Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (267 page)

Socially, the retiring “don” was scarcely known beyond the University.
He ran up to London whenever the theaters offered anything tempting; he visited the studios of well-known artists, who were all fond of him, and he cultivated the friendship of men of learning and letters.
If these gentlemen happened to have attractive little daughters, he cultivated their acquaintance also.
One special anecdote we have of a visit to the studio of Mr.
Munroe, where he found two of the children of George Macdonald, the author of many books, among them “At the Back of the North Wind,” a most charming fairy tale.
These two children, a boy and a girl, instantly made friends with Lewis Carroll, who suggested to the boy, Greville, that he thought a marble head would be such a useful thing, much better than a real one because it would not have to be brushed and combed.
This appealed to the small boy, whose long hair was a torment, but after consideration he decided that a marble head would not be able to speak, and it was better to have his hair pulled and be able to cry out.
In the case of the general small boy Lewis Carroll preferred marble, but he was overruled.
Mr.
Macdonald’s two daughters, Lily and Mary, were, however, great favorites of his; indeed, his girl friends were rapidly multiplying.
Sometimes they came to see him in the pleasant rooms at Christ Church College, which were full of curious things that children love.
Sometimes they had tea with him or went for a stroll, for Oxford had many beautiful walks about her colleges.

A visit to him was always a great event, but perhaps those who enjoyed him most were his intimates in “Tom Quadrangle.”
The three little Liddell girls were at that time his special favorites; their bright companionship brought forth the many sides of his genius; under the spell of their winsome chatter the long golden afternoon would glide happily by, while under
his
spell they would sit for hours listening to the wonder tales he spun for them.

CHAPTER VI.

UP AND DOWN THE RIVER WITH THE REAL ALICE.

We generally speak of Oxford-on-the-Thames.
Indeed, if we were to journey by water from London to Oxford, we would certainly go by way of the Thames, and a pleasant journey that would be, too, gliding between well-wooded, fertile shores with charming landscape towns on either side and bits of history peeping out in unexpected places.
But into the heart of Oxford itself the Thames sends forth its tributaries in opposite directions; the Isis on one side, the Cherwell on the other.
The Cherwell is what is called a “canoe river,” the Isis is the race course of Oxford, where all the “eights” (every racing crew consists of eight men) come to practice for the great day and the great race, which takes place sometimes at Henley, sometimes at Oxford itself, when the Isis is gay with bunting and flags.

On one side of Christ Church Meadow is a long line of barges which have been made stationary and which are used as boathouses by the various college clubs; these are situated just below what is known as Folly Bridge, a name familiar to all Oxford men, and the goal of many pleasant trips.
The original bridge was destroyed in 1779, but tradition tells us that the first bridge was capped by a tower which was the study or observatory of Roger Bacon, the Franciscan Friar who invented the telescope, gunpowder, and many other things unknown to the people of his time.
It was even hinted that he had cunningly built this tower that it might fall instantly on anyone passing beneath it who proved to be more learned than himself.
One could see it from Christ Church Meadow, and doubtless Lewis Carroll pointed it out to his small companions, as they strolled across to the water’s edge, where perhaps a boat rocked lazily at its moorings.

It was the work of a moment to steady it so that the eager youngsters could scramble in, then he stepped in himself, pushing off with his oar, and a few long, steady strokes brought them in midstream.
This was an ordinary afternoon occurrence, and the children alone knew the delights of being the chosen companions of Lewis Carroll.
He would let them row, while he would lounge among the cushions and “spin yarns” that brought peals of merry laughter that rippled over the surface of the water.
He knew by heart every story and tradition of Oxford, from the time the Romans reduced it from a city of some importance to a mere “ford for oxen to pass over,” which, indeed, was the origin of its name, long before the Christian era.

He had a story or a legend about every place they passed, but most of all they loved the stories he “made up” as he went along.
He had a low, well-pitched voice, with the delightful trick of dropping it in moments of profound interest, sometimes stopping altogether and closing his eyes in pretended sleep, when his listeners were truly thrilled.
This, of course, produced a stampede, which he enjoyed immensely, and sometimes he would “wake up,” take the oars himself, and pull for some green shady nook that loomed invitingly in the distance; here they would land and under the friendly trees they would have their tea, perhaps, and then they
might
induce him to finish the story—if they were
ever
so good.

It was on just such an occasion that he chanced to find the golden key to Wonderland.
The time was midsummer, the place on the way up the river toward Godstow Bridge; the company consisted of three winsome little girls, Lorina, Alice, and Edith Liddell, or
Prima
,
Secunda
, and
Tertia
, as he called them by number in Latin.
He tells of this himself in the following dainty poem—the introduction to “Alice in Wonderland”:

 All in the golden afternoon

Full leisurely we glide;

For both our oars, with little skill,

By little arms are plied,

While little hands make vain pretence

Our wanderings to guide.

Ah, cruel Three!
In such an hour,

Beneath such dreamy weather,

To beg a tale, of breath too weak

To stir the tiniest feather!

Yet what can one poor voice avail

Against three tongues together?

Imperious Prima flashes forth

Her edict “to begin it”—

In gentler tone Secunda hopes

“There will be nonsense in it”—

While Tertia interrupts the tale,

Not
more
than once a minute.

Anon, to sudden silence won,

In fancy they pursue

The dream-child moving through a land

Of wonders wild and new,

In friendly chat with bird or beast—

And half believe it true.

And ever as the story drained

The wells of fancy dry,

And faintly strove that weary one

To put the subject by,

“The rest next time”—“It
is
next time!”

The happy voices cry.

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:

Thus slowly one by one,

Its quaint events were hammered out—

And now the tale is done,

And home we steer, a merry crew,

Beneath the setting sun.

Alice!
a childish story take,

And with a gentle hand

Lay it where Childhood’s dreams are twined

In Memory’s mystic band,

Like pilgrims’ withered wreath of flowers

Plucked in a far-off land.

It was a very hot day, the fourth of July, 1862, that this special little picnic party set out for its trip up the river.
Godstow Bridge was a quaint old-fashioned structure of three arches.
In the very middle it was broken by a tiny wooded island, and guarding the east end was a picturesque inn called
The Trout
.
Through the middle arch they could catch a distant glimpse of Oxford, with Christ Church spire quite plainly to be seen.
They had often gone as far as the bridge and had their tea in the ruins of the old nunnery near by, a spot known to history as the burial-place of Fair Rosamond, that beautiful lady who was supposed to have been poisoned by Queen Eleanor, the jealous wife of Henry II.
But this day the sun streamed down on the little party so pitilessly that they landed in a cool, green meadow and took refuge under a hayrick.
Lewis Carroll stretched himself out at full length in the protecting shade, while the expectant little girls grouped themselves about him.

“Now begin it,” demanded Lorina, who was called
Prima
in the poem.
Secunda
[Alice] probably knew the story-teller pretty well when she asked for nonsense, while tiny
Tertia
, the youngest, simply clamored for “more, more, more,” as the speaker’s breath gave out.

Now, as Lewis Carroll lay there, a thousand odd fancies elbowing one another in his active brain, his hands groping in the soft moist earth about him, his fingers suddenly closed over that magic Golden Key.
It was a queer invisible key, just the kind that fairies use, and neither Lorina, Alice, nor Edith would have been able to find it if they had hunted ever so long.
He must have found it on the water and brought it ashore quite by accident, for there was the gleam of sunlight still upon it, and it was very shady under the hayrick.
Perhaps there was a door somewhere that the key might fit; but no, there was only the hayrick towering above him, and only the brown earth stretching all about him.
Perhaps a white rabbit
did
whisk by, perhaps the real Alice
really
fell asleep, at any rate when
Prima
said “Begin it,” that is how he started.
The Golden Key opened the brown earth—in popped the white rabbit—down dropped the sleeping Alice—down—down—down—and while she was falling, clutching at things on the way, Lewis Carroll turned, with one of his rare sweet smiles, to the eager trio and began the story of “Alice’s Adventures Underground.”

The whole of that long afternoon he held the children spellbound.
He did not finish the story during that one sitting.
Summer has many long days, and the quiet, prudent young “don” was not reckless enough to scatter
all
his treasures at once; and, besides, all the queer things that happened to Alice would have lost half their interest in the shadow of a hayrick, and how could one conjure up
Mock Turtles
and
Lorys
and
Gryphons
on the dry land?
Lewis Carroll’s own recollection of the beginning of “Alice” is certainly dated from that “golden afternoon” in the boat, and any idea of publishing the web of nonsense he was weaving never crossed his mind.
Indeed, if he could have imagined that his small audience of three would grow to be as many millions in the years to come, the book would have lost half its charm, and the real child that lay hidden under the cap and gown of this grave young Student of thirty might never have been known to the world.

Into his mind, with all the freshness of unbidden thought, popped this story of
Alice
and her strange adventures, and while he chose the name of Alice in seeming carelessness, there is no doubt that the little maid who originally owned the name had many points in common with the Rev.
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, never suspected save by the two most concerned.

To begin with, the real Alice had an Imagination; any child who demands nonsense in a story has an Imagination.
Nothing was too impossible or absurd to put into a story, for one could always “make believe” it was something else you see, and a constant “make believe” made everything seem quite real.
Dearly as he loved this posy of small girls, Lewis Carroll could not help being just the
least
bit partial to Alice, because, as he himself might have quaintly expressed it, she understood everything he said, even before he said it.

She was a dear little round, chubby child, a great camera favorite and consequently a frequent visitor to his rooms, for he took her picture on all occasions.
One, as a beggar child, has become quite famous.
She is pictured standing, with her ragged dress slipping from her shoulders and her right hand held as if begging for pennies; the other hand rests upon her hip, and her head is bent in a meek fashion; but the mouth has a roguish curve, and there is just the shadow of a laugh in the dark eyes, for of course it’s only “make believe,” and no one knows it better than Alice herself.
Lewis Carroll liked the little bit of acting she did in this trifling part.
A child’s acting always appealed to him, and many of his youngest and best friends were regularly on the stage.

He took another picture of the children perched upon a sofa; Lorina in the center, a little sister nestling close to her on either side, making a pretty pyramid of the three dark heads.
Yet in studying the faces one can understand why it was Alice who inspired him.
Lorina’s eyes are looking straight ahead, but the lids are dropped with a little conscious air, as if the business of having one’s picture taken was a very serious matter, to say nothing of the responsibility of keeping two small sisters in order.
Edith is staring the camera out of countenance, uncertain whether to laugh or to frown, a pretty child with curls drooping over her face; but Alice, with the elf-locks and the straight heavy “bang,” is looking far away with those wonderful eyes of hers; perhaps she was even then thinking of Wonderland, perhaps even then a light flashed from her to Lewis Carroll in the shape of a promise to take her there some day.
At any rate, if it hadn’t been for Alice there would have been no Wonderland, and without Wonderland, childhood is but a tale half-told, and even to this day, nearly fifty years since that “golden afternoon,” every little girl bearing the name of Alice who has read the book and has anything of an imagination, firmly believes that
she
is the sole and only Alice who could venture into Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland.

After he had told the story and the original Alice had expressed her approval, he promised to write it out for her to keep.
Of course this took time, because, in the first place, his writing was not quite plain enough for a child to read easily, so every letter was carefully printed.
Then the illustrations were troublesome, and he drew as many as he could, consulting a book on natural history for the correct forms of the queer animals
Alice
found.
The
Mock Turtle
was his own invention, for there never
was
such an animal on land or sea.