Four. O Captain! My Captain!
Four
O Captain! My Captain!
Beacon Hill, April 18, 1865
A letter marked to Miss Stevenson’s attention slid through the door in the floor. Henrietta and her sister lay in bed at opposite ends of the attic, weeping, while the body of President Abraham Lincoln lay in state. The letter, composed just eleven days earlier, was now less an intended talisman than a relic of a more innocent time. Dressed in mourning black, bereft of hope, the sisters wondered if they would ever feel happy again in a world whose citizens seemed bent on destroying each other. With General Lee having just surrendered to the Union Army, one war was effectively ending. What did the murder of their beloved president foretell in its place?
The cream-colored envelope coaxed Henrietta Stevenson out of bed. The minute she saw the name of the sender, she called Charlotte over. Charlotte, who rarely looked tired or worn, whose beauty seemed to only grow with each new day, showed a sudden new frown line between her eyes; Henrietta had woken that morning to the shock of her first grey hair. The world outside their home was literally making them age.
They sat together on the edge of Charlotte’s bed as Henrietta read the letter aloud.
Miss Stevenson, care of Mr. Justice William Stevenson,
Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A.
April 7, 1865
Dear Miss Stevenson,
First allow me to assure you that your letter was received with most sincere gratitude for its contents and amenability to its request—or, as my Sister once wrote much more elegantly on behalf of Fitzwilliam Darcy, “Be not alarmed, Madam [sic], on receiving this letter…”
Secondly, I am a great admirer of your society, having previously commanded the North American and West Indies Station of the British navy in the years 1845 to 1848. I am not unique among my family for my time across the Atlantic, but I lay claim to being the most inclined in its favor.
Finally, you ask if I might share some thoughts regarding the example of my Sister. It would be a privilege to do so. Of the liveliness of her imagination and playfulness of her fancy, as also the truthfulness of her description of character and deep knowledge of the human mind, there are sufficient evidence in her works.—Less in evidence, but no less impressive, she was cheerful in temper and not easily irritated, and tho’ rather reserved to strangers so as to have been by some accused of haughtiness of manner, yet in the company of those she loved the native benevolence of her heart and kindliness of her disposition were forcibly displayed. On such occasions she was a most agreeable companion and by the lively sallies of her Wit and good-humoured drollery seldom failed of exciting the mirth and hilarity of the party. She was fond of children and a favorite with them. Her Nephews and Nieces, of whom there were many, could not have a greater treat than crowding round and listening to Aunt Jane’s stories.
I trust the contents of this letter shall meet with your satisfaction and approval, and that our correspondence shall serve as an example of the goodwill that can—and surely does—exist between our two nations.
Most respectfully and sincerely yours,
Francis W m Austen
“Imagine,” Henrietta finally spoke in amazement. “Austen’s own brother, closest to her in age. The two of them as close as we are!”
“Oh no, Harry—no one can be that,” Charlotte answered, and Henrietta affectionately patted her hand. “But he is the only sibling left, they say—whatever will we write back?”
Sitting down at their shared desk, Henrietta tapped her fashionable steel pen against the blotter several times in thought. “We asked Mr. Dickens for his autograph, although he has not yet obliged.”
“Sir Francis seems most obliging, though,” Charlotte was quick to point out. “Unusually so.”
Henrietta stopped tapping and began to write. Charlotte watched over her shoulder, caring just as much about the reply. Charlotte worshipped Miss Austen second only to Mr. Dickens, despite their lack of successful correspondence there. But the two young women remained undaunted in their pursuit of literary nuggets, their own personal Gold Rush, their only way of striking out.
When Henrietta finished writing, Charlotte spritzed the page with the fragrance she had chosen to evoke the sensuality of far-off climes. She could not resist this girlish ploy, determined as both sisters were to win the admiral’s favor and attention.
“I hope we’ve not been too forward with this new request.”
“There’s no harm in asking.” Charlotte flopped back down onto her bed. “I wish we could ask for even more. Oh Harry, to visit England one day—all those museums and churches—the theater. But Father will never take us. He’s not been so far as Manhattan since Mother died.”
The bell rang for dinner, and Henrietta carefully placed both letters inside their mother’s copy of Pride and Prejudice. This was the 1833 edition from Philadelphia printers Carey & Lea, published when Alice Gibbons had been stuck in her own childhood bedroom. At that time in Philadelphia, Jane Austen was already a star, a literary constellation discovered and brought to light by Mathew Carey of the City of Brotherly Love in 1816. What had Carey seen back then , Henrietta wondered, that so many even in England had not ?
As a political refugee, Carey had fled Ireland in 1781 for Paris, where Benjamin Franklin, a son of Boston and America’s first ambassador, had taken him under his wing. When Carey emigrated to America a few years later, Franklin favored him again by helping secure money to start a publishing firm and bookshop. This was now known as the Ben Franklin effect: “He that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another, than he whom you yourself have obliged.”
Henrietta was fascinated by this contrary notion. She never asked for much—that was Charlotte’s way. Charlotte was the lucky one, with the rabbit’s foot in her reticule (a graduation gift from coachman Samuel and Mrs. Pearson, the cook), lead casting in every Peacock Academy theatrical production, and general irresistibility to men. But what if Charlie’s luck was simply a matter of being willing to gamble? After all, one might win as much as one lost in life, for all the asking of kindness, but at least one occasionally did win.
In fact, it was Charlotte’s prodding that had emboldened Henrietta to write to Admiral Austen in the first place, just as Franklin’s dictum emboldened her now to write again. Henrietta took inspiration wherever she could: although dedicated to the advancement of women, she lacked a singular or daring ambition for herself. Meanwhile, male suitors came and went against the shield of her silence and restraint. She alone remembered the happy house of their childhood and how it had shattered. She was afraid to shatter even more.
With each new lecture, each new attempt at correspondence, however, Henrietta could feel her naturally cautious self give way before the prospect of success. The admiral’s kind response—who could have foreseen it? Perhaps her own quiet surveillance of others had fostered an understanding of like-minded souls—perhaps there were far more of like mind in the world after all. As for any unforeseen effects of the sisters’ correspondence with Sir Francis, the world about them was already crumbling. How could anything two young women might do possibly upset things more?