Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  And while I had believed myself to be ignorant of the feminine mind, a reason for their ridiculous behavior presented itself to me without much effort. Mr. Dodgson was the culprit. He had not been around as much as usual. Even more surprisingly, I thought I knew why.

  Mr. Ruskin had alluded to it.

  Papa said that Mr. Ruskin was a genius. Papa did not say this about many people, although many people said it about him. Papa and his friend Mr. Scott were always writing a book; the same book, a book with no end, apparently, like some of Mr. Dodgson’s stories. Only this book was supposed to translate words from one language to another, from Greek to English. A lexicon, they called it, and even though I thought the entire enterprise rather boring and not a little useless—personally, I had never had reason to wonder what the Greek word for, say, hippopotamus, was—others did not. They always spoke about it, and Papa, in hushed tones—while calling him a genius.

  Knowing that Papa never used this word carelessly, I had to admit that if he believed Mr. Ruskin to be a genius, then he must be.

  Only I thought Mr. Ruskin was a bore. He wasn’t part of Oxford, not truly. He only popped in from London every few weeks to lecture and give art lessons. Mamma made sure he came round to the Deanery when he did, so that we girls could have lessons, too, and while I did love to draw, I did not enjoy doing so in the company of Mr. Ruskin.

  It wasn’t that I thought he didn’t like me; I was quite sure that he did. He did not like me in the same way as Mr. Dodgson, though, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on the difference between them. Mr. Ruskin admired me; he tended to look at me a lot, and smile down his long aquiline nose at me, and pat me or touch part of my dress whenever he had a chance. Still, unlike Mr. Dodgson, he never seemed very interested in anything I had to say.

  He would never allow me to roll down a hill. He would never ask me about my thoughts, either, for he did not seem to believe I possessed any. Whenever I chanced to talk during our lessons, he always put down his pencil or chalk, sighed, and muttered, “The Medicis would have been easier to work for.”

  He did like to talk, just not with us girls. Mamma was his chief friend, at least whenever she was around; I did get the impression he wasn’t so loyal when she was not. For Mr. Ruskin loved to talk about other people, the people of Oxford; who was on the outs with whom, who was writing love letters to a certain shopkeeper’s young daughter, which son of a clergyman was rumored to have spent his entire allowance on wine and women—

  Which mathematics lecturer was supposed to be paying court to the governess of the Dean’s daughters?

  “That’s what they’re saying, my dear,” I heard him giggle to Mamma one afternoon while they were in the parlor, taking tea. I was on my way downstairs to the kitchen to see if Cook had any scraps to spare for my kitten, Dinah. Edith and I had dressed her up for a tea party, but so far, she wasn’t cooperating. We decided it might be because kittens aren’t partial to biscuits, and so I was on my way to procure some scraps for her, preferably fish bones.

  “It’s nonsense, of course,” Mamma harrumphed. I heard the clink of china, as she must have placed her teacup in its saucer impatiently. Stopping outside the door, I tiptoed back a few steps and flattened myself against the wall, very carefully, so my petticoats didn’t rustle and give me away. It was nearly impossible to be an effective eavesdropper when one had to wear so very many clothes. Still, I persisted.

  “Why nonsense? To the observer, it appears perfectly logical. He does spend a lot of time with her.” Mr. Ruskin’s voice was thin and high. It always sounded odd to me, coming from one with such an awful quantity of hair growing all over his head, even down the sides of his face; his eyebrows were so bushy they looked like caterpillars.

  “He spends time with the children—they’re the ones he comes to see. It’s only natural that Miss Prickett accompany them on outings. I wouldn’t allow it otherwise.”

  “Well, the sentiment is that he spends time with Miss Prickett, and the children are incidental.”

  “Nonsense,” Mamma huffed. “More tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  There was a silence, during which my mind began to wander back up to the nursery. Had Edith been able to keep Dinah in her little dress? I did hope she wouldn’t tear it with her claws; I had borrowed it from one of Ina’s dolls.

  Then Mamma spoke again.

  “He is rather a nuisance, though. That man. Dodgson.”

  “Of course. Everyone says so.”

  “Always photographing them—the girls. Always taking them on outings, picnics, boating—it’s as if he doesn’t have any other friends. Does he?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” Mr. Ruskin sniffed.

  “What is his background? Only the son of a clergyman. No family to speak of. I continue to allow it because the girls are so young, and they do seem to enjoy his company and I’m sure it’s a help to Miss Prickett. Otherwise they’d grow sick of one another. The photographs he takes are charming, I must say. The girls never seem to tire of posing—it’s the only time I’ve ever seen Alice able to sit still.”

  The tips of my ears burned at the sound of my own name. I almost giggled but clamped my hand over my mouth just in time.

  “I barely know the man,” Mr. Ruskin said, sounding bored. “I don’t imagine you’ll be having many mathematics lecturers around when the girls are older?”

  Mamma laughed. “Of course not! My daughters will not marry college professors. I have higher hopes than that!”

  “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t—they’re pearls. And as such, should only be auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

  Now I was very confused. Only slaves were auctioned, and they had been outlawed long ago; Pricks had taught us this, when we were doing history.

  “Oh, Mr. Ruskin. I do wish you wouldn’t put it that way. It’s vulgar.” Mamma’s voice grew icy, as only she could make it; on the surface she sounded more polite than ever, but it was quite like some of her smiles. You knew it was only for show.

  I heard more china clinking, silver tinkling. The mantel clock chimed softly, and I was just about to leave for the kitchen when Mr. Ruskin spoke.

  “So you’re not concerned that people are talking about Dodgson and your governess?”

  “It’s nonsense,” Mamma said again; I did wonder why she couldn’t think of another word to say, as usually she had quite a lot at her disposal. “Particularly as he hasn’t been around much as of late.”

  “That’s because he heard, I’m sure, what people were saying.”

  “Then obviously it’s not true, or else he’d make his intentions known. So there—I told you it was nonsense.” I could hear the triumph in Mamma’s voice; she did so love to be right.

  “I never said it was true. I simply said it was what people were saying—although perception is reality, of course.”

  “I suppose so. It’s such a bore. It’s so difficult to find good servants, especially governesses and nurses. I imagined that this one would be different. It’s not as if she’s a beauty.”

  “No,” Mr. Ruskin said, laughing. And while I would never, ever have confessed this to anyone, not even the Archbishop of Canterbury, I felt bad for Pricks just then. She couldn’t help her warts, or the rough color of her complexion. However, she could help the silly way she acted around Mr. Dodgson, and I thought that perhaps I’d tell her so. Obviously, she needed my help in the matter. She had no idea people like Mr. Ruskin were talking about her.

  On the whole, it appeared to me that Mr. Dodgson was acting sensibly by staying away, even if it meant that I missed him, too. I knew he didn’t care for Pricks; anyone with sense could see that. Yet Pricks couldn’t, and it puzzled me, since she did seem to know quite a lot about other things; boring things, certainly, but no one could say she wasn’t educated.

  My head grew muddled with it all; the silly ways adults acted with one another, never saying what they meant, trusting in sighs and glances and dist
ance to speak for them instead. How dangerous that was! How easy it must be to misinterpret a sigh or a look. I was quite sure I’d never get it right when it came my time to grow up. Fortunately, that was a long way off. Unlike Ina, I was in no hurry to learn that particular, peculiar language.

  Mamma and Mr. Ruskin then moved on to other subjects, subjects that held no interest for me. So I tiptoed down the hall toward the kitchen, where I did get a lovely little fish bone for Dinah, who ate it, even while giving me reproachful looks for putting her in the dress.

  Meanwhile, I stored away all I had heard about Mr. Dodgson and Pricks. Until, trying not to fidget in the schoolroom, I observed Pricks jump at every sound, Ina flutter her eyelashes and sigh mournfully. With a shake of my head, I decided it was time to clear things up, for the very air was stifling, heavy with wishes unfulfilled—questions unasked.

  I alone had the answers. I did not want to keep such impressive knowledge to myself.

  “Mr. Dodgson hasn’t been round much lately,” I began. I kept my eyes trained on the blackboard, upon which Pricks had written some sums.

  Pricks dropped her chalk and bent to retrieve it; I observed her lips tremble, ever so slightly, before she twisted them up into a scowl.

  “I fail to see what that has to do with our lessons, Alice,” she said firmly.

  Ina, sitting next to me, had stiffened; slowly she turned her head to face me, her large gray eyes not blinking, so that she resembled nothing more than an owl with long curls.

  “It’s simply—I thought perhaps you’d like to know why he hasn’t,” I explained to Pricks, remembering what Mamma and Mr. Ruskin had said about her, and feeling myself soften just a bit; I honestly wanted to help her. “I thought it might make you feel better, because you’re awfully jumpy lately. You haven’t even been putting creams on your wa—on your skin.”

  Pricks yanked her left hand behind her back and covered her chin with her right hand—a reflex, to hide the offending warts. She glared at me. “Continue.”

  “Well,” I said, kicking my legs, wriggling my toes so that my heels hung over the ends of my shoes; for once neither Pricks nor Ina told me not to. “I heard—someone—say that Mr. Dodgson was supposed to be paying court to you.”

  Pricks ducked her head, yet not before I saw how soft the light was in her brown eyes, how blurred her normally blunt features grew. Ina saw, too; she froze, staring straight ahead, her eyes unblinking, her face white.

  “The thing is, though,” I continued, anxious to clear up the situation, “he’s not really, and that’s why he’s been staying away. Because of you, Pricks.”

  Ina gasped—then started to laugh uncontrollably. She held her hands against her ribs, as if in pain, and came perilously close to knocking over her inkwell. Pricks, however, did not laugh. Simply, startlingly, she sat down upon the floor where she had stood; it was as if her legs had been pulled out from under her. Encircled by enormous quantities of gray muslin, she continued to sink down into them until her crinoline popped up in front, revealing her petticoats. I couldn’t help but notice some of them had fraying, yellowing edges where the lace was worn. She didn’t bother to push the crinoline down, she didn’t seem to care what I noticed; she appeared unable to move at all, except for her mouth, which kept opening and closing, though no sound came out.

  “Don’t laugh,” I told Ina, genuinely shocked; she was the one who always went on and on about good manners, and here she was laughing at poor ugly Pricks. “It’s not Pricks’s fault she’s no beau—well, that she has warts,” I continued, remembering what Mamma had said. “Which is why Mr. Dodgson hasn’t come around. He doesn’t want people to talk about him and Pricks, because it’s nonsense.”

  “You wicked girl!” Suddenly Pricks was standing over me; her eyes were red, her mouth wide and ugly, and she couldn’t control her hands. They trembled, even as she grabbed the pointer from the blackboard and raised it over me. Ina stopped laughing then; she gasped and tugged on my arm, as if to pull me away.

  I was frozen, my heart caught in fear; I couldn’t breathe, even though every nerve was beseeching me to run. My skin actually tingled with the desire. But I didn’t; I couldn’t. For I could not imagine that Pricks—that anyone—would actually strike me.

  I knew that some children were beaten regularly—the Little Match Girl from the story, for example. Yet never had anyone struck me, or Ina, or Edith. I could not believe Pricks would do this—so my mind told me it was ridiculous to run, for nothing would happen.

  Nothing did happen; not at that moment, at any rate. Pricks glared at me with a cold, hard stare that made my stomach sink for what it might mean now and forever; with a cry, she dropped the pointer, hid her face in her hands, and ran to a corner of the room. Her voice all wobbly, she told us to please leave her alone; it must be time for lunch, and Phoebe would be wondering where we were.

  Ina released my arm—had she been trying to protect me?—and seized Edith’s hand, leading her from the room. I tiptoed over to Pricks but was stopped by her outstretched hand. So I followed Ina and Edith on trembling legs, for I truly did not understand what I had done.

  I expected Ina to be angry—she always took Pricks’s side in everything—but to my surprise, she actually hugged me.

  “Oh, Alice,” she breathed into my ear. “Are you all right? You’re such a dear!!!”

  I squirmed away; I did not like to be hugged, except by Papa and Mr. Dodgson. “What? Why is everyone acting so strangely?” My eyes filled with tears, for I knew something frightful had happened, and that somehow I was at fault, even though my only desire had been to explain things to Pricks so that life would be easier and so she wouldn’t act foolishly in front of Mr. Dodgson. I knew it was selfish, but that was what I had wanted.

  “You child! You don’t know—but that’s all right. It’s perfectly all right. No one should know, not for a long time. Pricks needed to hear that. She was acting like such a fool!”

  “I don’t know what?” It felt to me that I did know, far too much, and none of it made sense.

  “Never mind. But thanks to you, I’m sure now. Surer than ever. Oh, Alice!” She clapped her hands, hopping about in a merry dance; her long brown curls spun behind her, and her cheeks grew rosy, giving warmth to her eyes.

  “Surer of what?”

  “You’re too young to understand. But I’m not! Oh, I’m not, I’m not! I’m so happy!” She took Edith’s hand and swung it to and fro; I believed she might jump up on the banister and try to fly, she looked so wild, so unladylike, and while normally I would have informed her of this, I was much too confused at present.

  “Why aren’t we having lunch?” Edith asked, plopping down on the floor in a heap, her little black leather shoes sticking straight out in front of her. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

  “Oh, who can eat at a time like this? But do go ahead—I’ll come with you. After all, we promised Pricks we would, poor thing. She needs us to behave, now more than ever. Her hopes are dashed, and I can’t help but feel for her.” Ina calmed down and glided toward the nursery with a ladylike sigh, her nose stuck in the air, her hands holding her skirts as if they were as long and voluminous as Mamma’s. Of course, they weren’t. Yet when I told her so, she refused to grumble or pull my hair or act in any way normal.

  She merely smiled, one of her teasing, practiced little smiles. When I would not ask her why she was smiling—would not even hint that I knew she was thinking of something delicious, something she desperately wanted me to know, but would not, could not, bring herself to tell—she continued to smile all the same.

  I did not want to know her secret, nor did I want her to know any of mine, particularly the one about the Perfect Day. Astonishingly, it was Mr. Dodgson who was responsible for all this, all these secrets and smiles and Pricks crumpled on the floor, her hands in her face, the pointer trembling above me, Ina’s wild laughter, the fear, the confusion. The secretive gossip overheard in parlors.

  Try
as I might, I could not understand how one man—one shy man with a camera, a stammer, and an endless supply of stories—

  Could be responsible for so much disarray.

  Chapter 3

  • • •

  Dear Miss Alice,

  The Perfect Day knocked on my window this morning. It said you were to be ready this afternoon, after your lessons, for an Adventure. Would you mind if your silly old Uncle Dodgson joined you, too? I don’t know about you, but I am rather tired of being myself. Aren’t you? Would you like to be someone else, just for today?

  Yours,

  Charles Lutwidge Dodgson

  (22 letters, still, to your 21)

  HOWEVER DID HE KNOW? THAT TODAY WAS THE PERFECT day for me to escape, unnoticed, and have an adventure? Also, that I was rather tired of being myself, clumsy, lazy, thoughtless Alice (to name just a few of the words that Pricks, Mamma, and Ina had used to describe me in the last few weeks)?

  I paused only a second to marvel at his insight. Then I set about trying to plot my escape, which would not be difficult, as today was the day we were going to get the new baby and everyone was much exercised. Mamma was up in her bedroom; she had not come down at all, not for more than a day. Phoebe was running to and from the nursery and the bedroom, carrying piles of freshly laundered towels and linens and bundles and bundles of candles even though the sun was bright; I’d never seen so many, not even in church.

  Dr. Acland was in the hall outside Mamma’s room with Papa; they were talking in low tones, occasionally laughing, and not looking very useful at all. Dr. Acland had brought with him several women, who were in Mamma’s room. I imagined they were all having some sort of tea party while they waited.

  Pricks and Ina were in a frightful state. Pricks declared a holiday from lessons today, as she felt we would make too much noise; the schoolroom was directly above Mamma’s bedroom. She and Ina were supposed to be assisting Phoebe in getting the nursery ready, although I could not see that they were much help at all. Ina insisted upon placing fresh flowers all around—which Phoebe insisted upon removing, muttering that they smelled of outdoors and most likely were full of insects—while Pricks sat in the rocking chair, gliding back and forth with a dreamy smile on her face. She was back to her silly ways, now that Mr. Dodgson had resumed his visits.