‘Have some more tea,’ said Tennyson airily, by way of distracted greeting, not glancing up from his book.
Looking around, Ellen was delighted by the idea of refreshment after such a long and dusty journey, but then kicked herself for falling for this terrible old chestnut. It was the usual thing. How could you take more tea, if you had taken no tea already? Yes, the Tennyson table was set for an outdoor repast, with plates and cups and knives, but drat their black-blooded meanness, it was just for show: there was nothing on the board save tableware. Not a sausage for a tired and thirsty theatrical phenomenon to wrap her excellent tonsils around.
Nothing will come of nothing, as any true-bred Shakespearean juvenile will tell you. As she crossed the dappled lawn behind Watts, and surveyed the view of ancient downs beyond, Ellen wanted to jump on the table and render some funny bits from A Midsummer Night’s Dream; it was a marvellous setting for theatricals. But instead she made her formal salutes to the older ladies and Mr Tennyson (who squinted at her rather horribly) and turned her thoughts inward, where at least they were safe.
Yes, nothing will come of nothing; nothing will come of nothing. Wasn’t that a mathematical principle as well? Hadn’t a kindly mathematician once explained it to her? Yes, he had. That was in the days when she was adored, of course; when members of her audience threw flowers at the stage, and ‘came behind’ after. When her face glowed in limelight; when people looked right at her, instead of politely askance. This mathematician – it was all coming back – she had met after her very first performance. As the infant Mamilius in A Winter’s Tale, at the age of only eight.
It all seemed so long ago now, and what was the point of the reminiscence? Oh yes, the mathematician. By means of some pretty, nonsensical example, this Mr Dodgson (for yes, it was he) had proved to her that whichever way you did the sum, the answer was nothing, nothing, nothing, every time.
Ah, Mr Dodgson! Where was he now? If she had chosen to remain on stage, all London would be hers to command, and she would moreover pocket sixty guineas a week to spend independently on food and lodgings and full-priced books without proverbs in them. How mad of her to quit the stage for Old Greybeard here, with his borrowed home and empty flat pockets. And how cruel to her public. Mr Dodgson, for one, would be repining in the aisles. She looked at Watts, and gave him an encouraging smile, but her heart wasn’t in it. For thirty years among patrons and well-wishers this husband of hers had soaked up endless quantities of love, money, praise and time, yet still had none to give in return; did the multiply-by-nothingness principle apply to marriage, too? If it did, her continued love for him was like one of his terrible pictures: the triumph of hope over mathematics.
It was a curious fact, remarked on by many visitors to Farringford, that whatever time you arrived for dinner, you’d missed it. The same, it now appeared, applied to tea. Emily Tennyson had long ago adopted the ‘every other day’ principle of home economics, and found that it suited well. Pragmatically, the poet’s boys hung around other people’s houses at teatime, eyeing the jam tarts – proof enough, surely, that they were not mad. Dimbola Lodge was a good spot for cadging food, which was why the boys were at Dimbola now, in all probability – sucking up to Mary Ann, and telling her how lovely she looked as ‘The Star in the East’ or ‘Maud is Not Seventeen, But She is Tall and Stately’. Hallam and Lionel (but particularly Lionel) had learned quickly that Mrs Cameron rewarded good looks with sweets, so the Tennyson boys spent much of their time away from home, carelessly showing off their charming profiles in her garden, and flicking their girly locks. Lionel was an absolute stunner.
Mrs Cameron was however at Farringford this afternoon, to greet Watts and Ellen in a flurry of shawls and funny smells, and fervent greeting.
‘Il Signor! Il Signor!’
Watts loved this kind of devotion, of course, and acknowledged it with a bow. He felt no obligation to return it.
Though the Wattses were guests at Dimbola, Mrs Cameron had conceived this pleasant notion of meeting them at Farringford after their journey. For one thing, in the garden at Farringford the roses were not all half-dead (and dangerously flammable) from the recent application of paint. Also, Watts and Tennyson were mutual admirers, with matching temples and pontiff beards, and Mrs Cameron loved to witness their hirsute solemn greetings for the aesthetic buzz alone. ‘The brains do not lie in the beard’ was an adage with which she had always argued. And beyond all this was a more pragmatic reason for the Farringford rendezvous: it was an excuse to see Alfred in the afternoon, when he had somehow forgotten to come in the morning.
Chairs from the banqueting hall had been arranged around a table on the wide green lawn, in the shade of the ilex, and if the furniture was a peculiar assortment, this only reflected the odd people sitting in it – Mrs Tennyson silent and gaunt in black, her beady eye alert for gentlemen of the Edinburgh Review lurking in the shrubbery, Watts already asleep with his head on the table, Mrs Cameron hatching benevolent schemes and waving her arms about, and Tennyson preoccupied, in his big hat, speaking in riddles.
Ellen took off her own hat, patted her golden hair and sat down gingerly in a sort of throne at the head of the table. Her real impulse was to kick off her shoes, let her hair down and shout, ‘Bring me some tea, then,’ but in the company of this particular set of grown-ups, who often scolded and belittled her, she found herself too often at fault. They even disapproved of pink tights: she was clueless how to please them. So, her throat rasping for want of refreshment, she played a game of onesided polite conversation she had recently taught herself from a traveller’s handbook left by Mr Ruskin at Little Holland House. And nobody took the slightest notice.
‘My portmanteau has gone directly to Dimbola Lodge,’ she announced (with perfect diction, as though speaking a foreign language). ‘My husband and I will travel there later also. It is only a short walk. My parasol is adequate although the sun is strong. Are you familiar with the Dordogne? Our journey from London was comfortable and very quick.’
No one said anything. Not a breath stirred. In the far distance, childish voices on the beach could be heard mingled with the crash of waves, piping like little birds in a storm. Watts emitted a snore, like a hamster.
‘The bay looks delightful this afternoon,’ she continued. ‘I hope there will not be rain. The Isle of Wight has the great advantage of being near yet far, far yet near. Rainbows are not worth writing odes to.’
Nothing. Bees hummed in the shrubbery, and Watts made a noise in his throat, as though preparing to say something.
At this stirring from the dormant male, Mrs Cameron signalled at Ellen to hush her prattling.
‘Speak, speak, Il Signor!’ urged Mrs Cameron, grandly.
But Watts did not speak, as such. Rather, he intoned. ‘An American gentleman on the boat to Leghorn,’ he said, ‘lent me without being asked eight pounds.’
He resumed his slumber, and Mrs Cameron nodded shrewdly as though a great pronouncement had been made. Tennyson continued to read his own poetry silently, with occasional bird-like tippings of the head, to indicate deep thought.
‘At what time do we arrive at the terminus?’ Ellen persisted, her voice rising a fraction. ‘I have the correct money for the watering can. You dance very well, do you know any quadrilles? No heavy fish is unkind to children. Will you help me with this portmanteau, it is heavy. I require a view with southerly light. Please iron my theatrical costumes. This gammon is still alive. Northamptonshire stands on other men’s legs. Phrenology is a fashionable science. Would you like to feel my bumps?’
It was at this point, when Ellen was just beginning to think she would not survive in this atmosphere for another instant, that she spotted a dapper figure in a dark coat and boater dodge nervously between some trees in the garden. Behind him ran a little girl in a pinafore.
‘That man is behaving very curiously,’ she said aloud. But since this exclamation might have been just a further instalment of her phrasebook speech, no one glanced to see what she was talking about. Ellen, however, burned with curiosity.
Tennyson looked up from his book, but luckily did not notice the intruder. So wary was he of fans and tourists (‘cockneys’) that he had once run away from a flock of sheep in the belief they were intent on acquiring his autograph. In fact, even after the mistake was pointed out, he still maintained that they might have been.
‘George Gilfillan should not have said I was not a great poet,’ he finally announced, in an injured tone.
Emily sighed. She didn’t know who George Gilfillan was – indeed nobody knew who George Gilfillan was – but she had heard this complaint a hundred times. Gilfillan’s opinions of Tennyson’s poetry had somehow eluded her vigilance. Meanwhile, a hundred yards away, between the trees, the curious man had frozen to the spot, gazing at a pocket watch.
Emily tried to recruit Julia to her cause.
‘Really, Alfred, you must forget Mr Gilfillan, he is of no consequence. And besides, to repeat bad criticism of yourself shows no wisdom. Yet you do it perpetually. What of the many fine words written in your praise? What of the kindness and approbation of the monarch? It is too vexing. The Chinese say that the wise forget insults as the ungrateful a kindness.’
Julia murmured her approval. ‘And apart from all that, you should be a man, Alfred, big fellow like you,’ she said. ‘People will say there’s no smoke without fire, if the cap fits!’
She tried to think of more suitable clichés. Watts beat her to it.
He opened one eye. ‘The more you tramp on a turd, the broader it grows,’ he remarked.
Julia patted his hand. ‘Thank you for that, Il Signor,’ she said. ‘There never was a man more apt with a vivid precept. We shall have dinner at Dimbola later,’ she added, in a comforting whisper. ‘With food.’
‘Kill not the goose that lays the golden egg,’ he said, and closed his eye again.
To Tennyson in full flow, however, all this talk of broadened turds was mere interruption.
‘He should not have said I am not a great poet,’ he continued. ‘And I shall prove it to you. Listen to this:
With blackest moss the flower-plots
[note the way “moss” and “plots” suggest the rhyme; a lovely effect, do you think you could do it?]
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
[“crusted” is a fine word here]
The rusted nails fell from the knots
[“knots” rhymes with “plots”, you see; “crusted” with “rusted”]
That held the pear to the garden wall –
‘Peach,’ interjected Mrs Cameron, dreamily.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Did I speak? Yes, I do apologize, Alfred, I did speak without meaning to. It’s just that the line is, That held the peach to the garden wall.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I ought to know, Alfred! It’s your Mariana. I recite your Mariana to myself every day of my life! I make a point of it!’
‘You do?’ asked Emily, quickly. Julia gulped. She suddenly realized what she’d said.
‘Well, perhaps not every day,’ she laughed, hoping to make light of it. ‘And not because it means anything, of course.’
Tennyson huffed. He wanted to press on with the recital. But Emily was not to be put off.
‘But that’s very curious, Julia. Why do you recite Mariana? I can hardly think of anybody less like Alfred’s Mariana than yourself, my dear. She is all passivity and tranquillity. You do not die for love, surely, Julia? For whom do you wait, aweary, aweary, wishing you were dead? It is quite the antithesis of your lively character!’
Julia pulled a shawl tighter, and stirred a cup furiously, which was an odd thing to do, because there was nothing in it.
‘Well –’ she began, but Alfred huffed again. He had no idea what was going on.
‘She recites Mariana, my dear, because it’s a very fine poem, of course! What an absurdly simple question! I am surprised you could not guess it!’
And he flung himself back in his chair, quite satisfied. ‘Now, where was I?’ he said, and resumed his book. ‘At peach,’ insisted Julia, spiritedly. ‘Pear,’ he rejoined.
‘Peach.’
‘Pear.’
‘Peach.’
‘Stop!’ snapped Emily. ‘You must explain yourself, Alfred.’
Tennyson shut the book.
‘You are right, Julia. The word was “peach”. I changed it.’
‘You did? When?’
‘I don’t know. Recently. “Pear” sounds better, as I think you will agree.’
Emily silently practised peach-pear-peach-pear, and then pear-peach-pear-peach.
‘But you wrote Mariana in 1830, Alfred,’ exclaimed Julia. ‘That’s thirty-four years ago. Why don’t you leave it alone? Thousands of people have learned it as “peach”.’
‘She’s right,’ mumbled Watts, his contribution so unexpected that the others jumped. Tennyson blinked in confusion and looked behind him. He clearly had no idea where the noise had come from.
‘It is still my poem, Julia. I can do what I like. You might say that I like what I do, and I do what I like.’
‘But you gave Mariana to the world –’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘You published it, Alfred.’
‘That’s quite different.’
Tennyson scowled, and changed the subject. He looked away from the table altogether.
‘And as for Ruskin,’ he continued, tiresomely, ‘that foolish man, when he read my Maud, objected to the lines, “For her feet have touched the meadows / And left the daisies rosy”, representing me most unjustly as a subscriber to the pathetic fallacy. Ha! The pathetic fallacy? Me? Such stupidity is enough to make the heavens weep!’
Nothing agitated or excited Tennyson more than adverse criticism. Enoch Arden was already in the shops. The title poem ends with the lines, ‘So passed the strong heroic soul away / And when they buried him that little port / Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.’ No wonder he was getting punchy.
‘But what lack of understanding,’ he continued (he was still banging on about Ruskin). ‘Daisies do go rosy when trodden on. Ask any botanist. I have every intention of sending Mr Ruskin a real daisy one of these days, without comment, to show him that the under-petals are pink.’
Mrs Cameron, still reeling from the news of the peach, felt she could make no further comment on poetic licence today, but the saintly Emily chipped in – and with surprising vehemence.
‘For the last time, Alfred!’ she shouted, ‘We all agree with you about the daisy!’ ‘I know, but –’
‘It was years ago! You know more about daisies than Ruskin does! It is understood! You are right and he is wrong! The man has a brain the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, but he does not understand that daisies can be rosy! That’s enough!’
‘But –’
‘All right! Send him a daisy, then! Here’s one!’ Emily leaned over the arm of her chair and ripped a daisy from the grass. ‘Here’s two!’ She did it again. ‘Here’s a whole bunch!’
Tennyson narrowed his eyes. The normally placid Emily seemed to have lost her grip.
‘I will,’ he said, gravely.
‘Go on, then.’
‘Don’t think I won’t, because I will.’ ‘I dare you.’
Ellen shrugged. These grown-up literary discussions were beyond her; perhaps because of her extreme youth. Looking on the bright side, however, she calculated that nobody would miss her if she slipped away, to investigate the curious man.
Instead, she met Lionel Tennyson skulking behind a camellia bush. From the state of his cheeks, smeared with red, he seemed to have scored rather well with the Dimbola jam tarts this afternoon.
‘Lionel? It’s Mrs Watts. Do you remember me? We played at Indians.’
‘Shh,’ said Lionel. ‘Keep down, won’t you?’
Assuming this was a new game, Ellen joined him in hiding behind the bush.
‘I thought I saw a man in a straw hat,’ she whispered. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘That’s who we’re hiding from,’ said Lionel. ‘It’s a Mr Dodgson from Oxford. Mother doesn’t like him, so I’m making sure he doesn’t reach the house. Nobody knows he’s here except me. Not even Hallam. Did you see the way he was lurking? Mother says –’ Lionel looked around before finishing the sentence.
‘What does she say?’ asked Ellen, in an excellent stage whisper, which could be heard for a hundred yards in all directions.
‘Shh,’ said Lionel. ‘Mother says he’s not a gentleman.’
‘Indeed?’ said Ellen. ‘How dreadful.’
‘He takes people’s photographs without asking.’
‘But that’s not possible,’ objected Ellen. Lionel’s handsome little face assumed a contemptuous expression.
‘You agree that photographs are taken?’
‘Well yes, but –’
‘Have you ever heard of anyone giving a photograph?’ ‘I suppose not.’
‘So.’
Just then, Dodgson appeared in a glade twenty yards away. He seemed to be having trouble shaking off the little girl.
‘Go away,’ he pleaded. (Dodgson had no stammer or ceremony when he talked with children.)
‘But you said you loved your love with a D,’ said the child, who was holding a sheet of paper with writing on it. ‘Doesn’t that mean you want to run away and get married?’
Dodgson closed his eyes. ‘Please, please,’ he said. ‘Hop it.’
‘But I love you too, Mr Dodgson. I love my love with a D because he is Dapper. Come to the beach and tell me a story.’
‘Daisy. I am here to see a man about a book. I have come to make a magnificent gesture; a priceless gift, the fruit of my genius. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘If you come to the beach, I’ll let you do the thing with the safety pins.’
Dodgson considered. He looked at his watch again.
Daisy rested her hands on her hips.
‘If you don’t come to the beach, I’ll tell Mama about the thing with the safety pins.’
‘You wouldn’t.’ He gasped.
‘I would though.’
He groaned and capitulated. He took her little hand and turned back.
‘I suppose it is a bit late to call now,’ he said. ‘They seem to have company, too.’
Ellen and Lionel watched him out of sight. For some reason, his retreat filled Ellen with a sense of loss, and she had an urge to wave a handkerchief. As he disappeared from sight, they heard him say, ‘But apart from making my excellent gift, I would dearly love to talk to Mr Tennyson about the railway. It sounds such a splendid proposal …’
Ellen looked at Lionel. ‘What a strange man,’ she said. ‘What did she mean about safety pins?’
‘I have no idea. But I happen to know a secret. Mr Dodgson writes parodies of Father’s poems. I’m not supposed to know, because if Father finds out, Mother says he’ll froth at the mouth.’
‘Why is your father so sensitive to other people’s opinions?
Is he mad? Surely he knows he is a great, great man?’
Lionel did not answer at once. He was seriously considering the ‘mad’ part of Ellen’s question, like the true black-blooded Tennyson that he was.
‘Is he mad? Is he mad? Is he mad?’
He tried it all three ways. The exercise was not particularly helpful.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘He’s not exactly Mister Stable of the Isle of Wight. Let’s just say it’s a bit rich the way he checks us for madness every day.’
Lionel straightened up.
‘He’s gone,’ he said. ‘Shall we go down to the sea?’
‘Yes, please. Where’s Hallam?’
‘Oh, Hallam stays indoors a lot. He’s such a girly.’
Ellen smiled. ‘I see.’
‘Are you coming, then?’
‘But won’t we see Mr Dodgson there too?’
‘Oh yes, but we’ll ignore him. I’m terribly good at that. I’ll teach you, if you like.’
Freshwater Bay was very popular this afternoon, and Dodgson was the most popular thing about it. On all his summer seaside holidays, four o’clock was his regular story-time with children on the beach, and by the time Ellen and Lionel located him, he was seated on a rock (conveniently low) telling the story of the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle to a group of six children, all so enthralled by the underwater curriculum that they were currently practising reeling, writhing, drawling, stretching and (best of all) fainting in coils. Daisy made sure that when she fainted in coils, she made contact with Mr Dodgson’s boots, which made him extremely uncomfortable.
Ellen’s heart leapt when she saw him more closely; for this (as she had hoped) was her very own dear Mr Dodgson, who had adored her once! But she was afraid to disturb the story, so she waited beside a barnacled breakwater with Lionel, just listening to his words, and catching the sun on her face. Waves lapped and seagulls flew; maids giggled behind bathing machines. Ellen watched the bright faces of Dodgson’s eight-year-old admirers. They were entranced.
‘How many hours a day did you do lessons?’ said Alice.
‘Ten hours the first day, nine the next, and so on,’ said the Mock Turtle.
‘What a curious plan!’
‘That’s the reason they’re called lessons,’ the Gryphon remarked.
‘Because they lessen from day to day.’
The children groaned, and Lionel laughed before he could stop himself.
‘It’s very funny, this,’ Ellen said, suddenly performing a little pirouette. ‘Don’t you think he might write it down? It would make a splendid entertainment for Dimbola Lodge. I would play little Alice, of course. In fact, that would be rather fitting, because my first name is Alice, did you know that?’
Lionel clearly wasn’t interested.
‘Isn’t it fun eavesdropping?’ she said, ‘Like something out of Shakespeare. Do you know those children?’
‘I know of them,’ conceded Lionel. ‘I wouldn’t count them as friends.’
Without much grace, he pointed them out. They included Daisy and her cousin Annie (both enraptured); and on the end of the line, sitting up straight, and trying not to look interested in the story except from a scientific point of view, was Jessie Fowler.
‘Oh, I ought to have told you!’ said Lionel, prompted by the sight of Jessie. ‘Tonight the great Lorenzo Fowler gives a demonstration of phrenology in the parish hall. The carter told me. It was arranged terribly quickly. Father says we children can’t attend, of course; but Mrs Cameron’s Mary Ann will be going, and Mary Ryan too, and our gardener, and the coachman. I’ve asked them to tell me all about it. I wish I could go. Will you be allowed to go, Mrs Watts?’
‘I don’t suppose so.’
It was alarming to realize that even though he called her Mrs Watts, he lumped her in with the children.
‘Is he famous, this Lorenzo Fowler?’
‘Jessie says he’s the most famous phrenologist that ever lived. That’s Jessie with the orange hair. She’s a phrenologist, too. She’s very stuck up, and disapproves of everything, including ham-and-egg pies and narrow waists. She’s awful. I hate women who talk too much about what they know. What do you think?’
Ellen perused the child.
‘Well, she shouldn’t wear yellow.’
‘But on the other hand,’ added Lionel. ‘She seems to like me, so she can’t be all bad. She told me this morning that she helps in her father’s demonstrations, but I don’t believe her. She just wants me to find her fascinating because I’m so fantastically good-looking.’
Jessie, who had been all this time pretending not to be eight, suddenly gave way to a childish impulse. At the sight of the truly gorgeous Lionel behind Dodgson’s back, she smiled and waved, flapping her hand furiously, as if it was something stuck to her, and she wanted to shake it off.
‘Lionel!’ she yelled.
At which, of course, Dodgson looked round. And seeing both Lionel and Ellen, stopped his story abruptly, in mid-sentence.
‘L-L—Lionel, my dear friend!’ he exclaimed. (Lionel groaned.) ‘And can this really be Mrs Watts with you? The brightest star of Drury L-L—?’
‘It is a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Dodgson,’ said Ellen, extending her hand. ‘I have never forgotten your kindness to me when I made my first appearance on the stage. And now you tell stories about little Alice. I was reminding Lionel that Alice is my first name – you remember that, of course, Mr Dodgson.’
Dodgson made no comment. He was rather overcome.
‘You are very brave to return to Freshwater,’ Ellen continued, her self-esteem swelling as she felt herself adored. She could be very grown-up and condescending when it came to talking with fans, and she was a finely made young woman. Like Maud in the poem, she was not seventeen, but she was tall and stately.
‘B—brave?’ queried Dodgson.
‘Yes. Lionel told me as we walked from Farringford that he once offered to strike your head with a croquet mallet.’
‘Oh! Ha ha,’ said Dodgson uncomfortably, patting Lionel on the shoulder. ‘He didn’t mean it, I’m s—sure.’
‘I did, though,’ said Lionel, pulling a face.
‘Ha ha! Youth, youth.’
They all looked at the sand for a moment.
‘But Miss Terry,’ he began again. ‘I am so very pleased to see a fr-fr—’ He rolled his eyes, and tried again. ‘Fr-fr—’
‘Frog?’ suggested Lionel.
Dodgson waved away the very idea. He pointed at the children. ‘Fr—’ he continued.
‘Phrenologist?’ Lionel tried again. ‘Fracas?’ said Ellen.
‘I know! I know!’ said Ellen, getting carried away. ‘Fretful porpentine!’
Dodgson took an exaggeratedly deep breath, mainly to shut them up.
‘Friend,’ he blurted, at last.
Ellen looked abashed. He had called her Miss Terry; he had called her a friend. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so nice to her.
Dodgson caught his own mistake.
‘But I apologize. I must call you Mrs W-W—’
Lionel let him wallow.
‘Mrs W-W—’
‘Miss Terry will suffice, I think,’ interjected Ellen, ‘just between ourselves. I know from my own experience that the other title is sometimes hard to say.’ She looked at the little girls on the beach – particularly Daisy, who was studying Dodgson with big round purposeful eyes – and felt suddenly overcome with sadness.
‘I have been fancying myself little Miss Terry all afternoon, Mr Dodgson – at about the same age as these pretty girls here, in fact. And I can barely express how much pleasure it has given me.’