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Introduction
Hello, Lovelies!
Today we have a much less contextually difficult story than the last two. Unfortunately, it is also one of the most open ended stories I’ve come across so far.
This tale comes from 2 letters (one which seems to have been sent and one which wasn’t) between two really close friends.
I won’t say any more, so I don’t risk spoiling anything. I hope you enjoy it!
Content warnings:
- mild homophobia
Letters
August 3rd, 1822
My Dearest Francine,
I miss you. I miss you, and I’m angry. How dare the seller mislead me into a belief that we would be on this trip together. He assured me that our tickets would send us both from Britain to America together. I thought I’d checked the tickets thoroughly. They showed the same date, the same time of departure, and even the same cabin number. I did not even think to check the ship number at the top of the ticket.
How annoyed you must be with me. I had assured you I could take care of the tickets, yet you and I had but a minute together on the dock between our realization that we would be separate and our being cast across the ocean on different vessels. My only excuse is that I was misled.
I was misled, and now I am in pain.
We promised each other to remain friends for our entire life. We swore an oath to remain by each other’s side, yet it is my fault that we must be separated for these six weeks.
Just before we came aboard these ships, after our brief goodbye and our decision to write these letters, you took my hand into your own and squeezed. I heard the words you spoke quietly, “I won’t do anything but miss you when we’re split up,” and I find myself thinking of these words now.
They replay over and over in my mind.
You were, I would venture to guess, speaking of the loneliness I suppose you feared. But I trust you will make friends aboard your ship. I believe you won’t be lonely for long because all those who live with you for your journey will swiftly fall for your charms. I believe it likely you were their friend before the ship left the harbor. I envy these people for being near your side while I am away from you. Though perhaps that is cruel of me, for I would rather you have those beside you with whom you can be gay and genial than be lonesome.
I do nothing but miss you, though.
I sit aboard my ship, in a room with strangers, and think of you. I trust the couple who sleeps in the beds opposite of me believe me to be strange. I have written page upon page in my diary in an attempt to reconcile the reward of our trip with the cost of at least six weeks away from you. There is land in America. That much we know. We know we will be able to stay away from cities and away from war. Our king is gone, replaced by extravagance, and America’s ruler holds his position yet.
I trust our stability and space in America more than what we have felt in Europe over the past decade. Yet my stability aboard this ship is lost.
My emotions flow with the waves, filled with longing for you, my truest friend. I watch the couple in my room, and I am reminded of the way you and I are able to exist in harmony. I miss the easy way we exist together. I miss so many parts of you.
Francine, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Two weeks before we departed, I was overcome with endearment for you. It was the night you had Lucille over. The two of you had both finished reading the new book by Mary Shelly, the title escapes me, and you were discussing it together. To speak of it seemed to light a fire within you (It also lit a fire inside our apartment, it did not escape my notice that you did not put out the lamp before you got into bed. I suspect the book left you afraid).
As you and Lucille spoke, I found myself growing enamored with the way you make an argument. Though I have not yet read the book, I was pulled into your discussion with great attention. You spoke with a passion about the responsibility of creation and the sadness of a dejected child. You conversed enthusiastically about the creature’s desire for love and the assumption that one who was created in his image would be one he could love and one who would love him.
Though it wasn’t just the content of your speeches which I found fascinating. It was the way you listened, rebutted, and agreed. You leaned forward with care when Lucille spoke of the tragic marriage and the feelings of loneliness experienced by the main character (His name was Frankenstein! I have recalled this is also the title of the novel). You listened as though every word she spoke on the topic had the potential to change or reinforce the way you thought. Your brows were furrowed until they nearly rested between your eyes.
Your eyes, your beautiful deep brown eyes. Their rich shade contrasts with the copper of your sun warmed skin. They glow with shades of brown, and despite my best efforts, I cannot help but be drawn to stare into them. They were alive with lights and movement as you focused all of your attention on the content of Lucille’s speech.
You look at me like that sometimes.
When the conversation’s end arrived, you laughed with her and smiled as you escorted her out of the apartment. I sat quietly in the corner and waited for us to be alone. I believe that for a moment, you forgot I was there, for when the door shut, you began to whistle a tune. It’s one I’ve heard from you before, and I’ve known you to sing it when you’re happy.
When your eyes finally gazed upon me as I sat with my feet curled up in your chair, your lips rose into a soft smile. That smile. Francine, I think that smile could make me do anything. When you look upon me with that gentle smile, I feel like I’m home. It’s like none of the pain and strife I’ve gone through matters because you’re happy, and I’m with you, so I must be doing something right.
Every smile from you seems to be further evidence of my theory that emotions are contagious among people who are close. When you are happy, it is difficult for me to feel unhappy. Something in the world must be just and right if you are smiling. I trust you. I trust your joy.
I tell you this, so you know what you do to me with just a smile. I think you would like to know that you bring joy to my life.
You amaze me, Francine. You show courage when fear eclipses our lives and strength when I am taken with weakness. I have seen you face death with mournful peace, and you face life with an optimism it has not given you a reason to have. How could I not want to be your friend? How could I not wish to spend every moment of my life by your side? To live a life with you would satisfy my heart and make me whole.
There’s a song a husband in my cabin sings at night to his wife. I’ve not heard it before, but I shall sing it to you soon. Amidst the second verse is the line, “Though our ship may rock when we dock, it shall always be you and I.” My Francine, know this is true between us. You are the steady shore I shall return to when this voyage is complete.
Forever yours (If you’ll have me),
Mabel
August 7th, 1822
My Mabel,
Oh, Mabel, it’s been but two weeks aboard this ship. I miss you so much it will bring me to insanity. I’m sure I’ve told those who share my cabin every detail of you. One of them, Darla, seems to actually be interested in those details. Though, she has shown interest in every topic of discussion in part because she has been quite seasick on our journey. Whatever the reason for her attention, I am grateful.
She lends a listening ear whenever I begin to tell a tale of our life together. I have told her of your kindness and of the things you did for your community in England. The countless sleepless nights spent working to nurse the ill. I told her of your courage. How you continued to face the world even though it has taken so much from you. How you continue on as a widow. How you take life with all its good and all its bad and make it your own. I told her of your scholarship and the way you’ve dedicated your life to study. Your wish to be a doctor and your dedication to your place as a midwife. I told her of your smile. The way your lips purse and your eyes sparkle.
I find her listening ear most fortunate as I miss you. The only way to quell the pain of your absence is to speak of you to others.
Mabel, I hope you are well. I worry when you are away from me. We have not been away from each other for this long in many, many years. I worry something will occur aboard the ship, which will cause you to react within yourself. Every time it happens, I feel the need to worry and dote on you.
I do hope my doting helps you. You have not told me aloud that it does, but I believe it is gratefulness which I see upon your face in the wake of these moments. If the attention I give you does help, then will you be okay without it? Will things grow worse for you while we are away from each other? I feel your emotional pains have grown less frequent and less invasive over the years. What are we to do if this time apart removes what progress you have made?
This is selfish of me to think of you, Mabel. It is not as though your emotions are dependent on my presence. Though, the reverse is true. I am miserable without you. I have grown used to you. I feel half of me is aboard another ship. I woke up two days ago to hear Darla speaking with her husband. For a moment, her voice sounded like yours — gentle yet deliberate. It was morning, and my brain was hazy. I forgot I was aboard the ship without you. My heart warmed at the thought of a simple morning with you. I was nearly distraught when my senses returned.
It is as I told you as we were separated. I can’t do anything but miss you while we’re apart. I’m convinced it is impossible for my mind to stray from thoughts of you. I return to thoughts of you with near embarrassing frequency.
Last night I was thinking of you, Mabel. One of the people staying with me, his name is James, brought along two books. He was reading one of them softly to Darla. I felt fortunate he was focused on Darla. He often tries to focus on me. James is convinced my life is incomplete. He is worried for I am unwed. I try to tell him I am not interested. He will not listen. However, when he was reading to Darla, he reminded me of you. I could think of no one else.
Oh, how I love listening to you read me stories. It doesn’t matter the subject. I will listen attentively to anything you read aloud. You have an exquisite voice. You take such care to read accurately. Though you stumble on words, you dash back to correct yourself. These mistakes bother you. I can tell by the furrow of your brow when it occurs. I find your dedication to reading the words as they are written admirable. Your mannerisms when you fumble in fluency make my heart flutter. There is something vulnerable in your corrections. It reminds me you are not practiced in the art of public speaking. You merely read for me because I ask. I fall more in love with you in these moments.
If only you loved me back in the same way, Mabel. That would make my life complete. I know it can’t be so. Even after all these years, you still see me as a friend. It would bring me grand euphoria if you saw me as more in a different way, a more romantic way. I am confident you do not. I would know if you did. As someone who has known you for so much of my life, I pride myself in knowing how to read you. I saw you in love with your husband [crossed off word] before we lost him to time.
You do not look at me as you looked at him. You look at me how you have always looked at me. You look at me as a friend and a companion in life. Perhaps one day, I will be lucky enough to be looked upon with romance. For now, I will cherish what we have. I shall not beg for anymore. To settle for friendship with you is to settle for the fortune of all the world’s empires.
Goodness, this began as a letter to you. The final paragraphs have truly turned into a diary page. I shall try again to write to you. This time I will take more care to only write words which I wish for you to see. I shall still sign off, it feels rude otherwise.
Until I see you again upon the shore,
Francine
A note submitted with the letter
To whom it may concern,
I found these two letters (journal entries?) in my apartment. According to my landlord, they must have been handed over as part of this apartment many times. They were never noticed because they were shut inside a book that had been placed on top of a high kitchen cabinet. After it was placed there, the ceiling sagged with age until it rested on the lip of the cabinet.
I had a leak elsewhere in the ceiling this summer, so my landlord had the whole thing replaced. I have been cleaning up after the construction and noticed there was now a gap between the ceiling and the cabinet. In that gap, I found a copy of Prometheus Unbound by Percy Shelly, which held these papers.
When I asked my landlord who they could be from, he looked into the records of tenants from around when the letters were dated (August 1822). Two tenants lived here then: Melvin and Francine. Their last name is smudged in the old record book, so we can’t read it. They only lived in my building for about three months.
Unfortunately, I don’t know more than that. A friend of mine recommended I turn them over to your archive.
Best,
Ruby Dawson
Outroduction
So there’s a bit of an ambiguous ending after that paper stored with this story in the archival department of the New York Public Library. But I suppose we can hope that Mabel’s letter made it to Francine, and that is why they were able to be stored together.
Either way, the pining words of these two women feel so familiar when I read them. The emotions they felt over 200 years ago resonate well today.
Stay queer and take care of yourself,
Chrys
