Yet before there was reality, there was Wonderland.
Those years, those growing, learning years, I was blossoming and blooming under the sunshine of Mr. Dodgson’s faithful presence. What had happened that day in the garden was always with me; it was always with us. In his letters, occasionally he referred to me as his “wild gypsy girl.” He also sometimes asked if I remembered how it felt to roll about on the grass.
I did remember, but I could not talk about it with anyone, and I did not know how to discuss it in letters. Every time I tried, it always sounded too ridiculous—Dear Mr. Dodgson, Of course I remember the feel of the grass against my back, while you watched.
Then I would become confused. Why had he been watching? At the time, it seemed perfectly natural. The words on the page, however—there was nothing natural about them. They were unsettling, and had nothing to do with the Mr. Dodgson I knew or the happy, carefree moment we had shared.
Nervously would I cross the words out, crumple the notepaper, finally toss it in the fire, for I didn’t want anyone to see. Because if I didn’t quite understand what had happened, how could anyone else? So I would compose another—less candid—letter, merely asking how his headaches were, feeling as if I were letting him down.
I did not ask him if he continued to dream.
Even though he referred, often, to that day in his letters, he did not show me the photograph. I longed to see it; I longed to have evidence that once, I truly was a wild child. As time went on and my garments grew more confining, my skirts longer, I knew there would come a day when I would not be able to remember how the air felt on my bare shoulders, the grass between my tender toes. I felt that if I could only see it—see me—I would never lose those memories.
He neglected to show it to me; I do not know if it was because he assumed I might not be interested, or if there was some other, more complicated reason. Although I told myself there was nothing to fear—it was silly old Mr. Dodgson, for heaven’s sake—I could not bring myself to ask.
It would be years before I saw it. By then, it was in someone else’s possession.
Ina never once referred to that day. She simply waited, with a patience I had to admire, then pity—and finally fear. For I could sense her resentment simmering, like an ominous teakettle. I tried, so many times, to cause it to boil over, but it simmered on, until I was in danger of forgetting it altogether.
Meanwhile our outings continued, whenever we weren’t needed in the schoolroom or he in the lecture hall. It is strange to recall how little we knew—or cared—about Mr. Dodgson’s life away from us. It’s as if it simply didn’t exist. Naturally, we would see him at ceremonies and at chapel, in his black robes like all the other dons; spying him in a crowd never ceased to give me a little thrill of possession. He may have been part of the greater world, but he didn’t quite belong. He only belonged—he only made sense—with us; with me.
For while Mr. Dodgson did not again single me out as he did that day in the garden—on the contrary, he was very careful to include Ina and Edith, always, in our fun—I knew that I remained the reason he showed up, time and time again, at the front door of the Deanery. I knew by the way he smiled at me—or rather by the way, sometimes, that he did not smile when he looked at me. Moments when he appeared almost to be too sad in my presence; moments when he would pause in the middle of a story, Ina and Edith frowning up at him with impatience, and look at me, and lose the thread of the tale, stammering more than usual, his odd, uneven eyes clouded over with a dream, I knew. A dream of me.
No one else ever made him forget a story. No one else ever inspired one, either. It was on one of our rowing expeditions that he first told us the story of a little girl named Alice.
That day began like so many others; really, there was no reason to hold it special in my memory, except for all that came after. So I have often wondered if I do remember that one particular day or if my memory has conjured up a composite of all of them. I suppose I’ll never know for sure. At any rate, if the day that comes to mind is indeed the “golden afternoon” so often remarked upon, it began in this way:
Mr. Dodgson sent Mamma a note asking if the three of us could accompany him and Mr. Duckworth on a boating excursion up the Isis to one of our favorite picnic spots, Godstow.
Godstow was a favorite because it was within easy distance for two men who endeavored to teach three little girls the finer points of rowing. (Although Mr. Duckworth, who had proven to be great fun, a tireless singer, and a welcome, if infrequent, addition to our little group, was rather less patient than Mr. Dodgson. He tended to sigh a lot whenever one of us lost an oar.)
Godstow also had a lovely, wild low meadow full of all sorts of animals—cows and ponies and swans and geese—and gently sloping riverbanks dotted with haystacks. Nearby were the falling stone ruins of an old nunnery, where we girls liked to play even though Pricks always insisted it was haunted. Naturally, this only enhanced its appeal.
“Not again,” Mamma said, frowning at the note. She was thinner than ever, for we hadn’t had a baby in quite some time. And Mamma did look very handsome when she wasn’t fat; she had lovely high coloring with shiny black hair and very strong features, almost like a painting of a Spanish empress. “Didn’t you girls go rowing with him just a fortnight ago?”
“It was a month ago, Mamma,” Ina said sweetly, if not entirely truthfully. It had been a fortnight, but fortunately when it came to unofficially sanctioned amusements, Mamma could be vague. She could remember the date and time of every party, every dinner or dance, as well as every single wardrobe detail, not just for herself but for all of us. Yet she sometimes paid only the haziest attention to what we children did out of the public eye. I understood. She was awfully busy, and what else had Pricks to do but be in charge of us? I couldn’t see that she had any useful purpose, otherwise.
“A month, you say?” Mamma raised an eyebrow at Ina, who simply nodded, her eyes wide and innocent. I sucked in my breath and bit my lip, but however tempted, I was not about to tattle on her. Not this time, anyway.
“Well,” Mamma continued, walking over to the drawing room window, which looked out upon the garden. Even so, the heavy brown velvet drapes scarcely admitted any sun. “The weather is lovely, and I do approve of Mr. Duckworth, even if he is at Trinity instead of Christ Church. Dean Liddell says he has excellent prospects, and may recommend him for a position in the Royal household; one of the princes needs a tutor.” She gave the tasseled cord that summoned the servants a decisive tug.
“Yes, madam?” A Mary Ann appeared in the doorway with a curtsy.
“Bring me Miss Prickett,” Mamma commanded.
“Mamma, does she have to go?” Ina ran her finger along the top of a polished mahogany armchair, her eyes downcast, a pretty smile playing upon her lips.
“Why do you ask?”
“It’s simply that she hasn’t looked very well lately, and I don’t suppose a day in the hot sun would be the best thing for her, do you?”
“What do you mean, she hasn’t looked well?” Mamma turned to me. While I had little desire to aid my sister in her deception, I had even less to defend Pricks.
“Ina’s right, Mamma. Pricks looks poorly, and I—I think she fainted after dinner the other evening.”
“Fainted? Governesses do not faint. I’ll not hear of it. Miss Prickett!”
Pricks, who was standing in the doorway in another one of her ugly dresses—even at ten, I knew that mustard yellow plaid didn’t flatter a mottled complexion—looked startled. “Yes, madam?”
“Did you or did you not faint after dinner the other evening?”
“What—no, no, madam, not at all. I’ve never fainted!”
“Alice said you did.”
“I said I thought she did,” I corrected her. “I didn’t say I saw her.”
“All the same, the prevailing wisdom is that you fainted. May I ask why?”
“Madam, I did not.” Pricks looked my mother in the eye firmly but politely.
&n
bsp; “Hmmph.” Mamma walked over to her, looking her up and down, almost sniffing her, like a hunting dog. “I do think you look frightful. So it’s settled. The girls are going out rowing with Mr. Dodgson and Mr. Duckworth—the note specifically said there was room for only five in the boat, in any event. So be grateful that you have the afternoon off. I’ll ask Cook to send you up a tray for dinner, so you shan’t be disturbed.”
“But I—”
“Thank you, Miss Prickett.” Mamma turned her back on her. Pricks had no choice but to curtsy, her face flushed, her nostrils wide and quivering; in that moment she resembled, alarmingly, Tommy, my speckled pony. She turned to go, but not without one last, lingering glare at me, which I was happy to return.
I did despise servants so. Except for Cook, and Bultitude, the stableboy, and Phoebe. Also, the Mary Ann from the kitchen, as she sometimes snuck us up sugar cubes from the tea table, the ones with the candied flower petals on them that Mamma saved for only her special guests.
“All right, girls, do run up and get your parasols. And have Phoebe find you fresh gloves. Edith, remember to bring a pocket handkerchief—you tend to sniffle when out of doors.”
Edith—who did sniffle, quite a lot during the summer and early fall, especially—merely nodded, obediently following Ina and me upstairs.
“Why didn’t you want Pricks to come with us?” I asked Ina. We were united, for once, in a shared emotion, and I was more happy than I would have predicted; it had been so long since she had acted like one of us. To be quite honest, there were times lately when I missed her, even though physically, she was never far away.
“What do you mean?” Ina held her skirts up as she ascended the stairs, which was absurd; while they were longer, her skirts still did not touch the ground.
“Well, I didn’t want her to spoil our fun by acting silly and making Mr. Dodgson wait on her hand and foot. That’s why I said she fainted. Why did you?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Alice. I was truly worried, for I don’t think she looks at all well.” Ina shook her head with one of her new world-weary sighs. (I had caught her practicing them one afternoon in front of a looking glass, along with an entire repertoire of ladylike attitudes and poses.)
“But you don’t give a fig about Pricks!”
“Alice, my dear child. When will you realize that I’m no longer interested in your infantile dislike of poor Pricks?”
My hand itched to reach out and yank one of her long curls. I told myself, sternly, that it wouldn’t do any good, she would only yelp, and I’d most certainly get in trouble and not be able to go rowing.
I did it anyway. It was as if my hand had a mind of its own, for it raced out, grabbed one of her brown curls, and tugged, quite hard; her head snapped back.
“Ow! Alice! What the devil?” She spun around, eyes blazing, cheeks red.
“You stuck-up! That’s not why you didn’t want Pricks to go, and you know it. Why do you have to be so fake all the time? And make me feel so—so—stupid, for thinking that we were playing the same game—”
“What game, Alice? Unlike you, I’m too old for games. I have no idea what you’re talking about, except for the fact that it’s nonsense, as usual.” Infuriatingly, she turned and calmly proceeded upstairs, pausing, just once, to slowly, dramatically massage the back of her head.
Why wouldn’t she say anything? Why wouldn’t she fight with me; why did she no longer recognize me as a worthy opponent? I knew she didn’t want to share Mr. Dodgson with Pricks any more than I did, but she refused to acknowledge that we had any mutual feeling, any ideas at all, concerning him, concerning anything. I was too young to understand. That’s what she thought; that’s what she said all the time.
Didn’t she remember I had already won, that day in the garden? It had been almost three years ago; did I need to remind her?
When I was thirteen, I vowed, seething as I stomped up the stairs—Edith trailing along, sniffling already—I would not be so cruel. I would not tell Edith she was too young to understand anything. I wasn’t certain, however, about Rhoda. I suspected she might always be too young for me, as she still took naps.
We received our parasols and gloves from Phoebe; Rhoda trailed along in her short dress, with her fat little legs and arms, clutching at Phoebe’s skirts whenever she stood still.
“I’ll be so happy to have my own room,” Ina said with a dreamy sigh, looking around the bright, whitewashed nursery. It was the cheeriest room in the house, I always thought, for here the windows were simply hung with starched yellow curtains, the floors bare except for a few braided rugs, the furniture comfortable and useful, not stiff and ornamental. “Mamma and I have already spoken about it. You children can remain in the nursery. She’s making over one of the guest rooms for my boudoir.”
“It appears to me,” I said, a wonderful notion tickling my lips, turning them into a very mischievous smile indeed. “It appears to me that you’re getting far too old, then, to play with Mr. Dodgson. If you’re not careful, people will talk, just as they did with Pricks.”
Ina turned to me, slowly, as she concentrated on buttoning up her left glove. She would not look at me, a tactic I was beginning to recognize as one she used whenever she most wanted to make a point. “I wouldn’t be so concerned about my reputation, Alice. It seems to me there are others who have far more to worry about.”
“What? Who do you mean?” I forgot I was angry at her; I truly wanted to know. I was afraid I was getting to be rather like Mr. Ruskin after all.
Maddeningly, Ina refused to answer, and at that moment a Mary Ann appeared in the doorway to tell us the gentlemen had arrived. So we left Phoebe and Rhoda—Pricks was, presumably, up in her room on the top floor, plotting some awful revenge upon me—and joined Mr. Dodgson and Mr. Duckworth, who were exchanging pleasantries with Mamma in the hall. They had a lovely hamper with them, and I was most anxious to see what was in it; Mr. Dodgson always did bring the best cakes. I hoped there was one with buttercream frosting, my favorite.
“I do hope the girls aren’t too much trouble,” Mamma said as we made to leave. “It is very kind of you to invite them.”
“It’s our pl-pleasure,” Mr. Dodgson stammered; his stammer was always much worse around Mamma than it was around anyone else. “We-we always have such a lovely ti-ti-ti—”
“We have such a lovely time,” Mr. Duckworth said with a fond smile for his friend. I very much liked Mr. Duckworth, with his patient eyes, jolly, plump cheeks, and muttonchops; he was so kind to everyone, the type of person who sought out the odd, lonely people of the world whom everyone else forgot. I was very glad he had sought out Mr. Dodgson; I did worry about him being lonely when I wasn’t around. “Your daughters are such a credit to you—they’re so well mannered and delightful.”
“Why, thank you.” Mamma looked pleased; her eyes matched her smile.
“Shall we, ladies?” Mr. Duckworth bowed and held open the front door; we all trooped outside, the two gentlemen in their white linen suits, straw boaters on their heads instead of the usual black silk top hats, carrying the wicker hamper between them. I heard the tinkle of china jostling inside.
“How many cakes are in there, do you imagine?” Edith whispered to me, evidently not very quietly, because Mr. Dodgson laughed and told her not to worry; we’d have enough left over to feed the swans on the river, most likely.
So we proceeded through town, crossing the crowded, narrow streets until we found the clear path to the river, following it to the end, right under the arched mossy stones of Folly Bridge, to Salter’s Boat House. Mr. Dodgson politely asked Ina to pick out the perfect rowboat. Naturally, she took a long time doing so, walking up and down the riverfront, making quite a production of asking the boatmen how seaworthy each one was. Finally she picked one that didn’t look any different from the others, and we all climbed in; the seats were damp, and I was very glad no one had told me not to get dirty because honestly, I couldn’t see that I could help it. Mr. Du
ckworth and Mr. Dodgson manned the oars, and they asked me to man the tiller.
“Oh!” I took the thick knotty rope that steered the creaky tiller and pulled it over my head so that I could face them. My heart beat fast with the responsibility. “I do hope I don’t make the boat go in circles.”
“That is a fine thing to hope indeed,” said Mr. Dodgson with a smile. “But it’s a much finer thing to accomplish.”
I agreed that it was. Then Mr. Duckworth untied the boat and pushed it away from the dock with his oar as we headed upstream, the air hot and still, perfect weather for rowing. Even so, the gentlemen did not seem in any hurry to exert themselves; the oars dipped lazily in the muddy water with a sloppy, regular slosh. I concentrated on keeping the tiller straight and sure; my hands grew tired of pulling at the rope, but I wouldn’t have said so for the world.
Ina and Edith were crammed on either side of me, our identical white skirts overlapping so that it was impossible to tell whose was whose. Mr. Duckworth was in the far seat and Mr. Dodgson directly in front of us.
“Miss Liddell, I must say you are looking far too grown-up these days,” Mr. Duckworth called out. He needn’t have shouted so; across the calm water, his musical voice carried perfectly well. “Isn’t she, Dodgson?”
Ina sucked in her breath and sat up straighter, trying very hard not to look at Mr. Dodgson as he replied.
“Quite,” he answered, rowing steadily, thoughtfully, even as his strokes matched Mr. Duckworth’s. “Far too grown-up, I’m afraid, to want to accompany us foolish old men much longer. Young swains will be more to her liking, I predict.”
“You’re—you’re not old,” Ina blurted, her face red, hands trembling, even as she kept them firmly folded in her lap. “I know you’re only thirty.”
Mr. Dodgson raised an eyebrow, while Mr. Duckworth suppressed a smile.
“Ah, I’m very old, indeed. Duck, however, is merely twenty-eight. I’ll have to act as chaperone, I suppose.”
Ina shook her head, blushing even more—and looking very pretty, I had to admit. Even though we still dressed identically, her skirts were longer, and her silhouette had more curves. My sister was a young lady, I realized with a pang; she wasn’t merely saying it to spite me. I didn’t know how to feel about that; was I jealous that I was not, or was I mournful because of all the changes I knew were just ahead, for all of us? After all, Mamma was already starting to talk about young men with “potential,” and while I never heard her elaborate, I knew what she meant.
Alice I Have Been: A Novel Page 7
