SOURCE: "Impersonating 'Little Women': the Radicalism of Alcott's Behind a Mask," in Women's Studies, Vol. 10, No. 1, 1983, pp. 1-14.

Every student of 19th century American literature owes Madeleine Stern an incalculable debt for having recovered and reprinted the sensational fiction of Louisa May Alcott [in Behind a Mask: The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott, 1975]. Not only are these texts significant themselves; equally significant is the context they create for thinking about the career of one of our major 19th century women writers. That Alcott's "true style," discovered in the act of writing Little Women, was a mask which increasingly encased her, displacing finally all other personas and all other possibilities of self, is implicit in the text of Little Women. Indeed, one recent critic [Eugenia Kaledin, in Women's Studies, Vol. 5, 1978], has argued perceptively that the anonymously published A Modern Mephistopheles (1877), in which the protagonist gains fame and fortune by publishing work that is not his own, reveals Alcott's own Faustian pact and records her alienation from the writing which brought her success. Certainly the disjunction between the values asserted in the sensational fiction and those asserted in the domestic stories argues Alcott's ambivalence. Yet one need not look forward to material published after Little Women to find evidence of Alcott's disaffection with that text. In "Behind A Mask," written two years before Little Women and singled out by Stern as the most extraordinary of all the "blood and thunder tales," Alcott provides us with a frighteningly prophetic vision of the act she will eventually perform: in order to survive economically, Jean Muir, the heroine of the story, adopts the mask of femininity and impersonates the character of a "little woman."

Given the financial success which followed the publication of Little Women and which has shaped the context within which her life is viewed, it is difficult to recover the sense of economic desperation which haunted Alcott previous to the discovery of her golden egg. Some measure of this desperation may be taken, however, from the fact that roughly a decade before this discovery, when faced with the loss of even the pittance to be derived from teaching, sewing, or serving as a companion, Alcott, albeit briefly, contemplated suicide. "Behind A Mask" was written upon Alcott's return from Europe, a trip she was able to make only by serving as "companion" to the invalid daughter of a rich man, when she discovered that in her absence another array of Alcott debts had been incurred. Produced to fill the ever-yawning maw of Alcott need, "Behind A Mask" accurately registers its author's sense of desperation. More significantly, "Behind A Mask" identifies the source of the desperation and forecasts Alcott's final solution to it; it is the work that Work was meant to be.

Succinctly, "Behind A Mask" asserts that there is no honest way for a woman to make a living; survival depends upon one stratagem or another—sell your hair, sell your body, sell your soul; all are equivalent moves in the same game. Alcott lost her hair, her one real vanity, from the illness she contracted during her brief stint as a nurse during the Civil War; from the cure prescribed for the illness, she permanently lost her health. For her work, she received $10. While she was on this job, she received a letter from an editor of Frank Leslie 's Illustrated Newspaper, telling her that "Pauline's Passion and Punishment," her first effort in the genre of sensational fiction, had earned her $100. Out of the anger generated by such disparity between the wages of encouraged virtue and those of proscribed vice come the exposures of "Behind A Mask."

"Behind A Mask" is Alcott's most radical text. It presents an incisive analysis of the economic situation of the white middle class woman in late 19th century society. It articulates a radical critique of the cultural constructs of "femininity" and "little womanhood," exposing them as roles women must play, masks they must put on, in order to survive. Finally, it provides us with the key to Alcott's own choices and the metaphor which makes sense of her career. To read Little Women without benefit of "Behind A Mask" is to misread it. Thanks to the work of Madeleine Stern, we are no longer in danger of such misreading.

The brilliance of "Behind A Mask" derives from its basic design. A woman at last thirty years old (Alcott herself was over 30 when she wrote it), with a somewhat shady past—she has been an actress, who has thus far failed to secure a husband and thus to ensure her economic survival, has engineered one last chance to "succeed." She has been engaged for a term as governess in a household with two unmarried sons and one unmarried uncle. She thus has what one might call three match points between herself and final failure. Jean Muir (we never know whether or not this is her "real" name) understands that to win this game she must play to perfection the role of "little woman." Thus the story anatomizes the role.

As we shall see, the job description for the position of little woman is a joke; no one with other options would apply. It is a job no one can possibly do. Indeed, Jean's success in playing the part, even temporarily, depends on a level of fantasy. In Jean, Alcott created in fact an idealized self-image. Jean is, as Alcott would like to have been, the woman who can do it all, who can be all things to all people, the woman who could meet the demands Alcott felt were placed on her—to be "a father to the boys, as she had been not only a sister but a daughter and a wife and a mother, too, at home. .. . To her family she had been, and must be . . . all things, fathering her father, mothering her mother, husbanding her sister . . . " Obviously, the successful "little woman" is a superwoman. Thus fantasy reveals fantasy; not Jean, but the idea of "little woman" is the real fantasy. Further, since the role clearly requires an extraordinary level of consciousness, any illusion about its being the natural expression of essential femininity is also exploded. Thus "Behind A Mask" defines men's belief in the reality of "little women" as cosmically stupid, the logical result, however, of their position as insiders, just as Jean's intellience is in part the result of her position as outsider. Though one of the defining characteristics of the little woman is stupidity, Alcott here implies that, logically, the culture makes men stupid and women intelligent. That only a woman can be feminine becomes, in this context, a truism with a twist.

The opening scene of "Behind A Mask" provides an immediate sense of the job Jean is expected to do. When asked if she is "fitted to teach music, French, and drawing," she promptly demonstrates her fitness by going to the piano. Accomplishment here brings a request for singing and "with the same meek obedience Miss Muir complied, and began a little Scotch melody, so sweet, so sad, that the girl's eyes filled, and Mrs. Coventry looked for one of her many pocket-handkerchiefs." Shortly after her musical entertainment, Jean exhibits another range of skills. Edward is making a mess of serving tea—just like a man, of course: "Miss Muir quietly took her place behind the urn, saying with a smile ... , 'Allow me to assume my duty at once, and serve you all. I understand the art of making people comfortable in this way,'" and she "performed her little task with a skill and grace that made it pleasant to watch her."

The first night on the job proves prophetic. Up early the next morning and once again at work, Miss Muir is discovered by Bella, the Coventry daughter, with "a lovely bouquet": "'I never can arrange flowers prettily, which vexes me, for Mamma is so fond of them and cannot go out herself. You have charming taste,' she said, examining the graceful posy which Miss Muir had much improved . . . " At breakfast moments later, Jean appears the consummate story teller; putting off her "sad, meek air," she entertains the family "with gay anecdotes of her life in Paris, her travels in Russia when governess in Prince Jermadoff s family, and all manner of witty stories. . . ." After breakfast comes more singing and the revelation that her talent in this arena is not limited to sad little Scotch airs. Then comes Bella's French lesson: "She didn't bore me with stupid grammar, but just talked to me in such pretty French that I got on capitally, and like it as I never expected to, after Lucia's dull way of teaching it." Jean ends her first day on the job by providing a final service; she reads aloud "with a fluency which made every fact interesting, every sketch of character memorable, by the dramatic effect given to it."

Not surprisingly, after a few weeks Jean has become "the life of the house" and people are beginning to quarrel over who gets to use her services. Yet there is more to come. The first quarrel over who gets to use her has a bloody outcome. Ned, the younger son, in a fit of jealousy, attacks his elder brother with a large pruning knife and might have killed him "had not Miss Muir with unexpected courage and strength wrested the knife from Edward." Taking immediate command of the situation, Jean proves herself a woman of "uncommon skill and courage" as she improvises a tourniquet and stops the flow of blood. For this service she earns the doctor's accolade: "'You may thank her for saving your life. By Jove! It was capitally done'; and the old doctor looked at the girl with as much admiration as curiosity in his face." Though Ned turns "faint and white" when asked to assist in the subsequent operation, Jeans holds "the bare and bloody arm so firmly, steadily, that Coventry sighed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Scott fell to work with an emphatic nod of approval." Later, Ned is too timorous to adjust Gerald's bandages, but when Gerald speaks to Jean, "before the complaint was ended, she began loosening the bandages with the decision of one who understood what was to be done and had faith in herself." In addition to being as capable as the doctor, Jean is also a superb nurse. When bathing Gerald's forehead with water "mingled" with cologne and singing, "as easily as a bird, a dreamy, low-toned lullaby," fails to have the desired sleep-inducing effect, Jean turns to the laying on of hands: "But soon a subtle warmth seemed to steal from the soft palms that enclosed his own. . . . He sighed, and said dreamily, as he turned his face toward her, 'I like this.' And in the act of speaking, seemed to sink into a soft cloud which encompassed him about with an atmosphere of perfect repose."

One of the major services Jean provides is far less visible than the activities noted thus far. Jean's achievement in this arena is summarized at the beginning of chapter 3:

She was devoted to Bella, who soon adored her, and was only happy when in her society. She ministered in many ways to Mrs. Coventry's comfort, and that lady declared there never was such a nurse. She amused, interested and won Edward with her wit and womanly sympathy. She made Lucia respect and envy her for her accomplishments, and piqued indolent Gerald by her persistent avoidance of him, while Sir John was charmed with her respectful deference and the graceful little attentions she paid him in a frank and artless way, very winning to the lonely old man. The very servants liked her; and instead of being, what most governesses are, a forlorn creature hovering between superiors and inferiors, Jean Muir was the life of the house.

Obviously, the job of "little woman" is psychologically strenuous. To become the "life of the house" requires extraordinary psychological skill and social energy, an ability to grasp the character and analyze the needs of each member of the household and to adapt accordingly both service and performance. In addition, it requires a level of self-consciousness and consciousness of others which borders on the supernatural and a level of self-control which borders on the superhuman. Except in the privacy of her own room (and, as we shall see, even this space is eventually surrendered to the exigencies of the job), there is never a moment when Jean is not conscious of exactly where everyone else is and exactly what they are doing.

Her first morning on the job, surveying the territory in the early hours "when only the housemaids were astir," Jean's antennae pick up a signal and "suddenly her whole air changed, she pushed back her hat, clasped her hands loosely before her, and seemed absorbed in girlish admiration of the fair scene that could not fail to charm any beauty-loving eye. The cause of this rapid change soon appeared." Jean knows that in a world inherently suspicious of women the most successful impressions are those made when the observer thinks the observed is not aware of being seen, for this fosters the illusion that one is seeing the woman as she really is. Obviously the ultimate mask for a woman is that of her "real self"—i.e. true womanliness. At the end of the story, when Jean's letters are being read, one character exclaims: "She never wrote that! It is impossible. A woman could not do it."

Shortly after her impression on Sir John, Jean makes a similar one on Edward. Pretending to be unaware of his distant observation, she enters the paddock where his horse is grazing (she has already figured out that Edward's horse is his obsession) and engages in an elaborately feminine ritual of taming the masculine horse until Edward, "who had watched the scene, found it impossible to restrain himself any longer and, leaping the wall, came to join the group . . . with mingled admiration and wonder." On the way into breakfast, Jean's antennae discover another opportunity and Jean never misses a chance—she can't afford to: "The long hall was lined with portraits, and pacing slowly down it she examined them with interest. One caught her eye, and, pausing before it, she scrutinized it carefully. .. . A soft rustle behind her made her look around, and, seeing Lucia, she bowed, half turned, as if for another glance at the picture, and said, as if involuntarily, 'How beautiful it is! May I ask if it is an ancestor, Miss Beaufort?' 'It is the likeness of my mother.'" Jean's job requires continuing and continual consciousness and the activity of the first morning is repeated, even to the point of giving up the offstage area: "She cries at night, I know, and sighs sadly when she thinks I don't hear."

The job also requires extraordinary self-discipline and self-control. Jean must continually act as if she is not acting and pretend that she is not pretending; she must never let the ultimate mask of "real self slip. More difficult still, the character Jean must impersonate is the exact opposite of who she must be in order to survive. To be a good "little woman," one must possess acute consciousness, consummate acting ability, psychological strength, self-control and a capacity for hard work. Yet the role of little woman demands that the person playing it appear to be totally unself-conscious and even unconscious, completely "natural," weak, timorous, out of control, and passive. Then again, the little woman must get married; it is her only economic option and it provides her only opportunity to play the part required of her. Yet she must never seem to have the slightest intention in respect to marriage; offers must always come to her as totally unlooked for and unanticipated events. To put it succinctly, Jean must manage to get everyone obsessed with her while appearing neither to desire nor to attract attention. The self-control required to play this part is certainly equal to, if not beyond, that demanded for the most heroic of male activities.

The situation Alcott has designed for "Behind A Mask" provides an excellent mechanism for exposing the absurdities involved in the role of little woman. In addition, it provides the occasion for a radical critique of other key concepts of late 19th century culture. Since Jean's behaviour is clearly identified as a role she assumes, we are continually engaged with the issue of its utility. Examining the interests which it serves, we are lead to uncover the nature of the culture in which it occurs.

In the first scene, when Jean complies with the request to demonstrate her competence as a musician, she does not choose to play a technically difficult or impressive piece; rather she chooses to play sad and sweet "little" Scotch airs. Nor does she conclude her peformance by standing up, bowing, and acknowledging her skill; rather she chooses to interrupt it by falling off the piano bench in a faint while calling on her mother. The Alcott who created "Marmee" knew what she was doing; here she identifies the idea of mother as one of the great sentimental cliches of her culture, capable of being used for considerable theatrical effect.

Implicit in Jean's fainting, as in her entire handling of the performance situation, is the imagery of victimization. Jean has been careful to cast herself in the mold of victim from the first moment of her entrance on stage. She employs her art to present herself as meek, sad, and completely unassuming. She comes in, "a little black-robed figure," she sits down "meekly . . . without lifting her eyes," answers all questions with a "soft, sad voice," and responds to all commands "with the same meek obedience":

"Are your parents living?" "I have not a relation in the world." "Dear me, how sad! Do you mind telling me your age?" "Nineteen. .. . I wish I was thirty, but, as I am not, I do my best to look and seem old." Of course, everyone looked at her then, and all felt a touch of pity at the sight of the pale-faced girl in her plain black dress, with no ornament but a little silver cross at her throat. . . . Poverty seemed to have set its bond stamp upon her, and life to have had for her more frost than sunshine.

Jean's carefully selected self-presentation reveals the degree to which the posture of victim is a cultural turn-on. The attraction, however, has little to do with a desire to assist the victim and much to do with the pleasure derived by others from the sight of her particular brand of suffering. For Jean is, of course, in fact a victim. She is a thirty year old woman of extraordinary talents, with no conceivable means of support, no access to social status, and no possible career except marriage. Were Jean to present herself to the Conventrys in this light, however, she would not elicit their sympathy; rather she would be dismissed on the spot. Yet the animus which would produce hostility to the actual victim is also present in the formula for the acceptable victim. While liking to think of themselves as sympathetic, the Coventrys in truth want their victims carefully packaged—they must be nineteen, not thirty, attractive not ugly, humble not proud, innocent not informed, helpless not determined. In a word, they must be programmed for death and ready to die without struggle so that the observers may experience the ultimate orgasm of watching innocence expire. Alcott understands the essential pornography of her culture.

Certainly Jean's behavior is designed to feed men's sense of superiority and thus to expose their essential stupidity. Jean appeals to Gerald as she offers, with complete "innocence," the following bit of "wisdom": "Energy is more attractive than beauty in a man." Though it is perfectly obvious that Jean's own energy has made all the Coventrys obsessed with her, nevertheless Gerald greets this remark with lip-smacking satisfaction. Just as she has earlier played on Ned's feeling of rage at not being "master," so with Gerald Jean plays on his love of being seen as master and treated as such, regardless of anything he may have done to deserve it: "'Do you consider me the master here?' 'Yes,' and to the word she gave a sweet, submissive intonation which made it expressive of the respect, regard, and confidence which men find pleasantest when women feel and show it. Unconsciously his face softened, and he looked up at her with a different glance from any he had ever given her before." Since Gerald has done nothing to merit respect, regard, or confidence, the arrogance behind his calm acceptance of these attitudes as his due is considerable. Yet his stupidity in believing that Jean would offer them on the basis of nothing more than a title surpasses even his arrogance.

But this stupidity is, of course, merely a reflection of men's belief that women are radically different creatures from themselves, so different that the "sweet submissive intonation" with which they greet the word "master" is natural to them, just as it is natural for them to respond simply to a title. Jean is quite careful to reinforce male mythologies about female nature, even while her behavior provides ample counter evidence, and she is only too happy to offer up the concept of "woman" and her "nature" as explanatory devices for this behavior. In the "painful" interview with Gerald in which she shows him Edward's love letter and asks him for advice, thus subtly flattering his sense of dominance and superiority, Gerald suggests that Edward be sent away so that he may forget; Jean responds, "Yes, thank heaven, that is possible for men." Women, she implies, can never forget; their hearts once broken never heal; thus is "explained" the mystery of her own arrival on the scene and the absence of any concrete information about her past. In addition, Jean never disabuses men of their instinctive reference to "woman" and "woman's nature" to make themselves feel superior, explain female behavior, or justify throwing up their hands at the "unintelligible." She allows Gerald to pontificate that a "woman with a mouth like that never confides or confesses anything"; and later she accepts and indulges his outburst, "You women are such enigmas. I never expect to understand you!"

Jean's actual story, the one we read, proves the absurdity of this theory of difference. Jean acts out of necessities and on motives that are precisely the same as those of the men, and she evinces emotions and desires that would be considered quite ordinary and acceptable in a man. Jean's basic concern is sheer survival, a motive perfectly intelligible to anyone not committed to the idea that women are not men. Beyond that, she has certain material goals hardly surprising in any participant in an age of rampant capitalism—she would like her survival to be pitched at the highest possible material level; she would prefer to be Lady Coventry rather than Mrs. Gerald or Mrs. Ned, for she sees no reason not to "have the best." Her emotions are "normal"—the desire to win; the desire for revenge; the desire to manipulate, dominate, and control. Not "feminine" emotions, but certainly "human," given that the definition of human in this culture is taken from the likes of Gerald and Ned. Obviously, Jean is no different from the men. And why should she be? Her situation is the same as theirs: she has a living to make, and they all agree that mastery is the best game in town.

The revelation at the end of the story that Jean has behaved just like a man exposes a myth of considerable value to those who created it. At some level, men must recognize that no person would want to be a little woman. The myth of difference rationalizes what would otherwise be inconceivable. When that myth is exposed, its power is broken and the possibility of mass defection rears its lovely head. Thus Jean draws down on herself the rage of those who feel their interests radically threatened. But the shock and outrage attendant upon the revelation that Jean is like a man exposes an even uglier aspect of the culture. Jean operates from the basic premise that she deserves to survive and to succeed; in essence, that she deserves to be paid for her services and her work. But the basic premise of her situation is the assumption that she should provide her services free of charge. When the Coventrys discover what a superstar they have in Jean, there is no thought of hiring her on a permanent basis to do the job at a salary commensurate with its value to them. For the true woman, as they well know, serves without thought of reward. The more perfectly Jean performs the job of little woman, the less they feel they have to pay. Yet to fail to pay Jean for her work is literally to refuse her survival. The ultimate intention behind the myth of difference becomes clear: if to be womanly is to be other than human, then the way is open to viewing women as commodities to be gotten as cheaply as possible, used as hard as possible, and replaced as rapidly as possible when worn out. Not only does Jean refuse to be treated as a thing; and not only does she expose the design to so use her. When Ned reads Jean's letters, he discovers that she has treated him, Gerald and Sir John precisely as they have treated her—i.e. as commodities to be used for her own ends. Thus at the denouement Jean stands revealed as the culture's ultimate monster: a man herself, she has treated men like women.

Yet even the revelation of her ultimate monsterhood is insufficient to explain the rage which greets Jean at the end of her story. Set an impossible task, Jean has in fact performed it. Though she may be an imposter, her services are genuine, and these services are, as we have seen, extraordinary. Why, then, we are forced to ask, does no one respond, not simply with respect for the performance or gratitude for the work, but with the perception that here is a veritable treasure worth keeping on at any cost? The answer plumbs the depths of Alcott's bitterness as it exposes the shocking disparity between cultural myth and cultural reality. Forced to be a "little woman" to survive, Jean is hated for her very success at the job. Part of this hatred stems from the logic implicit in the job's impossibility; if the job can't be done, then anyone who does it must be an imposter with an ulterior motive, inhuman because superhuman, in fact a "witch." Yet this "logic" reveals the truly ulterior and thoroughly misogynistic design of the demand: no one is supposed to survive it; women are supposed to break down and go under; it is a demand designed to eliminate. Jean has, however, against all odds, survived and it is this which constitutes her ultimate crime, the unforgivable sin besides which those of using men as they would use her and forcing them to confront their stupidity seem merely venal.

Like much of what we consider classic American fiction, "Behind A Mask" is self-reflexive; it is art about art. Its sub-title is "A Woman's Power"; that power is located in Jean's ability to act. To the degree that an actor is an artist, "Behind A Mask" asserts that women are powerful in proportion to their success as artists. And, further, since women's power must be used primarily to ensure their own survival, Alcott's tale links women's survival to their artistic ability. If "woman as artist" is emblematic of the situation of women in general, the reverse is also true. That is, if woman's survival is linked to her art, so is her art linked to her survival. In "Behind A Mask," Alcott asserts that woman's capacity to survive depends upon her ability to master the art of impersonation; this assertion provides an invaluable context for examining the woman writer and her work. Alcott herself, of course, constitutes a case in point. After reading "Behind A Mask," how else are we to understand Little Women, save as an act of impersonation designed to save her psychological skin and ensure her economic survival?

But identifying women's art with impersonation raises serious questions. Alone at last, Jean breathes a sigh of relief, for now "I may be myself for a few hours." But immediately she qualifies her relief: "if actresses ever are themselves." Indeed, discovering the real self of the woman playing the little woman is an impossible task, in part because the essence of the role is that it appears to be the "real self." So systemic is the confusion between mask and self that the concept of identity becomes meaningless. With typical masculine imperialism, Gerald can co-opt the basic metaphor of woman's situation and proudly proclaim, "You are right. I am not what I seem, and my indolent indifference is but the mask under which I conceal my real self." Nevertheless, the real self which he here reveals is really his real self. With Jean, the case is different. When she lets her mask slip, it is always with a purpose and the self revealed when the mask is dropped is simply another mask. Even when she "warns" Gerald, "I am a witch, and one day my disguise will drop away and you will see me as I am, old, ugly, bad and lost," the warning is delivered in a context designed to disarm it of truth. More important, this revelation is no more Jean's real self than is her pose of nineteen year old attractive innocent. But what is Jean's real self? Who is she in fact? Her past is a complete blank; we are given no information about her parents, where she was born, what she has done for thirty years (was she really a governess in the family of a Russian prince?), how she has survived until now. Equal to the blank of her past is the vacuum of her future. It is impossible to project what she will be and do as Lady Coventry. Both blank and vacuum indicate an absence of identity, particularly remarkable since there is in some sense so much to her. Though one might argue that this absence is simply a feature of the genre and be to some extent correct, think of how much we come to know about the men in the case, how clearly their different personalities emerge, how fixed they are in particular pasts and how palpable are their projectible futures.

Thus we can formulate the crucial questions raised by Alcott's extraordinary text. How are women to know who they are when their survival depends on their learning to mask and impersonate? And how are women to tell stories when they don't know who they are? Further, how are women to recognize their stories when the world on which they depend for survival has no place for their reality but only for such versions of it as may coincide with men's fantasies and reinforce men's mythologies? At what point do women cease to be able to remember their real story and become literally unable to tell the truth? Like so many women writers, Alcott was much closer to her true story at the start of her career. Yet the ultimate truth of this early story is to tell us why she must write lies; Alcott's final truth is that she can not tell the truth.