine, leaning down to tend the soft leaves and cherish the delicate buds with a caressing hand.

"Like seeks like: you are a sort of cyclamen yourself ... the likeness is quite striking... . This is especially like you," continued Helwyze, touching one of the freshest. "Out of these strong sombre leaves rises a wraith-like blossom, with white, softly folded petals, a rosy color on its modest face, and a most sweet perfume for those whose sense is fine enough to perceive it. Most of all, perhaps, it resembles you in this-it hides its heart, and, if one tries to look too closely, there is danger of snapping the slender stem."

Here, as in her other stories, Alcott employs flower imagery to symbolize the beauty and fragility of the human soul, and insect imagery as a similitude for the delicate though enduring quality of women's work-indeed, Alcott often referred to herself as "spinning tales like a spider."

There's a secret at the heart of A Modern Mephistopheles that I suspect will be difficult for today's readers to guess (at least it was for me). In any case, the tale can be read a number of ways, including allegorically. To me, Jasper Helwyze represents the kind of malevolent cynicism that ultimately destroys innocence, even that of children.

In another long story, "V. V.; or Plots and Counterplots," Alcott examines the evil nature of women-particularly women who use their beauty and intelligence to serve their own selfish ends. Alcott's descriptive powers help prepare the way for the melodramatic elements of the story, thereby making them more palatable, and sometimes even arresting: Everything about her was peculiar and piquant. Her dress was of that vivid, silvery green, which is so ruinous to any but the purest complexion, so ravishing when worn by one whose fresh bloom defies all hues. The skirt swept long behind her, and the Pompadour waist, with its flowing sleeves, displayed a neck and arms of dazzling fairness, half concealed by a film of costly lace. No jewels but an antique opal ring, attached by a slender chain to a singular bracelet, or wide band of enchased gold. A single deep-hued flower glowed on her bosom, and in that wonderful hair of hers, a chaplet of delicate ferns seemed to gather back the cloud of curls, and encircle coil upon coil of glossy hair, that looked as if it burdened her small head.

This is, of course, a more florid writing style than any that prevails today, although it's certainly consistent with Alcott's exotic settings and characters. As scholars have noted, there was a theatrical side to her nature-she flirted with the idea of becoming an actress-that seemed to require an occasional respite from the mundane. Perhaps this is the reason so many of her characters wear masks, and why she was so profoundly aware of the tensions between the exterior self and interior self, tensions that figure prominently in her gothic prose. Perhaps it's also the reason so many of her tales have a rich European or English setting. Considering the fact that she was brought up in a household of strong democratic beliefs and practices, these same aristocratic leanings must have posed some uncertainties. After all, her father, Bronson Alcott, was a close friend of Emerson (Emerson referred to him as "a tedious archangel"), who in the 1830s had called for an indigenous American literature, and also of Th.o.r.eau, who in Walden had the will and vision to make Emerson's call a reality.

Yet what did "indigenous literature" mean to a female writer of this period except in strictly domestic terms, and what did a woman's skills have to do with taming a wilderness or describing a backwoods culture that was predominantly male? Even Hawthorne recognized the problem. "No author, without a trial," he earlier observed, "can conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance about a country where there is no shadow, no antiquity, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but a commonplace prosperity, in broad and simple daylight." For Alcott, the artistic dilemma must have been doubly perplexing. Where were the customs, artifices, airs, and psychological nuances that would occupy Edith Wharton decades later? Her chief recourse-unless she wished to go on writing endless extensions of Little Women-was to seek creative impetus elsewhere, and this is what she did. (This impetus, by the way, had its commercial aspect: like today's celebrity worship, the burgeoning middle cla.s.s wished to read about their "betters.") Her demons, too, were almost always highborn, or at the very least, cosmopolitan-it was as if she sent her New World morality abroad to combat Old World pathologies. If so, morality invariably won, though not without considerable sacrifice-a struggle that, incidentally, figured in the trajectory of Alcott's own career. She never married, and although she enjoyed a certain amount of success, she also suffered numerous rejections, and some of her stories remained unpublished during her lifetime.

So what does this literary "spinning spider" have to teach us today? What can we learn from her stories? Though her tenacity of purpose and willingness to experiment both are traits to admire, she is, above all, a superb storyteller. She was one of the first "popular" female writers to recast traditional cla.s.sics, such as Faust and Pilgrim's Progress, in order to examine women's roles; in this sense, it's little wonder that feminists have claimed her as their own. But Alcott, by virtue of her broad empathy, rises above such facile cla.s.sification. Her compa.s.sion extended to men, too, and she never stopped studying the emotional makeup of both s.e.xes. Though she looked back to Europe for many customs and artifacts, she still had both feet firmly planted on American soil. And if she was aware that home is woman's special province, she also knew that one has to explore what lies beyond the threshold. As a result, she spread her cobweb wide and caught many strange and wondrous creatures in it, some of whom are contained within these pages.

-Susie Mee 1996.

A Modern Mephistopheles

Editor's Note:In 1866, Alcott wrote A Modern Mephistopheles, or the Long Fatal Love Chase, a sho Within, a garret; gloomy, bare, and cold as the bleak night coming down.

A haggard youth knelt before a little furnace, kindling a fire, with an expression of quiet desperation on his face, which made the simple operation strange and solemn.

A pile of ma.n.u.script lay beside him, and in the hollow eyes that watched the white leaves burn was a tragic shadow, terrible to see-for he was offering the first-born of heart and brain as sacrifice to a hard fate.

Slowly the charcoal caught and kindled, while a light smoke filled the room. Slowly the youth staggered up, and, gathering the torn sheets, thrust them into his bosom, muttering bitterly, "Of all my hopes and dreams, my weary work and patient waiting, nothing is left but this. Poor little book, we'll go together, and leave no trace behind."

Throwing himself into a chair, he laid his head down upon the table, where no food had been for days, and, closing his eyes, waited in stern silence for death to come and take him.

Nothing broke the stillness but the soft crackle of the fire, which began to flicker with blue tongues of flame, and cast a lurid glow upon the motionless figure with its hidden face. Deeper grew the wintry gloom without, ruddier shone the fateful gleam within, and heavy breaths began to heave the breast so tired of life.

Suddenly a step sounded on the stair, a hand knocked at the door, and when no answer came, a voice cried, "Open!" in a commanding tone, which won instant obedience, and dispelled the deathful trance fast benumbing every sense.

"The devil!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the same imperious voice, as the door swung open, letting a cloud of noxious vapor rush out to greet the new-comer-a man standing tall and dark against the outer gloom.

"Who is it? Oh! come in!" gasped the youth, falling back faint and dizzy, as the fresh air smote him in the face.

"I cannot, till you make it safe for me to enter. I beg pardon if I interrupt your suicide; I came to help you live, but if you prefer the other thing, say so, and I will take myself away again," said the stranger, pausing on the threshold, as his quick eye took in the meaning of the scene before him.

"For G.o.d's sake, stay!" and, rushing to the window, the youth broke it with a blow, caught up the furnace, and set it out upon the snowy roof, where it hissed and glowed like an evil thing, while he dragged forth his one chair, and waited, trembling, for his unknown guest to enter.

"For my own sake, rather: I want excitement; and this looks as if I might find it here," muttered the man, with a short laugh, as he watched the boy, calmly curious, till a gust of fresh air swept through the room, making him shiver with its sharp breath.

"Jasper Helwyze, at your service," he added aloud, stepping in, and accepting courteously the only hospitality his poor young host could offer.

The dim light and shrouding cloak showed nothing but a pale, keen face, with dark penetrating eyes, and a thin hand, holding a paper on which the youth recognized the familiar words, "Felix Canaris."

"My name! You came to help me? What good angel sent you, sir?" he exclaimed, with a thrill of hope-for in the voice, the eye, the hand that held the card with such tenacious touch, he saw and felt the influence of a stronger nature, and involuntarily believed in and clung to it.

"Your bad angel, you might say, since it was the man who d.a.m.ned your book and refused the aid you asked of him," returned the stranger, in a suave tone, which contrasted curiously with the vigor of his language. "A mere chance led me there to-day, and my eye fell upon a letter lying open before him. The peculiar hand attracted me, and Forsythe, being in the midst of your farewell denunciation, read it out, and told your story."

"And you were laughing at my misery while I was making ready to end it?" said the youth, with a scornful quiver of the sensitive lips that uttered the reproach.

"We all laugh at such pa.s.sionate folly when we have outlived it. You will, a year hence; so bear no malice, but tell me briefly if you can forget poetry, and be content with prose for a time. In plain words, can you work instead of dream?"

"I can."

"Good! then come to me for a month. I have been long from home, and my library is neglected; I have much for you to do, and believe you are the person I want, if Forsythe tells the truth. He says your father was a Greek, your mother English, both dead, and you an accomplished, ambitious young man who thinks himself a genius, and will not forgive the world for doubting what he has failed to prove. Am I right?"

"Quite right. Add also that I am friendless, penniless, and hopeless at nineteen."

A brief, pathetic story, more eloquently told by the starvation written on the pinched face, the squalor of the scanty garments, and the despair in the desperate eye, than by the words uttered with almost defiant bluntness.

The stranger read the little tragedy at a glance, and found the chief actor to his taste; for despite his hard case he possessed beauty, youth, and the high aspirations that die hard-three gifts often peculiarly attractive to those who have lost them all.

"Wait a month, and you may find that you have earned friends, money, and the right to hope again. At nineteen, one should have courage to face the world, and master it."

"Show me how, and I will have courage. A word of sympathy has already made it possible to live!" and, seizing the hand that offered help, Canaris kissed it with the impulsive grace and ardor of his father's race.

"When can you come to me?" briefly demanded Helwyze, gathering his cloak about him as he rose, warned by the waning light.

"At once, tonight, if you will! I possess nothing in the world but the poor clothes that were to have been my shroud, and the relics of the book with which I kindled my last fire," answered the youth, with eager eyes, and an involuntary shiver as the bitter wind blew in from the broken window.

"Come, then, else a mightier master than I may claim you before dawn, for it will be an awful night. Put out your funeral pyre, Canaris, wrap your shroud well about you, gather up your relics, and follow me. I can at least give you a warmer welcome than I have received," added Helwyze, with that sardonic laugh of his, as he left the room.

Before he had groped his slow way down the long stairs the youth joined him, and side by side they went out into the night.

A month later the same pair sat together in a room that was a dream of luxury. A n.o.ble library, secluded, warm, and still; the reposeful atmosphere that students love pervaded it; rare books lined its lofty walls: poets and philosophers looked down upon their work with immortal satisfaction on their marble countenances; and the two living occupants well became their sumptuous surroundings.

Helwyze leaned in a great chair beside a table strewn with books which curiously betrayed the bent of a strong mind made morbid by physical suffering. Dore's "Dante" spread its awful pages before him; the old Greek tragedies were scattered about, and Goethe's "Faust" was in his hand. An unimpressive figure at first sight, this frail-looking man, whose age it would be hard to tell; for pain plays strange pranks, and sometimes preserves to manhood a youthful delicacy in return for the vigor it destroys. But at a second glance the eye was arrested and interest aroused, for an indefinable expression of power pervaded the whole face, beardless, thin-lipped, sharply cut, and colorless as ivory. A stray lock or two of dark hair streaked the high brow, and below shone the controlling feature of this singular countenance, a pair of eyes, intensely black, and so large they seemed to burden the thin face. Violet shadows encircled them, telling of sleepless nights, days of languor, and long years of suffering, borne with stern patience. But in the eyes themselves all the vitality of the man's indomitable spirit seemed concentrated, intense and brilliant as a flame, which nothing could quench. By turns melancholy, meditative, piercing, or contemptuous, they varied in expression with startling rapidity, unless mastered by an art stronger than nature; attracting or repelling with a magnetism few wills could resist.

Propping his great forehead on his hand, he read, motionless as a statue, till a restless movement made him glance up at his companion, and fall to studying him with a silent scrutiny which in another would have softened to admiration, for Canaris was scarcely less beautiful than the Narcissus in the niche behind him.

An utter contrast to his patron, for youth lent its vigor to the well-knit frame, every limb of which was so perfectly proportioned that strength and grace were most harmoniously blended. Health glowed in the rich coloring of the cla.s.sically moulded face, and lurked in the luxuriant locks which cl.u.s.tered in glossy rings from the low brow to the white throat. Happiness shone in the large dreamy eyes and smiled on the voluptuous lips; while an indescribable expression of fire and force pervaded the whole, redeeming its beauty from effeminacy.

A gracious miracle had been wrought in that month, for the haggard youth was changed into a wonderfully attractive young man, whose natural ease and elegance fitted him to adorn that charming place, as well as to enjoy the luxury his pleasure-loving senses craved.

The pen had fallen from his hand, and lying back in his chair with eyes fixed on vacancy, he seemed dreaming dreams born of the unexpected prosperity which grew more precious with each hour of its possession.

"Youth surely is the beauty of the devil, and that boy might have come straight from the witches' kitchen and the magic draught," thought Helwyze, as he closed his book, adding to himself with a daring expression, "Of all the visions haunting his ambitious brain not one is so wild and wayward as the fancy which haunts mine. Why not play fate, and finish what I have begun?"

A pause fell, more momentous than either dreamed; then it was abruptly broken.

"Felix, the time is up."

"It is, sir. Am I to go or stay?" and Canaris rose, looking half-bewildered as his brilliant castles in the air dissolved like mist before a sudden gust.

"Stay, if you will; but it is a quiet life for such as you, and I am a dull companion. Could you bear it for a year?"

"For twenty! Sir, you have been most kind and generous, and this month has seemed like heaven, after the bitter want you took me from. Let me show grat.i.tude by faithful service, if I can," exclaimed the young man, coming to stand before his master, as he chose to call his benefactor, for favors were no burden yet.

"No thanks, I do it for my own pleasure. It is not every one who can have antique beauty in flesh and blood as well as marble; I have a fancy to keep my handsome secretary as the one ornament my library lacked before."

Canaris reddened like a girl, and gave a disdainful shrug; but vanity was tickled, nevertheless, and he betrayed it by the sidelong glance he stole towards the polished doors of gla.s.s reflecting his figure like a mirror.

"Nay, never frown and blush, man; "beauty is its own excuse for being,' and you may thank the G.o.ds for yours, since but for that I should send you away to fight your dragons single-handed," said Helwyze, with a covert smile, adding, as he leaned forward to read the face which could wear no mask for him, "Come, you shall give me a year of your liberty, and I will help you to prove Forsythe a liar."

"You will bring out my book?" cried Canaris, clasping his hands as a flash of joy irradiated every lineament.

"Why not? and satisfy the hunger that torments you, though you try to hide it. I cannot promise success, but I can promise a fair trial; and if you stand the test, fame and fortune will come together. Love and happiness you can seek for at your own good pleasure."

"You have divined my longing. I do hunger and thirst for fame; I dream of it by night, I sigh for it by day; every thought and aspiration centres in that desire; and if I did not still cling to that hope, even the perfect home you offer me would seem a prison. I must have it; the success men covet and admire, suffer and strive for, and die content if they win it only for a little time. Give me this and I am yours, body and soul; I have nothing else to offer."

Canaris spoke with pa.s.sionate energy, and flung out his hand as if he cast himself at the other's feet, a thing of little worth compared to the tempting prize for which he l.u.s.ted.

Helwyze took the hand in a light, cold clasp, that tightened slowly as he answered with the look of one before whose will all obstacles go down- "Done! Now show me the book, and let us see if we cannot win this time."

II.

Nothing stirred about the vine-clad villa, except the curtains swaying in the balmy wind, that blew up from a garden where midsummer warmth brooded over drowsy flowers and whispering trees. The lake below gleamed like a mirror garlanded about with water-lilies, opening their white bosoms to the sun. The balcony above burned with deep-hearted roses pouring out their pa.s.sionate perfume, as if in rivalry of the purple heliotrope, which overflowed great urns on either side of the stone steps.

Nothing broke the silence but the breezy rustle, the murmurous lapse of waters upon a quiet sh.o.r.e, and now and then the brief carol of a bird waking from its noontide sleep. A hammock swung at one end of the balcony, but it was empty; open doors showed the wide hall tenanted only by statues gleaming, cool and coy, in shadowy nooks; and the spirit of repose seemed to haunt the lovely spot.

For an hour the sweet spell lasted; then it was broken by the faint, far-off warble of a woman's voice, which seemed to wake the sleeping palace into life; for, as if drawn by the music, a young man came through the garden, looking as Ferdinand might, when Ariel led him to Miranda.

Too beautiful for a man he was, and seemed to protest against it by a disdainful negligence of all the arts which could enhance the gracious gift. A picturesque carelessness marked his costume, the luxuriant curls that covered his head were in riotous confusion; and as he came into the light he stretched his limbs with the graceful abandon of a young wood-G.o.d rousing from his drowse in some green covert.

Swinging a knot of lilies in his hand, he sauntered up the long path, listening with a smile, for as the voice drew nearer he recognized both song and singer.

"Little Gladys must not see me, or she will end her music too soon," he whispered to himself; and, stepping behind the great vase, he peered between the plumy sprays to watch the coming of the voice that made his verses doubly melodious to their creator's ear.

Through the shadowy hall there came a slender creature in a quaint white gown, who looked as if she might have stepped down from the marble Hebe's pedestal; for there was something wonderfully virginal and fresh about the maidenly figure with its deep, soft eyes, pale hair, and features clearly cut as a fine cameo. Emerging from the gloom into a flood of sunshine, which touched her head with a glint of gold, and brought out in strong relief the crimson cover of the book, held half-closed against her breast, she came down the steps, still singing softly to herself.

A b.u.t.terfly was sunning its changeful wings on the carved bal.u.s.trade, and she paused to watch it, quite unconscious of the picture she made, or the hidden observer who enjoyed it with the delight of one whose senses were keenly alive to all that ministers to pleasure. A childish act enough, but it contrasted curiously with the words she sung-fervid words, that seemed to drop lingeringly from her lips as if in a new language; lovely, yet half learned.

"Pretty thing! I wish I could sketch her as she stands, and use her as an ill.u.s.tration to that song. No nightingale ever had a sweeter voice for a love-lay than this charming girl," thought the flattered listener, as, obeying a sudden impulse, he flung up the lilies, stepped out from his ambush, and half-said, half-sung, as he looked up with a glance of mirthful meaning- "Like a highborn maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour, With music sweet as love which overflows her bower."

The flowers dropped at her feet, and, leaning forward with the supple grace of girlhood, she looked down to meet the dangerous dark eyes, while her own seemed to wake and deepen with a sudden light as beautiful as the color which dawned in her innocent face. Not the quick red of shame, nor the glow of vanity, but a slow, soft flush like the shadow of a rosy cloud on snow. No otherwise disconcerted, she smiled back at him, and answered with unexpected aptness, in lines that were a truer compliment than his had been- "Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not."

It was this charm of swift and subtle sympathy which made the girl seem sometimes like the embodied spirit of all that was most high and pure in his own wayward but aspiring nature. And this the spell that drew him to her now, glad to sun himself like the b.u.t.terfly in the light of eyes so clear and candid, that he could read therein the emotions of a maiden heart just opening to its first, half-conscious love.

Springing up the steps, he said with the caressing air as native to him as his grace of manner, "Sit here and weave a pretty garland for your hair, while I thank you for making my poor verses beautiful. Where did you find the air that fits those words so well?"

"It came itself; as the song did, I think," she answered simply, as she obeyed him, and began to braid the long brown stems, shaping a chaplet fit for Undine.

"Ah! you will never guess how that came!" he said, sitting at her feet to watch the small fingers at their pretty work. But though his eyes rested there, they grew absent; and he seemed to fall into a reverie not wholly pleasant, for he knit his brows as if the newly won laurel wreath sat uneasily upon a head which seemed made to wear it.

Gladys watched him in reverential silence till he became conscious of her presence again, and gave her leave to speak, with a smile which had in it something of the condescension of an idol towards its devoutest worshipper.

"Were you making poetry, then?" she asked, with the frank curiosity of a child.

"No, I was wondering where I should be now if I had never made any;" and he looked at the summer paradise around him with an involuntary shiver, as if a chill wind had blown upon him.

"Think rather what you will write next. It is so lovely I want more, although I do not understand all this," touching the book upon her knee with a regretful sigh.