Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  I was silent. I couldn’t allow myself to believe that; not with those eyes upon me, always; not knowing, as Mr. Ruskin did not, that soon I would be back in his rooms.

  “You’ve been very cautious up until now, I have to admit that. Staying in the background, when Ina was out, and then married. You’ve been very wise.”

  “You’re not, if you believe that was all of my own doing. I wasn’t allowed much freedom until very recently. Packed off to the Continent like a disgrace—oh, of course it was all very proper, the three Liddell girls on their Grand Tour, just like every other fashionable young lady! But Mamma would have been very happy had I found some quiet count in France and not come back. Yet I did, and I suppose she realized she couldn’t keep me shut up in the attic like a lunatic; I had to emerge eventually. So.” I took a sip of tea, flush with my confession. Why I chose to deliver it to Mr. Ruskin, I could not imagine; his frankness must have disarmed me.

  “I truly had no idea,” he said. He was silent for a long moment; the only sounds were the creak of the boards as he paced the floor behind me, the snap of the fire in the hearth; the distant laughter of Sophie and the housekeeper, the soft tick of a mantel clock. Finally I rose, put my gloves on, signaling the end of the interview. I was determined to return matters to a businesslike footing: no swooning for me.

  “So, tell me what you desire, in return for your discretion. That is what this interview is about, isn’t it?”

  “First so coy, now so blunt. I’ll never be able to predict your behavior, my dear Miss Liddell.”

  “I’ll choose to take that as a compliment. Now, tell me what my debt will be.”

  “Only yourself.”

  “Me?” I laughed; it was so very predictable. “I will spare us both the cheap novel melodrama of assuming you want to seduce me.”

  “Oh, Alice, you do amuse me.” Mr. Ruskin chuckled admiringly. “No, I don’t wish to seduce you. I merely desire your company. We have a great deal in common, you and I.” Here he glanced, once more, at the small portrait on the table. “Both of us have past friends with whom we can no longer commune, share the best parts of ourselves.” He trailed off, still staring at the clear-eyed maiden.

  “Rose La Touche,” I stated. It was no longer a question in my mind. “There are few secrets here at Oxford. Even about you.” Despite my vow to remain as detached as possible, I could not help but place my hand upon his arm when I saw the tears brightening his eyes.

  “She was my Alice, in a way. Men like me, like Dodgson, we need a muse, a way to stay young, and vital. We’re no good on our own.”

  “But I’m—I’m no longer a child. How can I help you now?”

  He turned to me, his eyes cloudy with tears and sadness, veiled with a lost dream, and I knew that he was not looking at me; he was looking at—he was looking for—someone else.

  “Come to me,” Mr. Ruskin whispered. “Simply come to me, now and again, and sit by my fire, and let me gaze at you. Let me talk. And then—” Finally he shook himself, shook off his demons, with a tremor of his head; it appeared to start from his feet, moving up the entire length of his stooped, beaten body. “And then, I will help you with the Prince. I give you my word.”

  I was silent. I could not see my way; it was as if I were trapped in a maze of trees, a dark, oppressive forest, only the trees were my past—and now, Mr. Ruskin’s past. They stopped my progress at every turn as I strained to find my way out of the dark and into the light, where Leo was waiting to carry me, finally, away.

  What other choice did I have? Leo would graduate in the spring; it was only a little while that I had to pose as Mr. Ruskin’s friend. And as a friend, he would be helpful; as an enemy, he would be maliciously destructive. That much I knew.

  “I will,” I said finally, my voice flat, expressionless. “I will come to you. As a friend. Nothing more.”

  “That is all I ask.” He smiled sadly, leaning in to kiss my cheek, his lips dry and rough. I shut my eyes against him, although I could not shut my senses against his sickening perfume—a combination of lavender and rose and heliotrope, more flowers than a bride would wear.

  “Till next time.” I pushed him away—gently—and gave him my hand; he took it, clasped it warmly, then lifted it to his lips, kissing it with a passion that startled me; it was as if my hand offered salvation, and he was a dying sinner.

  “This time next week,” Mr. Ruskin said, releasing me with the same passion; turning away to stare moodily at the small table, where my photograph and Rose’s portrait sat like twin sirens.

  Hesitating, I waited for him to show me out, but he did not move. Finally I turned and crossed the floor with a heavy step, a heavier heart.

  I knew I would grow to despise this room and all that I had so recently found charming in it. I knew I would grow to despise Mr. Ruskin.

  I knew, also, I would grow to despise myself.

  Chapter 9

  • • •

  JANUARY 23, 1876

  Dearest Heart, I am wretched with worry over you. I must maintain a detached, dignified air, outwardly expressing mild concern, for naturally, as the daughter of the Dean, I would be properly anxious to hear word of your welfare.

  Yet “properly anxious” does not come close to revealing the anguish in my heart. I ache to be by your side; I envy the doctors who have the privilege of caring for you. O, were it my hand that mopped your brow, held your hand, brought you nourishing soups! Can you see, then, how wild I am? Can you imagine Miss Alice Liddell actually carrying in a tureen of soup with her lily-white hands?

  I would do more, were it possible; were it my right. I would launder your bed linen; I would slaughter the chicken myself, grind it up—is that how it’s done? I have no idea!—to make the soup; I would walk any number of miles to fetch you the finest medicine. If only I were allowed.

  I am not, however. I must content myself with hearing, from Papa, the infrequent updates—for they would be frequent enough only if they were every minute!—your secretary so kindly sends. I must go about my business here in Oxford, smilingly, willingly, in the grand manner Mamma has so assiduously cultivated, as if I have nothing more pressing upon my mind than what frock to wear, which carriage to summon.

  You must know that my thoughts, my heart, are not here but in Osborne, where you lie, and that every second of every day I long to be there in the flesh as well.

  You will improve; you must. And when you do, I will be here, certain to make a most undignified fool of myself when I throw myself at you, and weep, and beg for your kiss, your caress.

  Until that very satisfactory, if rather sentimental, time, I remain yours, as always.

  Yours only, in fact. You’ve quite spoilt me for anyone else, so you see, you must get well or else I’ll become a tragic spinster, and I’m sure you don’t wish to be responsible for that!

  Please come soon,

  my dearest heart.

  Your Alice

  BLINKING MY EYES—FOR I WOULD NOT ALLOW A SINGLE splash of a single tear to spoil my words—I took the heavy bronze blotter and carefully applied it to the notepaper. I then folded the letter neatly in thirds, reached inside my desk, and produced a packet of similar letters, bound with a black silk ribbon. Pressing it to my lips—ridiculous, I knew, but I needed to indulge my feelings this black, cold winter day—I slipped this newest letter into the ribbon and placed it back in my drawer.

  One day I would share with Leo these letters, these photographs of my heart, my despair. But I could not risk doing so now; I had no idea if he was well enough to read his own correspondence or if his secretary must do so for him. I only knew that he lay ill with typhoid fever at Osborne House, the Queen’s home on the Isle of Wight, where the Royal Family spent Christmas; that he had taken ill prior to the holiday, and that his condition had not improved in weeks. So far there had been no indication that his hemophilia played any part in his current illness, but like a shadow, it was in the back of all our minds.

  I dipped my
pen in the bronze inkwell, reached for another sheet of notepaper, ready to begin the letter that I would actually post. But instead of putting my pen to paper, I found myself gazing at the small frame on my desk: the photograph of Leo that Mr. Dodgson took that afternoon in November when we all sat for him.

  The photograph was a good likeness; he was seated, clasping his walking stick, his face turned slightly away from the camera, tilted up. The round eyes, the neat mustache, the trim figure—all were well represented. But there was no life in them. Leo was all spirit, all bravery in the face of his illness; that was his charm, and no photograph could capture that.

  Then again, the photograph of me from that afternoon—the photograph that I couldn’t help but hope was at Leo’s bedside as he lay ill, although I had no way of knowing—was just as flat and dull. Although Leo refused to admit it; even so, I knew he had been disappointed by it.

  How could the result have been otherwise?

  Mr. Dodgson had warned Mamma that the year was late, and so the light would be weak; though he had recently persuaded the college to build a rooftop studio for him, complete with skylights, he could not guarantee the outcome. Leo, however, insisted on going through with the plan anyway. So it was that on a rare sunny November morning, four of us—Mamma, Edith, Prince Leopold, and myself—found ourselves climbing the dark, narrow stairs in the building across the Quad from the Deanery, until we reached a black door with the words “The Rev. C. L. Dodgson” painted upon them.

  Edith reached for my hand then; I squeezed it gratefully, for my chest felt as if my corset had been laced too tightly, my heart was pounding so. I had not been in Mr. Dodgson’s rooms since I was eleven; then, I used to run to his rooms, throw myself in his arms without thought. Now—I felt so many memories, both good and bad, clear and confused, swirling about me, constricting my breath, my vision even, that I wasn’t sure my legs would even carry me over the threshold.

  What was Mamma thinking? I could not tell, for she would not look at me. She had, however, kept up a loud and merry conversation with the Prince ever since we left the Deanery; our visit had not gone unnoticed by anyone in the Quad. I knew that Mr. Ruskin would pepper me with questions on the morrow.

  Leo rapped on the door with his walking stick; a harried-looking housekeeper opened the door and showed us in, taking our cloaks until she was no longer visible beneath them, and then Mr. Dodgson himself appeared, leading us toward his sitting room.

  I had a sense of many rooms, off both sides of the hall; this arrangement was certainly larger than his old rooms over the library, where I remembered the lone sitting room being cramped and overstuffed with objects.

  The sitting room I found myself in now was not cramped; it was large and spacious with an inviting red sofa and a large fireplace surrounded by red and white tiles depicting the most unusual creatures—dragons and sea snakes and odd Viking-like boats. There was room for all of us to sit easily, yet I stood, awkward as a child at a stranger’s birthday party, unsure what to do.

  “Pl-pl-please sit down, Miss Alice,” a hesitant voice said softly, and looking up, I briefly met his gaze. The eyes were just as blue, the one slightly higher than the other, now framed by cobwebby lines, the hair curling although shot through with gray. He still wore the black frock coat of his youth; he still wore gray gloves.

  Gesturing with those gloves, he showed me an empty chair, and I sat on it. Biting my suddenly trembling lip, I stared at my own hands, clenched tightly upon my lap.

  “My dear Mr. Dodgson, it’s a pleasure to visit you at home. I’m afraid we’ve seen too little of each other since I’ve matriculated, but that’s the way it often is, isn’t it?” Leo sat next to Mamma on the sofa, his arms resting expansively across the top, as if these were his own rooms. His manner was always so easy; he was at home wherever he went.

  “Sir, it’s an honor.” Mr. Dodgson bowed stiffly, and I was reminded of how often I teased him, when I was young, that he walked as if he had a poker stuck down the back of his coat. What a rude little girl I had been! However did he put up with me?

  Just then Mr. Dodgson caught me staring at him; his cheeks reddened, and I wondered if he had been thinking the same thing.

  I turned away, intent upon my surroundings, while Leo engaged Mr. Dodgson in small talk concerning the university. Mamma chimed in, as if there was nothing more on her mind than academic politics; this obviously startled Mr. Dodgson, who seemed, at first, stunned by her loquacity. Edith smiled and nodded, throwing occasional anxious glances my way.

  While they chatted, I surveyed the room. Even though it was large, it was a bachelor’s suite, pure and simple. The few tables were uncluttered, their surfaces bare, not covered with fussy doilies; the backs of chairs were bereft of antimacassars. There were not many adornments other than a black vase of peacock feathers near the fireplace, some small watercolors, mainly of the university. And one framed print of the frontispiece of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, hanging on a wall; it wasn’t very big, and certainly not in any place of honor. Indeed, it seemed rather lost, as if there were supposed to be other prints surrounding it.

  It was a fastidious, scrupulously clean room, but despite its size, there was something stifling about it. In its very fastidiousness I recognized, with a surprising pang, that there was no room here for anyone else. Had he ever intended to share his home—his life—with a woman? Any woman?

  However, I soon understood that if there was no room for a wife, there was definitely room for a child—or rather, children. For after closer inspection, I saw that the room was stuffed with toys, just as his old sitting room had been. Now, however, they were not out in the open, strewn about, but rather piled tidily in cupboards, lined up with precision on a window seat, peeking out of hidden corners. China and rag dolls, stuffed animals, a wooden Noah’s Ark, music boxes of all shapes and sizes. One in particular I remembered from my childhood: a square contraption with a large handle, rather like a hand-cranked organ. There were a variety of tunes it could play, I recalled; he used to keep the circular music cards in a separate box, neatly categorized. “The Last Rose of Summer” had been my favorite song; I had a sudden wild desire to look for the box to see if he still had it.

  So his rooms had not changed with time. Had he? That I could not answer. For I was afraid to study him closely; afraid to speak to him, for fear of finding out. Yet I felt his eyes upon me more than once as I surveyed his room; was he trying to see me here as I was now, or as I once had been? Did I look out of place to him, now that I was grown? Or did I look familiar, achingly so—like a dream?

  The air was oppressive, and I longed to open a window.

  “Alice?” Someone was speaking to me. With a small shake of my head, I turned to find Leo looking at me with a slightly puzzled expression; I was so happy to find him here—I believe I had forgotten all about him—I nearly burst into tears. Instead, I simply smiled at him, feeling my heart slow down, my head clear of memories; I recognized myself in his eyes, the woman I was now. Not the little girl I used to be.

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “I was just saying how extraordinary it is that Lewis Carroll and the real Alice live practically across the street from one another! It’s so odd that neither of you speaks of the book, yet surely it’s a pleasant association?”

  “Allow me to answer for Alice,” Mamma said, and I had no choice but to do so. Quickly I glanced at Mr. Dodgson; he had busied himself with straightening a painting, his slim shoulders unnaturally hunched and tense with the effort. “Sir, it’s a fine tribute, of course, but naturally we don’t speak of it outside of the family. It’s simply not done, to call attention to Alice in such a public way—of course you understand, being a gentleman! As for Mr. Dodgson, well, I’m sure I cannot speak for him.” Although Mamma did look as if she wanted to, for she fixed him with such a glare that I was surprised Leo didn’t comment upon it.

  “I will always remember our day on the river fondly, and be grateful that Alice urged m
e to write the story down,” Mr. Dodgson said softly, still not looking at us. “I have many pleasant memories of our fr-fr-friendship. The books are but one memento.” Finally he turned around; I would not look into his face, would not look at his sad smile that I knew so well. I couldn’t; my own vision was blurred with tears that I tried to blink away before Leo saw them. What caused my heart to ache so? Was it loss? Regret?

  Or guilt? For despite the toys, the music boxes, there was such a lonely emptiness to these rooms; betrayal, frozen in time, chilled the very air. Being a child, I had had no choice but to grow up, while he remained exactly as he had been. Before.

  “And now may I propose we take the photographs? I do fear losing the light,” Mr. Dodgson said, leading the way down a narrow passage to even narrower stairs. We all followed, climbing the stairs until we found ourselves in a light, airy space—I had to blink at the unexpected brightness.

  This was his studio: a wall of windows on one side, brick on the other, skylights in the ceiling. There were the trunks of costumes, just as I remembered them; there was the brown leather valise in which he carried his developing chemicals; there was the camera. The same camera made of rosewood with that same large, unblinking eye that had once captured my soul.

  There was also another room, the door shut tightly: his darkroom, I assumed.

  He had accumulated more props—sofas, chairs, tables, ladders, and even some painted backdrops, perhaps left over from college theatricals. Obviously he was still pursuing his hobby; with a slight itch of irritation, I spied a small pink satin slipper—turned up at the toe in the Arabian fashion—peeking out of one of the costume trunks. Who was his favorite subject now? I wondered.

  “Who would like to sit first?” Mr. Dodgson asked, removing his frock coat, rolling up his shirtsleeves—and pulling off his gloves. The sight of his hands, pale, slender, with those dark smudges still on the fingertips, caused my stomach to flutter, my legs to tremble. I sat down abruptly upon a chair, mindful of Mamma’s suspicious glare.