Lewis Carroll in Wonderland and at Home Part 23

"'Well--I--ahem! ahem! ahem! (excuse me, Uncle, I've got a bad cough) I--think--that--I--that is, you know, I--'

"'Yes, I see! "Isa" begins with "I," and it seems to me as if she was going to _end_ with "I" _this_ time!'"

The rest of the letter refers to Isa's visit to America, when she went to play the little _Duke of York_ in "Richard III."

"Mind you don't write me from there," he warns her. "Please, _please_, no more horrid letters from you! I _do_ hate them so! And as for kissing them when I get them, why, I'd just as soon kiss--kiss--kiss--_you_, you tiresome thing! So there now!

"Thank you very much for those 2 photographs--I liked them--hum--_pretty_ well. I can't honestly say I thought them the very best I had ever seen.

"Please give my kindest regards to your mother, and 1/2 of a kiss to Nellie, and 1/200 of a kiss to Emsie, 1/2000000 of a kiss to yourself. So with fondest love, I am, my darling,

"Your loving Uncle, "C. L. DODGSON."

And at the end of this letter, teeming with fun and laughter, could anything be sweeter than this postscript?

"I've thought about that little prayer you asked me to write for Nellie and Emsie. But I would like first to have the words of the one I wrote for _you_, and the words of what they say _now_, if they say any. And then I will pray to our Heavenly Father to help me to write a prayer that will be really fit for them to use."

In letter-writing, and even in his story-telling, Lewis Carroll made frequent use of italics. His own speech was so emphatic that his writing would have looked odd without them, and many of his cleverest bits of nonsense would have been lost but for their aid.

Another time Isa ended a letter to him with "All join me in lufs and kisses." Now Miss Isa was away on a visit and had no one near to join her in such a message, but that is what she would have put had she been at home, and this is the letter he wrote in reply:

"7 Lus.h.i.+ngton Road, Eastbourne, "Aug. 30, '90.

"Oh, you naughty, naughty, bad, wicked little girl! You forgot to put a stamp on your letter, and your poor old Uncle had to pay _Twopence_! His _last_ Twopence! Think of that. I shall punish you severely for this, once I get you here. So tremble! Do you hear? Be good enough to tremble!

"I've only time for one question to-day. Who in the world are the 'all' that join you in 'lufs and kisses'? Weren't you fancying you were at home and sending messages (as people constantly do) from Nellie and Emsie, without their having given any? It isn't a good plan--that sending messages people haven't given. I don't mean it's in the least _untruthful_, because everybody knows how commonly they are sent without having been given; but it lessens the pleasure of receiving messages. My sisters write to me 'with best love from all.'

I know it isn't true, so don't value it much. The other day the husband of one of my 'child-friends' (who always writes 'your loving') wrote to me and ended with 'Ethel joins me in kindest regards.' In my answer I said (of course in fun)--'I am not going to send Ethel kindest regards, so I won't send her any message _at all_.' Then she wrote to say she didn't even know he was writing. 'Of course I would have sent best love,' and she added that she had given her husband a piece of her mind. Poor Husband!

"Your always loving Uncle, "C.L.D."

These initials were always joined as a monogram and written backward, thus, [Monogram: CLD], which no doubt, after the years of practice he had, he dashed off with an easy flourish. His general writing was not very legible, but when he was writing for the press he was very careful. "Why should the printers have to work overtime because my letters are ill-formed and my words run into each other?" he once said, and Miss Bowman has put in her little volume the facsimile of a diary he once wrote for her, where every letter was carefully formed so that Isa could read every word herself.

"They were happy days," she writes, "those days in Oxford, spent with the most fascinating companion that a child could have. In our walks about the old town, in our visits to the Cathedral or Chapel Hall, in our visits to his friends, he was an ideal companion, but I think I was always happiest when we came back to his rooms and had tea alone; when the fire glow (it was always winter when I stayed in Oxford) threw fantastic shadows about the quaint room, and the thoughts of the prosiest people must have wandered a little into fairyland. The s.h.i.+fting firelight seemed almost to etherealize that kindly face, and as the wonderful stories fell from his lips, and his eyes lighted on me with the sweetest smile that ever a man wore, I was conscious of a love and reverence for Charles Dodgson that became nearly an adoration."

"He was very particular," she tells us, "about his tea, which he always made himself, and in order that it should draw properly he would walk about the room, swinging the teapot from side to side, for exactly ten minutes. The idea of the grave professor promenading his book-lined study and carefully waving a teapot to and fro may seem ridiculous, but all the minuti of life received an extreme attention at his hands."

The diary referred to, which he so carefully printed for Isa, covered several days' visit to Oxford in 1888, which oddly enough happened to be in midsummer, and being her first, was never forgotten. It was written in six "chapters" and jotted down faithfully the happenings of each day. What little girl could resist the feast of fun and frolic he had planned for those happy days!

First, he met her at Paddington station; then he took her to see a panorama of the Falls of Niagara, after which they had dinner with a Mrs.

Dymes, and two of her children, Helen and Maud, went with them to Terry's Theater to see "Little Lord Fauntleroy" played by Vera Beringer, another little actress friend of Lewis Carroll. After this they all took the Metropolitan railway; the little Dymes girls got off at their station, but Isa and the Aged Aged Man, as he called himself, went on to Oxford. There they saw everything to be seen, beginning with Christ Church, where the "A.A.M." lived, and here and there Lewis Carroll managed to throw bits of history into the funny little diary. They saw all the colleges, and Christ Church Meadow, and the barges which the Oxford crews used as boathouses, and took long walks, and went to St. Mary's Church on Sunday, and lots of other interesting things.

Every year she stayed a while with him at Eastbourne, where she tells us she was even happier if possible. Her day at Eastbourne began very early.

Her room faced his, and after she was dressed in the morning she would steal into the little pa.s.sage quiet as a mouse, and sit on the top stair, her eye on his closed door, watching for the signal of admission into his room; this was a newspaper pushed under his door. The moment she saw that, she was at liberty to rush in and fling herself upon him, after which excitement they went down to breakfast. Then he read a chapter from the Bible and made her tell it to him afterwards as a story of her own, beginning always with, "Once upon a time." After which there was a daily visit to the swimming-bath followed by one to the dentist--he always insisted on this, going himself quite as regularly.

After lunch, which with him consisted of a gla.s.s of sherry and a biscuit, while little Miss Isa ate a good substantial dinner, there was a game of backgammon, of which he was very fond, and then a long, long walk to the top of Beachy Head, which Isa hated. She says:

"Lewis Carroll believed very much in a great amount of exercise, and said one should always go to bed physically wearied with the exercise of the day. Accordingly, there was no way out of it, and every afternoon I had to walk to the top of Beachy Head. He was very good and kind. He would invent all sorts of new games to beguile the tedium of the way. One very curious and strange trait in his character was shown in these walks. I used to be very fond of flowers and animals also. A pretty dog or a hedge of honeysuckle was always a pleasant event upon our walk to me. And yet he himself cared for neither flowers nor animals. Tender and kind as he was, simple and una.s.suming in all his tastes, yet he did not like flowers....

He knew children so thoroughly and well, that it is all the stranger that he did not care for things that generally attract them so much.... When I was in raptures over a poppy or a dog-rose, he would try hard to be as interested as I was, but even to my childish eyes it was an effort, and he would always rather invent some new game for us to play at. Once, and once only, I remember him to have taken an interest in a flower, and that was because of the folklore that was attached to it, and not because of the beauty of the flower itself.

"... One day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivaled the murmur of the far-away waves, he took a foxglove from the heap that lay in my lap, and told me the story of how it came by its name; how in the old days, when all over England there were great forests, like the forest of Arden that Shakespeare loved, the pixies, the 'little folks,' used to wander at night in the glades, like t.i.tania and Oberon and Puck, and because they took great pride in their dainty hands they made themselves gloves out of the flowers. So the particular flower that the 'little folks' used came to be called 'folks' gloves.' Then, because the country people were rough and clumsy in their talk, the name was shortened into 'foxgloves,' the name that everyone uses now."

This special walk always ended in the coastguard's house, where they partook of tea and rock cake, and here most of his prettiest stories were told. The most thrilling part occurred when "the children came to a deep dark wood," always described with a solemn dropping of the voice; by that Isa knew that the exciting part was coming, then she crept nearer to him, and he held her close while he finished the tale. Isa, as was quite natural, was a most dramatic little person, so she always knew what emotions would suit the occasion, and used them like the clever little actress that she was.

We find something very beautiful in this intimacy between the grave scholar and the light-hearted, innocent little girl, who used to love to watch him in some of those deep silences which neither cared to break.

This small maid understood his every mood. A beautiful sunset, she tells us, touched him deeply. He would take off his hat and let the wind toss his hair, and look seaward with a very grave face. Once she saw tears in his eyes, and he gripped her hand very hard as they turned away.

Perhaps, what caught her childish fancy more than anything else, was his observance of Sunday. He always took Isa twice to church, and she went because she wanted to go; he did not believe in forcing children in such matters, but he made a point of slipping some interesting little book in his pocket, so in case she got tired, or the sermon was beyond her, she would have something pleasant to do instead of staring idly about the church or falling asleep, which was just as bad. Another peculiarity, she tells us, was his habit of keeping seated at the entrance of the choir. He contended that the rising of the congregation made the choir-boys conceited.

One could go on telling anecdotes of Lewis Carroll and this well-beloved child, but of a truth his own letters will show far better than any description how he regarded this "star" child of his. So far as her acting went, he never spared either praise or criticism where he thought it just.

Here is a letter criticising her acting as the little _Duke of York_:

"Ch. Ch. Oxford. Ap. 4, '89.

"MY LORD DUKE:--The photographs your Grace did me the honor of sending arrived safely; and I can a.s.sure your Royal Highness that I am very glad to have them, and like them _very_ much, particularly the large head of your late Royal Uncle's little, little son. I do not wonder that your excellent Uncle Richard should say 'off with his head' as a hint to the photographer to print it off. Would your Highness like me to go on calling you the Duke of York, or shall I say 'my own darling Isa'? Which do you like best?

"Now, I'm gong to find fault with my pet about her acting. What's the good of an old Uncle like me except to find fault?"

Then follows some excellent criticism on the proper emphasis of words, explained so that the smallest child could understand; he also notes some misp.r.o.nounced words, and then he adds:

"One thing more. (What an impertinent uncle! Always finding fault!) You're not as _natural_ when acting the Duke as you were when you acted Alice. You seemed to me not to forget _yourself_ enough. It was not so much a real prince talking to his brother and uncle; it was Isa Bowman talking to people she didn't care much about, for an audience to listen to. I don't mean it was that all _through_, but _sometimes_ you were _artificial_. Now, don't be jealous of Miss Hatton when I say she was _sweetly_ natural. She looked and spoke like a real Prince of Wales. And she didn't seem to know there was any audience. If you ever get to be a _good_ actress (as I hope you will) you must learn to forget 'Isa' altogether, and _be_ the character you are playing. Try to think 'This is _really_ the Prince of Wales. I'm his little brother and I'm _very_ glad to meet him, and I love him _very_ much, and this is _really_ my uncle; he is very kind and lets me say saucy things to him,' and _do_ forget that there's anybody else listening!

"My sweet pet, I _hope_ you won't be offended with me for saying what I fancy might make your acting better.

"Your loving old Uncle, "CHARLES.

"X for Nellie.

"X for Maggie.

"X for Emsie.

"X for Isa."

The crosses were unmistakably kisses. He was certainly a most affectionate "Uncle." He rarely signed his name "Charles." It was only on special occasions and to very "special" people.

Here is another letter written to Isa's sister Nellie, thanking her for a "tidy" she made him. (He called it an Antimaca.s.sar.) "The only ordinary thing about it," Isa tells us, "is the date." The letter reads backward.

One has to begin at the very bottom and read up, instead of reading from the top downward:

"Nov. 1, 1891.

"C.L.D., Uncle loving your! Instead grandson his to it give to had you that so, years 80 or 70 for it forgot you that was it pity a what and; him of fond so were you wonder don't I and, gentleman old nice very a was he. For it made you that _him_ been have _must_ it see you so: _Grandfather_ my was, _then_ alive was that, 'Dodgson Uncle' only the, born was _I_ before long was that see you then But. 'Dodgson Uncle for pretty thing some make I'll now,' it began you when yourself to said you that, me telling her without, knew I course of and: ago years many great a it made had you said she. Me told Isa what from was it? For meant was it who out made I how know you do!

Lasted has it well how and Grandfather my for made had you Antimaca.s.sar pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, Nellie dear my."

He had often written a looking-gla.s.s letter which could only be read by holding it up to a mirror, but this sort of writing was a new departure.

In one of her letters Isa sent "sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses."

"How badly you _do_ spell your words!" he answered her. "I _was_ so puzzled about the 'sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses.' But at last I made out that, of course, you meant a 'sack full of _gloves_ and a basket full of _kittens_.'" Then he composed a regular nonsense story on the subject. Isa and her sisters called it the "glove and kitten letter"

and read it over and over with much delight, for it was full of quaint fancies, such as Lewis Carroll loved to shower upon the children.

When "Bootle's Baby" was put upon the stage, Maggie Bowman, though but a tiny child, played the part of _Mignon_, the little lost girl, who walked into the hearts of the soldiers, and especially one young fellow, to whom she clung most of all. Lewis Carroll, besides taking a personal interest in Maggie herself, was charmed with the play, which appealed to him strongly, so when little Maggie came to Oxford with the company she was treated like a queen. She stayed four days, during which time her "Uncle"