Christmas Bells

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  His radical position could not have offended Fanny too much, for she spoke to him kindly and cordially whenever they met in society. And then, months later and wholly unexpectedly, as they chatted at a party in the spring of 1843, Fanny mentioned that her brother would be leaving soon for Europe, and that she would want company in his absence.

  Henry was not about to let even the wisp of a chance to renew their friendship elude him. Soon thereafter, he called on Fanny at home, and was received with such warmth that he dared write to her afterward and tell her that time and distance and discouragement had not altered his affections.

  To his great joy, she replied that her feelings about him had changed utterly.

  In July, seven years after they had found solace in their sympathetic companionship in Switzerland, and at least a year after Henry had abandoned all hope that Fanny would ever love him, they were wed before a joyful company of fifty friends and family in the parlor of the Appleton home. The bride, at thirty years of age, was radiant in a rich yet simple gown of muslin trimmed with splendid thread lace, the tunic gathered on either side of the skirt with orange blossoms, a delicate lace veil cascading from a wreath of orange blossoms upon her head to gently brush the floor. The groom, quietly rejoicing, kissed his bride tenderly and, after the celebration ended, he took her home to Craigie House beneath the soft light of a full moon, resolving never to be parted from her.

  He had taken her home to rented rooms, but soon thereafter, Fanny’s father purchased the mansion for the newlyweds from the Widow Craigie, and at last Henry felt he had a home worthy of his most excellent wife.

  As they approached the residence still known to all as Craigie House, he shook his head in affectionate exasperation as he watched their two sons hurry on ahead of the rest of the family. Flush with the freedom of their release from the solemnity of church, they grinned and teased and jostled each other, until Charley—still playful and impulsive at sixteen—accidentally knocked Ernest’s hat from his head and into the street, where a horse nearly trampled it—and Charley too, in snatching it out of the way.

  “Do be careful, boys,” Fanny called out to them, alarmed.

  “Sorry, Mother,” said Charley, and his younger brother quickly chimed in the same as he brushed snow from his cap and replaced it jauntily upon his thick brown locks.

  “Charley’s recklessness will take years off my life,” Fanny murmured to Henry.

  She had lowered her voice, but not enough. “Will it really, Mama?” asked ten-year-old Alice anxiously. She and her two younger sisters, arms linked and hands tucked into fur muffs, followed behind their parents with far greater decorum than their elder brothers preceding them.

  “Of course not.” Smiling, Fanny turned to look reassuringly at solemn Alice and golden-haired Edith, all of seven years, and to kiss the rosy cheek of Allegra Anne, who at five was the baby of the family. “It’s just something people say.” As she straightened and turned, she caught Henry’s eye and, unseen by their daughters, cast her gaze to heaven with a look of such comic sufferance that he laughed.

  The family arrived home without further incident or injury, and as soon as they crossed the threshold, the delicious smells of roast goose and plum pudding enveloped them. Charley and Ernest began conspiring to charm the cook into allowing them a taste before the feast was served, but Fanny overheard and promptly forbade it. “We have much to do before we can celebrate properly,” she reminded them, and assigned each a task or two that they hurried off to complete, the sooner to begin their fun. Henry too was given an assignment, and an easy, welcome task it was—to withdraw to his study and choose an appropriate Christmas story to read to the children later that evening. Fanny promised to summon him when their guests arrived.

  A newly built fire crackled on the grate as he entered the familiar room, which smelled of woodsmoke and fine old books and furniture polish. Although he had written many of his most acclaimed poems there, either bent over the desk by the south window or seated in the chair by the fireplace writing in pencil to spare his tired eyes, the study was no dignified retreat where he toiled in isolation but rather a pleasant, welcoming nexus of domestic activity. Charley could burst in at any time of the day to play with his canary and chatter on about friends’ antics or dogs or sports or ships newly come to Boston Harbor. Ernest kept his crayons and paper and paints scattered upon a central oval table, and would often sketch scenes from memory or imagination while Henry wrote nearby, two artists companionably at work. The girls darted in and out, safe in knowing that their father would not rebuke them if they interrupted his train of thought with hugs and kisses and requests to mend broken toys or cut them new paper dolls. Quite to the contrary, he delighted in their innocent antics so much that he was inspired to compose a poem, “The Children’s Hour,” to capture forever the merriment of his daughters’ evening ritual of bursting into his office at twilight for hugs and good-night kisses.

  He turned around in place, patting his pockets absently as if searching for something mislaid, until he remembered his errand. The newspapers stacked neatly on the desk he ignored, reluctant to allow reports of new threats from rebellious South Carolina to cast melancholy shadows upon the day. The most recent report he had heard, that the rebellious state’s newly appointed leaders had announced that the three federal forts within its borders no longer belonged to the United States but to their fledging separatist republic, surely diminished the likelihood that South Carolina would be swiftly restored to the Union through negotiation. At least Henry hoped such efforts were ongoing, and with increasing urgency; considering how President Buchanan had dithered and equivocated throughout the escalating crisis, Henry would not be surprised to hear that he was doing little more than staring at the calendar and counting the days until he could leave office and pass the problem on to Mr. Lincoln.

  With an effort, Henry pushed thoughts of political matters aside and went to the nearest bookcase to scan the titles for a story that suited the holiday, something that would entertain the children and improve his mood. He had just taken Clement C. Moore’s book of poems from the shelf and was turning to “A Visit from St. Nicholas” when Allegra Anne—his dear little Annie—ran in, her brown curls bouncing, held back from her face by a ribbon of red velvet. “Mama says you’re wanted,” Annie announced, her sweet, piping voice ringing with authority.

  “Then I’m duty bound to come,” he said, bowing as he tucked the book beneath his arm. Beaming, Annie seized his hand and led him off to the foyer just as the brass knocker rapped twice to announce the arrival of their first guests.

  Soon Craigie House was filled with friends and family, and the very walls seemed to resonate in harmony with their love and mirth and happiness. As the eldest, Charley led the boys’ games, merrily boisterous but full of fun and gentle with the younger lads. Alice and her favorite cousin quickly had the girls performing songs and reciting poems for an indulgent audience of parents and neighbors, warmed by the companionship of dear friends as much as by the Yule log blazing on the hearth. A Christmas tree stood in the corner of the drawing room, its evergreen boughs prettily adorned with candles, strings of popcorn, sugared fruits, and small trinkets wrapped in colored paper, gifts for their guests. A side table was laden with so many presents for the children—sent from loving aunts and uncles or left by affectionate friends who had called throughout the week—that it almost seemed to bow beneath the weight.

  Then came time for the feast—roast goose, boiled ham, smoked fish, oysters, mince pies, potatoes with chestnuts, cranberries in jelly, and excellent Italian wines for the adults. No one wanted to talk about the secession fever sweeping from Charleston through the South, but as the wineglasses were refilled and the guests began feeling ever more merry and bright, the topic shifted from reminiscences of Christmases past to beloved Christmas stories from favorite authors. Before Henry could forestall it, a general clamor went up that he too should write a great Ch
ristmas tale, one to rival those of Clement Moore and Charles Dickens.

  From the head of the table Henry caught Fanny’s eye, which sparkled with mischievous amusement; unnoticed by the others, she pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress laughter and raised her glass in a small toast to her husband. He was forever being told by well-meaning friends, admirers, and critics alike what he ought to write, and she knew how it vexed him.

  As even the children chimed in with suggestions for the proposed Christmas tale, Henry threw Fanny a helpless look, pleading for intercession. Ever loyal, she rose to the occasion. “Don’t offer him too much inspiration,” she said, her voice carrying above the clamor, “or he’ll hurry off to his study to begin writing immediately, and we won’t see him again until the New Year.”

  “We mustn’t allow that,” protested Henry’s good friend Louis Agassiz, a Swiss who had come to America in 1847 to join the Harvard faculty as a professor of zoology and geology. Since then he had become one of the most famous scientists in the world, and his startling theory that much of the Earth had once been covered in glaciers fascinated Henry. “It’s Christmas. This is not a day for labor, but for revelry.”

  “And reverence,” added Frances Lowell, the wife of another close friend in attendance, the professor, editor, and poet James Russell Lowell.

  “Yes, indeed,” declared Henry’s brother-in-law, Tom Appleton. “Let’s not forget that Henry must also continue to play host to us, his friends and relations. All told, I count three very good reasons he should not write today. Fanny,” he said, turning to his sister, “you must insist that he forbear composing any new verses until tomorrow.”

  “I agree,” she replied, and to Henry, added, “Darling, I insist you postpone commencing this grand Christmas epic until January, at the earliest.”

  “Very well, my dear.” Henry spread his hands and looked around the table, shaking his head and feigning regret. “I apologize, friends, but I must decline your most . . . interesting suggestion.”

  Everyone gathered around the table, save the youngest children, burst out laughing, revealing that they had all been in on the joke.

  As dessert was served—plum pudding, which had steamed enticingly upon the sideboard for what seemed like many fragrant and tempting hours, accompanied by a rich, velvety custard flavored with anise—Fanny said, “Henry will have another poem published very soon, which you may enjoy almost as much as a Christmas tale.”

  Several friends nodded knowingly, for Henry had shown them drafts of the work in progress, but others turned inquiring looks upon their host. “Will it be another ‘Evangeline’ or ‘Hiawatha’?” asked Elizabeth Agassiz, Louis’s wife, an intellectual, well-spoken woman who had founded a school for girls in Boston. “Another stirring epic tale with an unlikely hero at its center?”

  “I wouldn’t say unlikely,” said Henry. “I call the poem ‘Paul Revere’s Ride,’ and it will appear in the January edition of The Atlantic.”

  “Who’s Paul Revere?” asked Alice, for children were not required to be seen and not heard within the Longfellow household—in fact, they were encouraged to question, to speak, to compose.

  “He was a Boston silversmith and a patriot of the Revolution,” said Henry. “My grandfather, Peleg Wadsworth—your great-grandfather, children—was his commander in the Penobscot Expedition of seventeen seventy-nine. My poem, however, tells of the night Revere courageously risked his life and liberty to warn the colonials of an invasion by the British.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Mrs. Agassiz. “I look forward to reading it.”

  Henry inclined his head to thank her for the compliment. “I was inspired to write the poem after visiting the Old North Church last April. I climbed its tower, looked out upon the landscape, and contemplated the troubles our forefathers confronted in the early days of the republic and those we face now. I began writing the next day.” Then honesty compelled him to add, “I admit I took some liberties with historical fact—”

  “As a poet must, for the sake of his art,” declared Tom, looking around the table for affirming nods.

  “There were three riders, not one, for example,” said Henry, “and Revere’s role was to warn Samuel Adams and John Hancock that the Redcoats were marching upon Lexington to arrest them and seize their armories in Concord. I think—I trust—that my readers know the story well enough to understand that I altered facts for dramatic effect.”

  “If they don’t, they should,” said Fanny stoutly.

  “I only hope they see the whole poem,” Henry added, almost to himself. “Earlier this month, the Evening Transcript ran a version they said they took from The Atlantic’s advance sheets. Six lines were omitted—six rather essential lines.”

  “Mr. Fields won’t make that mistake,” Fanny said soothingly. “The poem will be printed in its entirety, and the people will love it. Your Paul Revere is a hero for our own troubled times as well as the past.”

  “Our generation too longs for a great man to save the nation,” said James Lowell, frowning slightly as he studied his wineglass. “Only instead of oppression from a foreign king, we confront secession. Instead of red-coated British regulars, we contend with Southern firebrands and slaveholders.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Lincoln will be the hero for our times,” said Fanny. “Mr. Buchanan has availed us nothing, but if God wills it, his successor may yet heal the breach and preserve the Union.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Tom, raising his glass.

  They all joined in on a solemn toast that the New Year would bring reconciliation and peace, although Henry suspected not one of them, for all their vaunted intellect, could predict how that might come about.

  When the feast was over, the older children pulled on their coats and mittens and raced outside to throw snowballs and tow sleds around the yard in the dwindling twilight while the adults settled in the drawing room to talk and reminisce, and to smile over the younger children as they played with the new toys Santa Claus had left in their stockings the night before.

  They were warming themselves with hot coffee and amusing riddles when the children trooped back in, rosy-cheeked and exuberant. Once they were out of their wraps and comfortably settled by the fire with sugared plums and cups of hot tea, Henry read aloud “A Visit from St. Nicholas.” The younger children gazed up at him with rapt attention as the story of the jolly old elf’s visit unfolded, and from across the room, Fanny regarded him with such warmth and fondness, so much obvious enjoyment of the sound of his voice, that Henry could not imagine feeling any more blessed than he did at that moment on that holy day. The inevitable, trifling frustrations of daily life, the heavy responsibility of raising children, the onerous troubles facing the country—all fell away in the firelight. He marveled to realize that everything that truly mattered to him was represented in that gathering—family, friends, love, faith, hope. It seemed miraculous that one room could contain so much—but if a humble manger could hold the Divine, anything was possible.

  The youngest children were dozing in their parents’ arms by the time the guests departed, the light of their lanterns and the music of sleigh bells fading as the horses carried them home and away. The Longfellow children were soon tucked into their beds with warm quilts and tender kisses. Shortly after midnight, their father and mother too retired for the night, tired but content.

  “It was a very merry Christmas, wasn’t it, darling?” said Fanny as she plaited her hair into one long braid and tucked it beneath her cap.

  “It was.” Henry yawned as she climbed into bed beside him, then he tucked the quilts around them both and kissed her. “One of the merriest in memory. May the New Year be as full of happiness and peace and friendship.”

  “May it indeed,” Fanny replied drowsily, snuggling up close beside him.

  Their hopes were short-lived, dashed by shocking developments in Charleston.

  While the c
ity slept on the night of December 26, Union Major Robert Anderson, acting without orders from his superiors, stealthily moved his troops from their vulnerable position at Fort Moultrie on the mainland to the incomplete but more strategically located Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor. The next day, South Carolina militia seized Fort Moultrie and another federal stronghold, Castle Pinckney, and demanded that Major Anderson surrender.

  Instead, Major Anderson and his men resolutely held their position, and the South Carolina militia settled in for the siege.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Accompanist’s Tale

  “You should tell Sophia how you feel,” Father Ryan had urged Lucas on more than one occasion, but even the priest acknowledged that the timing had never been right. And then it was too late: Sophia was engaged to marry Brandon, a decent-enough guy, well-meaning but clueless, reliable but lacking in imagination, and definitely not good enough for Sophia. Not that Lucas was biased or anything.

  Sophia and Brandon had been dating only a short while when Lucas first met her, and ever afterward he tortured himself with the knowledge that if only he had sat down at the piano at St. Margaret’s three weeks earlier, everything might have turned out differently.

  On the last Friday before Christmas—which was also Sophia’s last day of school before Winter Break—Lucas stopped at a coffee shop on his way to St. Margaret’s, and as he stood in line, he remembered the student concert. He figured Sophia would need coffee, so he ordered two cups to go, hers in an insulated travel mug. “How fresh are those scones?” he asked the barista, gesturing to the bakery case.

  “Came out of the oven twenty minutes ago.”

  “One blueberry and one cranberry, please.”

  Lucas paid, moved down the counter to collect his order, and added milk and sugar to Sophia’s cup before heading outside and on his way. The wind had picked up while he was inside, sending icy crystals of snow into graceful swirls and eddies on the sidewalk, reminding him with painful intensity of a night in late November two years before, when an unexpected early snowstorm had compelled Sophia to end rehearsal early. Lucas had walked her back to her apartment, but any hope that she might invite him in to wait out the storm had been immediately quashed when he spotted Brandon’s SUV in the parking lot. Some things had changed in the two years since that snowy night, others not so much. Brandon was gone; Sophia still had no idea how Lucas felt about her. But what could he do? She had just broken off an engagement. She needed a friend, and he did not want to be the rebound guy. He had waited for her too long for that.