Eight. The Benjamin Franklin Effect
Eight
The Benjamin Franklin Effect
Portsdown Lodge, May 20, 1865
Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Francis Austen, G.C.B.
Portsdown Lodge, Hampshire, England
May 9, 1865
Dear Sir,
Your second missive was gratefully received by us, both for its kind sympathies and bestowal of such a gift as we could only dream of. We will forever count the enclosed letter and signature of your sister amongst our most treasured possessions.
We read your final sentiments, however, with increasing concern and sorrow, and hope this reaches you in an improved state of health. We would also assure you that we are “ad idem,” as our father the judge would say, when it comes to all matters concerning your late sister. What weight of responsibility you must feel with respect to her immortal legacy and its preservation.
We write this reply in the hope that we might be of some assistance to you in that regard. Forgive our boldness, but perhaps our objectivity as relative strangers from abroad—and our mutual devotion to Miss Austen’s genius—can assist in your decision-making.
We concluded our initial letter of March 26th with an abiding invitation of hospitality on our far shores, yet are mindful that you have seen much of our world and your health remains our paramount concern.
May we come to you instead?
We would travel as sisterly companions, but our father’s worry for us is constant and unyielding. Assurances of your attention once we arrive would do much to appease him, should you graciously agree to our proposal. In the meantime, we have begun inquiries into passage and believe we can join the SS China from Boston Harbor on the sixteenth of June.
We fervently hope that this letter will reach you in time to reply in the affirmative to our unusual, but no less sincere, request.
Gratefully and respectfully yours,
Henrietta and Charlotte Stevenson
Admiral Francis Austen read the cream-colored letter three times in his astonishment. Then he breathed in its delightful fragrance again, placed it on the desk next to another letter, and gave both an affectionate little pat.
Settling himself by the window, Frank lifted the four-pull naval telescope from its nearby stand and aimed it at the harbor miles below. The Stevenson sisters’ words filled his head as he looked out for any transatlantic steamers. Frank often wished for visitors from these modern vessels, a change in company. Even with the blessings of his children and grandchildren, there was too much family agony going on. The Austen descendants were many, and Jane’s legacy most significant—and no one could agree on what to do about it.
Their sister Cassandra had once been stewardess of it all: every letter she chose not to destroy, every piece of Jane’s juvenile writing, every manuscript rife with redaction. Now Frank was last to have the most say—this despite all the cousins, the aging nieces and nephews, the many relatives long since scattered to Ireland and the Americas.
The sun began to set; the tide loomed high. The massive steamships docked and disembarked their first-class passengers on grand tours of Europe. The former occupants in steerage heading west—each allotted only two feet of underwater space—had been roundly deposited two weeks ago in Philadelphia or Boston or New York. For these immigrants to the New World, travel was not luxury but escape.
Frank put down the telescope and surveyed the much more comfortable two hundred square feet of space surrounding him. The study’s walnut shelves were full of objects from his voyages proudly open to examination—the Davenport captain’s desk, bought years ago for his retirement, was securely locked against any of that. Biding his time, Frank ran his fingers along various artifacts on display: the sacred Egyptian scarab beetle under glass; a carved coconut shell from the southern Goa coast; several small terra-cotta heads believed to be Aztec.
Travel had also furnished Frank with something less tangible but even more valuable: a firsthand understanding of how differently others lived yet how similar we all were. He wondered whether such sympathy would be travel’s great reward in a future world where nothing was impossible—where every corner of the earth could be walked and mapped—where even the planets might one day be reached. If we ended up able to visit it all, would we finally understand each other better?
Like his famous sister, Admiral Austen was curious about other people while steadfast in his opinions of them. He must now be equally resolute on behalf of Jane. She had not suffered fools—she would not want just anyone dissecting her work. His sister had destroyed the drafts of her finished books for a reason, having worked impressively hard—sometimes over years—to make her meaning so brilliantly clear in the printer’s copy. How could there be need for anything more than that?
From the bedroom above, Frank heard his daughter finish her meager toilette and climb into bed. He waited until her floorboards rattled with snoring—Fanny was loud even in sleep—before returning to his desk.
The other letter on the blotter had arrived a few days earlier from the city called Philadelphia—coincidentally the name of Frank and Jane’s own paternal aunt. But Frank didn’t believe in coincidence: he believed in God. Meanwhile, the sisters’ words in the second letter— May we come to you? May we come to you? —resounded in his head. Frank had so little opportunity to make anything anymore, his arthritic hands no longer able to fiddle with woodworking. He thought of Emma Woodhouse, her desire to make a match—if nothing else—amid the monotony and boredom of life, and would write two letters back to America instead.