After the Albany Conference, Franklin embarked on a tour of local post offices, in his capacity as postmaster that culminated in a visit to Boston. While staying with his brother John, he met an entrancing young woman who became the first intriguing example of his many amorous and romantic—but probably never consummated—flirtations.
Catherine Ray was a lively and fresh twenty-three-year-old woman from Block Island, whose sister was married to John Franklin’s stepson. Franklin, then forty-eight, was both charmed and charming. She was a great talker; so too was Franklin, when he wanted to flatter, and he was also a great listener. They played a game where he tried to guess her thoughts; she called him a conjurer and relished his attention. She made sugarplums; he insisted they were the best he’d ever eaten.
When it came time, after a week, for her to leave Boston to visit another sister in Newport, he decided to accompany her. Along the way, their poorly-shod horses had trouble on the icy hills; they got caught in cold rains and on one occasion took a wrong turn. But they would recall, years later, the fun they had talking for hours, exploring ideas, gently flirting. After two days with her family in Newport, he saw her off on the boat to Block Island.
He left for Philadelphia slowly and with reluctance, loitering on the way for weeks. When he finally arrived home, there was a letter from her. Over the next few months he would write her six times, and through the course of their lives more than 40 letters would pass between them.
From reading their letters, and between the lines, one gets the impression that Franklin made a few playful advances that Caty (she signed herself Caty, though he addressed her as Katy) gently deflected, and he seemed to respect her all the more for it. There are no signs, at least in the letters that survive, of a sexual affair. “I write this during a Northeaster storm of snow,” he said in the first one he sent after their meeting. “The snowy fleeces which are pure as your virgin innocence, white as your lovely bosom—and as cold.” In a letter a few months later, he spoke of life, math and the role of “multiplication” in marriage, adding roguishly: “I would gladly have taught you that myself, but you thought it was time enough, and wouldn’t learn.”
How did his loyal and patient wife fit into this type of long-distance flirtation? Oddly enough, he seemed to use her as a shield, both with Caty and the other women he later toyed with, in order to keep his relationships just on the safe side of propriety. He invariably invoked Deborah’s name, and praised her virtues, in almost every letter he wrote to Caty. It was as if he wanted her to keep her ardor in perspective and to realize that, though his affection was real, his flirtations were merely playful. Or, perhaps, once his sexual advances had been rebuffed, he wanted to show (or to pretend) that they had not been serious.
Instead of merely continuing their flirtation, Franklin also began to provide Caty with paternal exhortations about duty and virtue. “Be a good girl,” he urged, “until you get a good husband; then stay at home, and nurse the children, and live like a Christian.” He hoped that when he next visited her, he would find her surrounded by “plump, juicy, blushing pretty little rogues, like their mama.” And so it happened. The next time they met, she was married to William Greene, a future governor of Rhode Island, with whom she would have six children.
So what are we to make of their relationship? Clearly there were sweet hints of romantic attractions. But unless Franklin was dissembling in his letters in order to protect her reputation (and his), the joy came from pleasant fancies rather than physical realities. It was probably typical of the many flirtations he would have with younger women over the years: slightly naughty in a playful way, flattering to both parties, filled with intimations of intimacy, engaging both the heart and the mind. Despite a reputation for lecherousness that he did little to dispel, there is no evidence of any serious sexual affair he had after his marriage to Deborah.
TO CATHARINE RAY, MARCH 4, 1755
Dear Katy,
Your kind letter of January 20 is but just come to hand, and I take this first opportunity of acknowledging the favor.
It gives me great pleasure to hear that you got home safe and well that day. I thought too much was hazarded, when I saw you put off to sea in that very little skiff, tossed by every wave. But the call was strong and just, a sick parent. I stood on the shore, and looked after you, till I could no longer distinguish you, even with my glass; then returned to your sister’s, praying for your safe passage. Towards evening all agreed that you must certainly be arrived before that time, the weather having been so favorable; which made me more easy and cheerful, for I had been truly concerned for you.
I left New England slowly, and with great reluctance: short days journeys, and loitering visits on the road, for three or four weeks, manifested my unwillingness to quit a country in which I drew my first breath, spent my earliest and most pleasant days, and had now received so many fresh marks of the people’s goodness and benevolence, in the kind and affectionate treatment I had every where met with. I almost forgot I had a home; till I was more than half-way towards it; till I had, one by one, parted with all my New England friends, and was got into the western borders of Connecticut, among mere strangers: then, like an old man, who, having buried all he loved in this world, begins to think of heaven, I begun to think of and wish for home; and as I drew nearer, I found the attraction stronger and stronger, my diligence and speed increased with my impatience, I drove on violently, and made such long stretches that a very few days brought me to my own house, and to the arms of my good old wife and children, where I remain, thanks to God, at present well and happy.
Persons subject to the hyp complain of the north east wind as increasing their malady. But since you promised to send me kisses in that wind, and I find you as good as your word, ’tis to me the gayest wind that blows, and gives me the best spirits. I write this during a n. East storm of snow, the greatest we have had this winter: your favors come mixed with the snowy fleeces which are pure as your virgin innocence, white as your lovely bosom,—and as cold:—but let it warm towards some worthy young man, and may heaven bless you both with every kind of happiness.
I desired Miss Anna Ward to send you over a little book I left with her; for your amusement in that lonely island. My respects to your good father and mother, and sister unknown. Let me often hear of your welfare, since it is not likely I shall ever again have the pleasure of seeing you. Accept mine, and my wife’s sincere thanks for the many civilities I received from you and your relations; and do me the justice to believe me, dear girl, your affectionate faithful friend and humble servant.
My respectful compliments to your good brother Ward, and sister; and to the agreeable family of the Wards at Newport when you see them. Adieu.
TO CATHARINE RAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1755
Begone, business, for an hour, at least, and let me chat a little with my Katy.
I have now before me, my dear girl, three of your favors, viz. of march the 3d. March the 30th. And May the 1st. The first I received just before I set out on a long journey and the others while I was on that journey, which held me near six weeks. Since my return, I have been in such a perpetual hurry of public affairs of various kinds, as rendered it impracticable for me to keep up my private correspondences, even those that afforded me the greatest pleasure.
You ask in your last, how I do, and what I am doing, and whether every body loves me yet, and why I make them do so? In the first place, I am so well. Thanks to God, that I do not remember I was ever better. I still relish all the pleasures of life that a temperate man can in reason desire, and thro favor I have them all in my power. This happy situation shall continue as long as God pleases, who knows what is best for his creatures, and I hope will enable me to bear with patience and dutiful submission any change he may think fit to make that is less agreeable. As to the second question, I must confess, (but don’t you be jealous) that many more people love me now than ever did before: for since I saw you, I have been enabled to do some general services to the country, and to the army, for which both have thanked and praised me; and say they love me; they say so, as you used to do; and if I were to ask any favors of them, would, perhaps, as readily refuse me: so that I find little real advantage in being beloved, but it pleases my humor.
Now it is near four months since I have been favored with a single line from you; but I will not be angry with you, because ’tis my fault. I ran in debt to you three or four letters, and as I did not pay, you would not trust me any more, and you had some reason: but believe me, I am honest, and though I should never make equal returns, you shall see ill keep fair accounts. Equal returns I can never make, though I should write to you by every post: for the pleasure I receive from one of yours, is more than you can have from two of mine. The small news, the domestic occurrences among our friends, the natural pictures you draw of persons, the sensible observations and reflections you make, and the easy chatty manner in which you express every thing, all contribute to heighten the pleasure; and the more, as they remind me of those hours and miles that we talked away so agreeably, even in a winter journey, a wrong road, and a soaking shower.
I long to hear whether you have continued ever since in that monastery; or have broke into the world again, doing pretty mischief; how the lady Wards do, and how many of them are married, or about it; what is become of Mr. B. And Mr. L. And what the state of your heart is at this instant? But that, perhaps I ought not to know; and therefore I will not conjure, as you sometimes say I do. If I could conjure, it should be to know what was that oddest question about me that ever was thought of, which you tell me a lady had just sent to ask you.
I commend your prudent resolutions in the article of granting favors to lovers: but if I were courting you, I could not heartily approve such conduct. I should even be malicious enough to say you were too knowing, and tell you the old story of the girl and the miller.
I enclose you the songs you write for, and with them your Spanish letter with a translation. I honor that honest Spaniard for loving you: it showed the goodness of his taste and judgment. But you must forget him, and bless some worthy young Englishman.
You have spun a long thread, 5022 yards! It will reach almost from Block Island hither. I wish I had hold of one end of it, to pull you to me: but you would break it rather than come. The cords of love and friendship are longer and stronger, and in times past have drawn me farther; even back from England to Philadelphia. I guess that some of the same kind will one day draw you out of that island.
I was extremely pleased with the turff you sent me. The Irish people who have seen it, say, ’tis the right sort; but I cannot learn that we have anything like it here. The cheeses, particularly one of them, were excellent: all our friends have tasted it, and all agree that it exceeds any English cheese they ever tasted. Mrs. Franklin was very proud, that a young lady should have so much regard for her old husband, as to send him such a present. We talk of you every time it comes to table; she is sure you are a sensible girl, and a notable housewife; and talks of bequeathing me to you as a legacy; but I ought to wish you a better, and hope she will live these 100 years; for we are grown old together, and if she has any faults, I am so used to them that I don’t perceive them, as the song says,
Some faults we have all, and so may my Joan,
But then they’re exceedingly small;
And now I’m used to them they’re just like my own,
I scarcely can see them at all,
My dear friends,
I scarcely can see them at all.
Indeed I begin to think she has none, as I think of you. And since she is willing I should love you as much as you are willing to be loved by me; let us join in wishing the old lady a long life and a happy.
With her respectful compliments to your good mother and sisters, present mine, though unknown, and believe me to be, dear girl, your affectionate friend and humble servant,
TO CATHARINE RAY, OCTOBER 16, 1755
Dear Katy,
Your favor of the 28th of June came to hand but the 28th of September, just 3 months after it was written. I had, two weeks before, wrote you a long chat, and sent it to the care of your brother Ward. I hear you are now in Boston, gay and lovely as usual. Let me give you some fatherly advice. Kill no more pigeons than you can eat. Be a good girl, and don’t forget your catechize. Go constantly to meeting—or church—till you get a good husband; then stay at home, and nurse the children, and live like a Christian. Spend your spare hours, in sober whisk, prayers, or learning to cipher. You must practice addition to your husband’s estate, by industry and frugality; subtraction of all unnecessary expenses; multiplication (I would gladly have taught you that myself, but you thought it was time enough, and wouldn’t learn) he will soon make you a mistress of it. As to division, I say with brother Paul, let there be no divisions among ye. But as your good sister Hubbard (my love to her) is well acquainted with the rule of two, I hope you will become as expert in the rule of three; that when I have again the pleasure of seeing you, I may find you like my grape vine, surrounded with clusters, plump, juicy, blushing, pretty little rogues, like their mama. Adieu. The bell rings, and I must go among the grave ones, and talk politics.
P.S. The plums came safe, and were so sweet from the cause you mentioned, that I could scarce taste the sugar.