Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (259 page)

Believe me,

Yrs affectionately,

C.L.
Dodgson.

My dear child,—It seems quite within the bounds of possibility, if we go on long in this style, that our correspondence may at last assume a really friendly tone.
I don't of course say it will actually do so—that would be too bold a prophecy, but only that it may tend to shape itself in that direction.

Your remark, that slippers for elephants
could
be made, only they would not be slippers, but boots, convinces me that there is a branch of your family in
Ireland
.
Who are (oh dear, oh dear, I am going distracted!
There's a lady in the opposite house who simply sings
all
day.
All her songs are wails, and their tunes, such as they have, are much the same.
She has one strong note in her voice, and she knows it!
I
think
it's "A natural," but I haven't much ear.
And when she gets to that note, she howls!) they?
The O'Rixes, I suppose?

About your uninteresting neighbours, I sympathise with you much; but oh, I wish I had you here, that I might teach you
not
to say "It is difficult to visit one's district regularly, like every one else does!"

And now I come to the most interesting part of your letter—May you treat me as a perfect friend, and write anything you like to me, and ask my advice?
Why,
of course
you may, my child!
What else am I good for?
But oh, my dear child-friend, you cannot guess how such words sound to
me
!
That any one should look up to
me
, or think of asking
my
advice—well, it makes one feel humble, I think, rather than proud—humble to remember, while others think so well of me, what I really
am
, in myself.
"Thou, that teachest another, teachest thou not thyself?"
Well, I won't talk about myself, it is not a healthy topic.
Perhaps it may be true of
any
two people, that, if one could see the other through and through, love would perish.
I don't know.
Anyhow, I like to
have
the love of my child-friends, tho' I know I don't deserve it.
Please write as freely as
ever
you like.

I went up to town and fetched Phoebe down here on Friday in last week; and we spent
most
of Saturday upon the beach—Phoebe wading and digging, and "as happy as a bird upon the wing" (to quote the song she sang when first I saw her).
Tuesday evening brought a telegram to say she was wanted at the theatre next morning.
So, instead of going to bed, Phoebe packed her things, and we left by the last train, reaching her home by a quarter to 1 a.m.
However, even four days of sea-air, and a new kind of happiness, did her good, I think.
I am rather lonely now she is gone.
She is a very sweet child, and a thoughtful child, too.
It was very touching to see (we had a little Bible-reading every day: I tried to remember that my little friend had a soul to be cared for, as well as a body) the far-away look in her eyes, when we talked of God and of heaven—as if her angel, who beholds His face continually, were whispering to her.

Of course, there isn't
much
companionship possible, after all, between an old man's mind and a little child's, but what there is is sweet—and wholesome, I think.

Facsimile of a "Looking-Glass Letter"

from Lewis Carroll to Miss Edith Ball.

Three letters of his to a child-friend, Miss Kathleen Eschwege, now Mrs.
Round, illustrate one of those friendships which endure: the sort of friendship that he always longed for, and so often failed to secure:—

Ch.
Ch., Oxford,

October
24, 1879.

My dear Kathleen,—I was really pleased to get your letter, as I had quite supposed I should never see or hear of you again.
You see I knew only your Christian name—not the ghost of a surname, or the shadow of an address—and I was not prepared to spend my little all in advertisements—"If the young lady, who was travelling on the G.W.
Railway, &c."
—or to devote the remainder of my life to going about repeating "Kathleen," like that young woman who came from some foreign land to look for her lover, but only knew that he was called "Edward" (or "Richard" was it?
I dare say you know History better than I do) and that he lived in England; so that naturally it took her some time to find him.
All I knew was that
you
could, if you chose, write to me through Macmillan: but it is three months since we met, so I was
not
expecting it, and it was a pleasant surprise.

Well, so I hope I may now count you as one of my child-friends.
I am fond of children (except boys), and have more child-friends than I could possibly count on my fingers, even if I were a centipede (by the way,
have
they fingers?
I'm afraid they're only feet, but, of course, they use them for the same purpose, and that is why no other insects,
except centipedes
, ever succeed in doing
Long Multiplication
), and I have several not so very far from you—one at Beckenham, two at Balham, two at Herne Hill, one at Peckham—so there is every chance of my being somewhere near you
before the year
1979.
If so, may I call?
I am
very
sorry your neck is no better, and I wish they would take you to Margate: Margate air will make
any
body well of
any
thing.

It seems you have already got my two books about "Alice."
Have you also got "The Hunting of the Snark"?
If not, I should be very glad to send you one.
The pictures (by Mr.
Holiday) are pretty: and you needn't read the verses unless you like.

How do you pronounce your surname?
"esk-weej"?
or how?
Is it a German name?

If you can do "Doublets," with how many links do you turn KATH into LEEN?

With kind remembrances to your mother, I am

Your affectionate friend,

Charles L.
Dodgson

(
alias
"Lewis Carroll").

Ch.
Ch., Oxford,

January
20, 1892.

My dear Kathleen,—Some months ago I heard, from my cousin, May Wilcox, that you were engaged to be married.
And, ever since, I have cherished the intention of writing to offer my congratulations.
Some might say, "Why not write
at once?"
To such unreasoning creatures, the obvious reply is, "When you have bottled some peculiarly fine Port, do you usually begin to drink it
at once?"
Is not that a beautiful simile?
Of course, I need not remark that my congratulations are like fine old Port—only finer, and
older!

Accept, my dear old friend, my
heartiest
wishes for happiness, of all sorts and sizes, for yourself, and for him whom you have chosen as your other self.
And may you love one another with a love second only to your love for God—a love that will last through bright days and dark days, in sickness and in health, through life and through death.

A few years ago I went, in the course of about three months, to the weddings of three of my old child-friends.
But weddings are not very exhilarating scenes for a miserable old bachelor; and I think you'll have to excuse me from attending
yours
.

However, I have so far concerned myself in it that I actually
dreamed
about it a few nights ago!
I dreamed that you had had a photograph done of the wedding—party, and had sent me a copy of it.
At one side stood a group of ladies, among whom I made out the faces of Dolly and Ninty; and in the foreground, seated in a boat, were two people, a gentleman and a lady I
think
(could they have been the bridegroom and the bride?) engaged in the natural and usual occupation for a riverside picnic—pulling a Christmas cracker!
I have no idea what put such an idea into my head.
I
never saw crackers used in such a scene!

I hope your mother goes on well.
With kindest regards to her and your father, and love to your sisters—and to yourself too, if HE doesn't object!—I am,

Yours affectionately,

C.L.
Dodgson.

P.S.—I never give wedding-presents; so please regard the enclosed as an
unwedding
present.

Ch.
Ch., Oxford,

December
8, 1897.

My dear Kathleen,—Many thanks for the photo of yourself and your
fiancé
, which duly reached me January 23, 1892.
Also for a wedding-card, which reached me August 28, 1892.
Neither of these favours, I fear, was ever acknowledged.
Our only communication since, has been, that on December 13, 1892, I sent you a biscuit—box adorned with "Looking-Glass" pictures.
This
you
never acknowledged; so I was properly served for my negligence.
I hope your little daughter, of whose arrival Mrs.
Eschwege told me in December, 1893, has been behaving well?
How quickly the years slip by!
It seems only yesterday that I met, on the railway, a little girl who was taking a sketch of Oxford!

Your affectionate old friend,

C.L.
Dodgson.

The following verses were inscribed in a copy of "Alice's Adventures," presented to the three Miss Drurys in August, 1869:—

To three puzzled little girls, from the Author.

Three little maidens weary of the rail,

Three pairs of little ears listening to a tale,

Three little hands held out in readiness,

For three little puzzles very hard to guess.

Three pairs of little eyes, open wonder-wide,

At three little scissors lying side by side.

Three little mouths that thanked an unknown Friend,

For one little book, he undertook to send.

Though whether they'll remember a friend, or book, or day—

In three little weeks is very hard to say.

He took the same three children to German Reed's entertainment, where the triple bill consisted of "Happy Arcadia," "All Abroad," and "Very Catching."
A few days afterwards he sent them "Phantasmagoria," with a little poem on the fly-leaf to remind them of their treat:—

Three little maids, one winter day,

While others went to feed,

To sing, to laugh, to dance, to play,

More wisely went to—Reed.

Others, when lesson-time's begun,

Go, half inclined to cry,

Some in a walk, some in a run;

But
these
went in a—Fly.

I give to other little maids

A smile, a kiss, a look,

Presents whose memory quickly fades,

I give to these—a Book.

Happy Arcadia
may blind,

While
all abroad,
their eyes;

At home, this book (I trust) they'll find

A
very catching
prize.

The next three letters were addressed to two of Mr.
Arthur Hughes' children.
They are good examples of the wild and delightful nonsense with which Lewis Carroll used to amuse his little friends:—

My dear Agnes,—You lazy thing!
What?
I'm to divide the kisses myself, am I?
Indeed I won't take the trouble to do anything of the sort!
But I'll tell
you
how to do it.
First, you must take
four
of the kisses, and—and that reminds me of a very curious thing that happened to me at half-past four yesterday.
Three visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let them in.
And when I opened the door, who do you think they were?
You'll never guess.
Why, they were three cats!
Wasn't it curious?
However, they all looked so cross and disagreeable that I took up the first thing I could lay my hand on (which happened to be the rolling-pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pan-cakes!
"If
you
come knocking at
my
door," I said, "
I
shall come knocking at
your
heads."
"That was fair, wasn't it?"

Yours affectionately,

Lewis Carroll.

My dear Agnes,—About the cats, you know.
Of course I didn't leave them lying flat on the ground like dried flowers: no, I picked them up, and I was as kind as I could be to them.
I lent them the portfolio for a bed—they wouldn't have been comfortable in a real bed, you know: they were too thin—but they were
quite
happy between the sheets of blotting-paper—and each of them had a pen-wiper for a pillow.
Well, then I went to bed: but first I lent them the three dinner-bells, to ring if they wanted anything in the night.

You know I have
three
dinner-bells—the first (which is the largest) is rung when dinner is
nearly
ready; the second (which is rather larger) is rung when it is quite ready; and the third (which is as large as the other two put together) is rung all the time I am at dinner.
Well, I told them they might ring if they happened to want anything—and, as they rang
all
the bells
all
night, I suppose they did want something or other, only I was too sleepy to attend to them.

In the morning I gave them some rat-tail jelly and buttered mice for breakfast, and they were as discontented as they could be.
They wanted some boiled pelican, but of course I knew it wouldn't be good
for
them.
So all I said was "Go to Number Two, Finborough Road, and ask for Agnes Hughes, and if it's
really
good for you, she'll give you some."
Then I shook hands with them all, and wished them all goodbye, and drove them up the chimney.
They seemed very sorry to go, and they took the bells and the portfolio with them.
I didn't find this out till after they had gone, and then I was sorry too, and wished for them back again.
What do I mean by "them"?
Never mind.

How are Arthur, and Amy, and Emily?
Do they still go up and down Finborough Road, and teach the cats to be kind to mice?
I'm
very
fond of all the cats in Finborough Road.

Give them my love.

Who do I mean by "them"?

Never mind.