Fruitlands Read online

  Gloria Whelan

  Fruitlands

  Louisa May Alcott Made Perfect

  To Alexandra and Michael

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Begin Reading

  Afterword

  Bibliography

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Gloria Whelan

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In 1843, when Louisa May Alcott was ten years old, Louisa, her sisters Anna, twelve, Lizzie, seven, and two-year-old Abby May settled with their mother and father on a farm they called Fruitlands. It was the dream of Louisa’s father to gather around him men and women who shared his vision of a more perfect world. Louisa’s experiences at Fruitlands were both sad and funny.

  From the time she first learned to write, Louisa kept a journal. It is believed that her father destroyed a part of her Fruitlands journal. Louisa herself, when she was older, destroyed many of her diaries. Only nine brief journal entries about her eight months at Fruitlands remain. I have imagined the diary that Louisa might have kept as well as a secret diary that told of her thoughts. This book is fiction, but it is based on real happenings. Fruitlands itself is now a wonderful museum where you may see, among many mementos of those days, the attic where Louisa and her sisters slept and a lock of Louisa’s hair.

  Begin Reading

  JUNE 1, 1843

  We are all going to be made perfect. This day we left Concord in the rain to travel by wagon the ten miles to our new home, which Father has named Fruitlands. The wagon was piled high with our possessions. Father drove the wagon. Mother was beside him holding two-year-old Abby May. Mr. Lane and Anna set us a good example by walking while I sat selfishly in the wagon with Lizzie. Mr. Lane’s son, William, who is twelve, also rode in the wagon, though we had little to do with him.

  The countryside around here is very pretty. Our new house is set on a hill. There is a stream and a wood nearby. In the distance I can just make out Mt. Monadnock stretched out like a sleeping giant. I feel much comforted by so fine a sight.

  There is a snowfall of white syringa blossoms around the house. Their sweet scent, along with the perfume of the lilacs, pours in through the open windows to cheer us.

  Our new home has a small dining room, a library for Mr. Lane’s many books, and a large kitchen for Mother. Above are bedrooms. William is to have his own room. Anna, Lizzie, and I will share the attic. Abby May will be in Mother and Father’s room. The other rooms are for Mr. Lane and the new members we hope to add to our family. The house was built before our Revolution. The floors tip this way and that, and the floorboards squeak and groan when you jump upon them, which Lizzie and I did.

  Father and Mr. Lane are removing us from the imperfect world. By the fine example we all set at Fruitlands, we are to be a means of improving mankind. We will do nothing that might harm our brother animals. We will eat only fruit, vegetables, and grains. Because milk belongs to the cow and her calf, we will drink only water.

  Father says we may eat those things that grow upright, aspiring to the air, such as apples, wheat, and cabbage. We are not to eat base things like potatoes and beets, which grow downward into the dirt.

  When Father visited Mr. Lane in England, Mr. Lane was so impressed with Father’s ideas that he and his son, William, left England to join us. It is Mr. Lane’s generosity that is paying for all of this, but it is Father’s vision that has led us to begin this new life. Father says that each man should live his own life, not as others live theirs. I pray that I can curb my temper and my laziness so that my behavior will be worthy of Father’s high purpose.

  I will put down a record of all that happens, for Father says that a journal is the way to come to know yourself, and it is only by knowing yourself that you are free to become yourself.

  JUNE 2, 1843

  This is to be my secret diary. Mother says our diaries ought to be a record of pure thoughts and good actions. She and Father often peek into our diaries to see that it is so. Yet Father tells us that we must be honest in our thoughts. I don’t see how the two fit together. I am resolved to keep two diaries, one to share with Mother and Father, and this one which shall be my honest thoughts. In the first diary there will be Louy, who will try to be just what Mother and Father would wish. In the second diary there will be Louisa, just as she is.

  I cried at leaving our dear little home in Concord yesterday and all of our friends, especially Mr. Emerson and my great friend, Mr. Thoreau. It was Mr. Emerson who gave Father the money for his trip to England, so Mr. Emerson takes a great interest in Father’s plans. Before we left I overheard Mr. Emerson say about our scheme, “It may go well in the summer, but what of the winter?” His words sent a chill down my spine, for no one is smarter than Mr. Emerson. Even Mr. Emerson agrees to that.

  Our journey was a miserable one. Mother held an umbrella over baby Abbie May, who didn’t mind the trip but played at catching raindrops. It was raining so hard that we smelled like a wagonful of wet dogs. To make room for all of our possessions, Mr. Lane and Anna walked alongside the wagon. Mr. Lane is to teach us all how we are to improve ourselves. I watched him stride along behind the wagon, his head up, his chin out, proud of walking while others rode. He did not look like a man who thought he needed improvement.

  Anna, who is twelve, two years older than I am, and much better than I, plodded along beside him. Toward the end, Anna’s boots and skirts were all muddy, and her wet hair hung down like strands of seaweed. Giving me one of his disapproving looks, Father told Anna he was proud of her unselfishness in walking. I seem never to be able to please Father.

  Because Father named our new place Fruitlands, I had hoped there would be an orchard, but there are only a few ancient apple trees. This is troubling, for fruit is to be the greater part of our diet. Still, a woods lies nearby and a gentle stream. Perhaps I will find an escape there from Mr. Lane’s hard lessons.

  I am not alone in my worries over our new life. Though she tried to hide them, there were tears in Mother’s eyes as she saw all that needed doing to make our new home liveable.

  Anna, Lizzie, and I sleep in the attic, which is dusty and dark and full of cobwebs and spiders. I helped Anna open the two small windows, for the attic was musty smelling as if it had been closed off for years. The ceiling is so low, we kept bumping our heads. When it grew dark, I made up a story for Anna and Lizzie about a fair maiden who was locked up in the attic because she refused to marry an evil old man. I said the creaking we heard was the maiden’s ghost looking for a way to escape. Lizzie said we must leave the door open for the maiden, but I said the evil old man had put a spell on the attic. He set the spiders to weave magic webs so the maiden couldn’t escape. If she tried, the cobwebs would wrap round her and smother her.

  There was so much to do yesterday that none of the bedsteads were put up, so that we had to sleep on the floor. Though all my bones ached, I rejoiced in the thought of Mr. Lane stretched out on the hard boards. Lizzie would not sleep by herself but crept next to me, saying she had heard the maiden sigh. I tossed and turned. Anna slept very well, which is a sign of a clear conscience.

  JUNE 3, 1843

  We were up early to explore our new home. All I see is a large old house on a hill with acres of woods and meadow and, close by, the Still River. Father sees what the future will bring. He took Mother and me and my sisters outside and told us the name of the hill on which our house rests. The name is Wachusett, an Indian name.

  Father is very tall with noble features and flowing locks. As he stood there telling us of his dream for Fruitlands, I was sure that others hearing of our way of life will be eager to join us. We shall build cottages for them on
the hill. There are springs nearby. Father says the springs will be turned into fountains to cascade down the hill so that each cottage will have its own water.

  He swept an arm over the meadow where cattle once grazed. “That is where we will grow our crops,” he said. “Over there we will plant an orchard with pear, apple, cherry, and peach trees.”

  While Father spoke, all that he described was before my eyes, as real as if it were there. Mother and my sisters and I joined hands with Father. I am sure that this time Father’s dream will come true.

  JUNE 3, 1843

  How I miss my dear little room in Concord. My back was sore from sleeping on the floor. There was nothing but apples and water for breakfast, and my stomach groans with hunger. Abby May had a temper fit because she wasn’t allowed milk, and Mother told her a story of a dear little calf who needed the mother cow’s milk.

  I try very hard to believe in Father’s dreams as strongly as he does. I think him brave to keep dreaming, for he has had many bitter disappointments. I cannot forget how the school he started in Boston ended in failure. People did not appreciate his advanced method of instructing children. He believed in kindness and discussion instead of the ruler and learning by rote. For that he was criticized and the children taken out of his school. He lost all of his money. Though I was only four, I will never forget the sheriff knocking on the door of the school, carrying away the very desks and pictures on the wall. When the sheriff reached for my favorite picture, Flight into Egypt, I ran at the sheriff, calling out, “Go away, bad man!”

  Father is surely an example for all of us. He does not dwell on his failures but tries again. Mother says this time he will be successful, for his dream is such a pure and good one.

  Anna and Lizzie and I talked of Father’s plans. Anna said, “If they could only hear Father as we did just now, I am sure the whole world would come to Fruitlands.”

  I said, “Mother wouldn’t be able to cook for the whole world.”

  Lizzie said, “Father is like Moses, who led his people to the Promised Land.” Perhaps we will find manna dished out on the meadows of Fruitlands.

  This afternoon I looked about for a place to write my secret journal. I cannot write my secrets while others are watching, for these are private thoughts. It is too stuffy in the attic, so I searched outside. Some distance from the house I found a weeping willow tree. It stands close to the river, and its overhanging branches form a curtain. When I pushed the branches aside, there was a leafy tent I could crawl inside and be invisible to all. Even the small animals. While I am hiding away, making no sound, a cottontail rabbit sits just outside the tree branches grooming its fur and twitching its whiskers.

  I have hidden in my leafy bower for a half hour. The breeze gently moves the trailing branches this way and that, so that first one part of land is visible and then another. It is as if pages in a book of pictures are being turned for me.

  I know I ought to be helping Mother to air the bedding, but there is something in me that makes me want to hide away and just be by myself. When I am with my sisters, whom I love dearly, I have trouble remembering I am Louisa. Being with other people nudges me first one way and then another until I hardly recognize myself. When I write my journal, putting down my thoughts, I find myself again.

  Anna keeps a journal too, though I don’t believe she keeps a secret one. I don’t think she has any thoughts she needs to hide. Once I asked her, “Suppose you could climb into any page of your journal you liked and relive that page, would you want to?” “Oh, yes, any page at all,” she said.

  Too many of my pages list my faults, like the day I ran away from home when I was six, but here and there are records of perfect days I would like to live again. There is the day Mr. Thoreau let me walk with him right down the middle of a small stream, as much at home in the water as the ducks and muskrats.

  JUNE 4, 1843

  Though it is a little crowded, we are fortunate that other fine people wish to join us in our efforts. Besides our own family and Mr. Lane and his son, William, we hope there will be several others who wish to live simply and close to nature. Mr. Lane says that each member of our community will be like a drop of fresh water falling into a cup until our thirst for a better life is satisfied. I am resolved to learn from all, and never again to be so rude as to laugh at Mr. Bower.

  JUNE 4, 1843

  What a strange lot we are! Joining us daily from his nearby farm is elderly Mr. Palmer. Mr. Palmer has a beard that reaches to his belt buckle. For a time men with beards were much looked down upon. Once four men set upon poor Mr. Palmer with the intention of cutting off his beard. He beat them badly. He was arrested and jailed for a year for refusing to pay a fine. At last he was told he might go. He refused to leave the jail, so they carried him out sitting on a chair. He is a stubborn man but a good farmer.

  There is also Mr. Bower, who has a great love of nature. He will spend long minutes in the contemplation of a butterfly or a daisy but little time with a rake or a hoe. The strange thing about him is that he believes clothes are a hindrance to the growth of the spirit. Mother is very firm and says he must wear clothes when he is about, so he spends time shut up in his room letting his spirit grow. William looked through the keyhole and reported Mr. Bower was indeed in a state of nature!

  William is thin with a washed-out look. He is quiet and well behaved when his father is by, but when he is with us he is more lively. I have warned Lizzie and Anna to have a care about saying in his hearing anything they would not wish to have Mr. Lane hear. I fear William carries tales.

  JUNE 5, 1843

  I am resolved to put aside my base hungers and eat only those things which uplift the soul. Today Mr. Lane explained how animals are our brothers. We are never to eat flesh or poor fish that have been caught with cruel hooks and snatched from the water. We are not to eat butter or rob hens of their eggs. I will do all that I can to curb my coarse appetites.

  Mr. Lane has kindly drawn up patterns for our clothes. Mama has made them. They are not cotton, for that would be unfair to the slaves in the South who are forced to pick the cotton in the terrible heat. Father said the clothes must not be made of silk either, for silk comes from making the poor silkworms work long hours. Our garments are made of homespun brown linen and very plain. When our shoes wear out, Mr. Lane will tell us how to make shoes from canvas.

  It will be a trial to me to think that I shall not be able to wear my lavender cotton muslin with sprigs of lilac all over and a ruffle at the hem, but I will try to keep an obedient heart.

  JUNE 5, 1843

  Lizzie, Anna, and I nearly collapsed with laughter when we saw ourselves dressed in Mr. Lane’s costumes. The men are in floppy trousers, long coats, and hats as big as platters. I think Mr. Lane must hate women, for it is the female clothes that are so hideous. We wear voluminous pantaloons, so large we might easily hide a cow in each leg. Over these monstrosities go long tunics. Little Abby May looks like a laundry bag tied in half, and poor Mother shed tears when she saw how she appeared. All these hateful garments are in coarse linen. They itch and are so stiff that when you sit down, they don’t sit with you.

  Mr. Wood Abram has joined us. He is a silent, glowering young man who has changed his name from Abram Wood, which is confusing, so I just call him Mr. Wood, for he is as silent as a tree. I asked him why, but for an answer he gave me only a dark look.

  The men are busy in the forest cutting wood for the cook-stove. They have planted some fruit trees, and today they began to plow. There was a great argument.

  Mr. Palmer, his beard wagging with each word, said, “You can’t plow without a team of oxen.”

  Mr. Lane shook his head. “We will not begin work by oppressing animals.”

  Father agreed. “Surely it is wrong to subjugate animals by hitching them to a yoke.”

  Mr. Bower did not give an opinion, for he was in his room growing his spirit.

  When it came time to draw the plow, it was yoked to Mr. Lane. After a few ho
urs his back hurt so he could not straighten up.

  “It’s against my principles,” he told Mr. Palmer, “but perhaps we will make this one exception. You may go to your farm and bring back your team of oxen.”

  Better the oxen’s backs than Mr. Lane’s! Mother, who was laboring over a hot stove, gave a great sigh and said, “The ox is not the only beast of burden at Fruitlands.”

  The men will plant clover and buckwheat to enrich the soil. They will not use manure to fertilize the fields.

  Father says, “Such filth would enter our bodies through the crops we grew and would certainly poison us.”

  Can Father be right? Anna and I argued about it. Anna says Father would not say it if it weren’t true. I said every farm I ever heard of used manure. Surely if what Father says is true, nearly everyone would be lying about dead. Neither Anna nor I would give in, so we ran about in the fields and pulled up grass and sucked the sweet part at the ends of the grass blades and made a daisy chain for Abby’s golden curls.

  JUNE 10, 1843

  Father told us the story of a man who delighted not in accumulating money but in giving it to others. In secret he would put coins on the roadway for strangers to find. His satisfaction came because he gave pleasure to others without calling attention to his unselfishness. I mean to take this lesson to heart.

  Father gave us a length of rope for skipping. He says it is good exercise.

  JUNE 10, 1843

  I have done an unselfish deed and have not put it in my journal to boast of to Mother and Father, but here in my secret journal. I was making lunch for Anna and Lizzie and myself. There were only a few wild strawberries left. Though I am hungry all the time, having a more substantial frame than Anna and Lizzie, who are more delicately made, I gave the strawberries to them, saying I preferred applesauce. In truth, I hate the applesauce because it’s sour. Our store of maple sugar is dwindling, and Mother is not allowed to use white sugar. When you take the applesauce into your mouth, its sourness bites you.