Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  This letter bore the date of January 20, 1892; five years later he wrote to acknowledge a photograph she had sent him in January, 1892, also her wedding-card in August of the same year. But he salved his conscience by reminding her that a certain biscuit-box—decorated with “Looking-Glass” pictures—which he had sent her in December, 1892, had never been acknowledged by her.

  Our “don’s” memory sometimes played him tricks we see, especially in later years. On one occasion, failing to recognize someone who passed him on the street, he was much chagrined to find out that he had been the gentleman’s guest at dinner only the night before.

  Another pleasant railway friendship was established with three little Drury girls, as early as 1869. They did not know who he was until he sent them a copy of “Alice in Wonderland”—with the following verse on the fly leaf:

  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 and 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.

  Edith Rix was another favorite but apparently beyond the usual age, for his letters to her have quite a grown-up tone, and he helped her through many girlish quandaries with his wholesome advice.

  There are scores of others—so many that their very names would mean nothing to us unless we knew the circumstances which began the acquaintance, and the numerous incidents which could only occur in the company of Lewis Carroll.

  As we know, there were three great influences in his life: his reverence for holy things, his fondness for mathematics, and his love of little girls. It is this last trait which colours our picture of him and makes him stand forth in our minds apart from other men of his time. There have been many great preachers and eminent mathematicians, and these brilliant men may have loved childhood in a certain way, but to step aside from their high places to mingle with the children would never have occurred to them. The small girls who were “seen and not heard” dropped their eyes bashfully when the great ones passed, and bobbed a little old-fashioned curtsy in return for a stately preoccupied nod. But not so Lewis Carroll. No childish eyes ever sought his in vain. His own blue ones always smiled back, and there was something so glowing in this smile which lit up his whole face, that children, all unconsciously, drew near the warmth of it.

  His love for girls speaks well for the home-life and surroundings of his earlier years, when in the company of his seven sisters he learned to know girls pretty thoroughly. These girls of whom we have such scant knowledge possessed, we are sure, some potent charm to make this “big brother” forever afterwards the champion of little girls, and being a thoughtful fellow, he must have watched with pleasure the way they bloomed from childhood to girlhood and from girlhood to womanhood, in the sweet seclusion of Croft Rectory. It was this intimacy and comradeship with his sisters which made him so easily the intimate and comrade of so many little girls, understanding all their traits and peculiarities and their “girl nature” better sometimes than they did themselves.

  Some of his friends moved in royal circles. Princess Beatrice, who received the second presentation copy of “Alice in Wonderland,” was one of them; but in later years the two children of the Duchess of Albany (Queen Victoria’s daughter-in-law), Alice and the young Duke, claimed his friendship, and despite his preference for girls, Lewis Carroll could not help liking the lad, whose gentle disposition and studious habits set him somewhat apart from other boys.

  Near home, that is to say in Oxford, or more properly, within a stone’s throw of Christ Church itself, dwelt the Rev. E. Hatch and his bright and interesting family of children, with all of whom Lewis Carroll was on the most intimate terms, though his special favorite was Beatrice, better known as Bee. This little girl came so close upon the Liddell children in his long list of friends that she almost caught the echo of those happy days of “Wonderland,” and she has much to say about this association in an interesting article published in the Strand Magazine some years ago.

  “My earliest recollections of Mr. Dodgson,” she writes, “are connected with photography. He was very fond of this art at one time, though he had entirely given it up for many years latterly. He kept various costumes and ‘properties’ with which to dress us up, and of course that added to the fun. What child would not thoroughly enjoy personating a Japanese or a beggar child or a gypsy or an Indian? Sometimes there were excursions to the roof of the college, which was easily accessible from the windows of the studio. Or you might stand by your tall friend’s side in the tiny dark room, and watch him while he poured the contents of several little strong-smelling bottles on the glass picture of yourself that looked so funny with its black face; and when you grew tired of this there were many delights to be found in the cupboards in the big room downstairs. Musical boxes of different colours and different tunes, the dear old woolly bear that walked when he was wound up, toys, picture-books, and packets of photographs of other children, who had also enjoyed these mornings of bliss.

  “The following letter written to me in 1873, about a large wax doll that Mr. Dodgson had presented to me, and which I left behind when I went on a visit from home, is an interesting specimen. Emily and Mabel [referred to in the letter] were other dolls of mine and known also by him, but though they have long since departed this life, I need hardly say I still possess the doll ‘Alice.’

  “‘My dear Birdie: I met her just outside Tom Gate, walking very stiffly and I think she was trying to find her way to my rooms. So I said, “Why have you come here without Birdie?” So she said, “Birdie’s gone! and Emily’s gone! and Mabel isn’t kind to me!”’ And two little waxy tears came running down her cheeks.

  “Why, how stupid of me! I’ve never told who it was all the time! It was your own doll. I was very glad to see her, and took her to my room, and gave her some Vesta matches to eat, and a cup of nice melted wax to drink, for the poor little thing was very hungry and thirsty after her long walk. So I said, ‘Come and sit by the fire and let’s have a comfortable chat?’ ‘Oh, no! no!’ she said, ‘I’d much rather not; you know I do melt so very easily!’ And she made me take her quite to the other side of the room, where it was very cold; and then she sat on my knee and fanned herself with a pen-wiper, because she said she was afraid the end of her nose was beginning to melt.

  “‘You have no idea how careful we have to be—we dolls,’ she said. ‘Why, there was a sister of mine—would you believe it?—she went up to the fire to warm her hands, and one of her hands dropped right off! There now!’ ‘Of course it dropped right off,’ I said, ‘because it was the right hand.’ ‘And how do you know it was the right hand, Mister Carroll?’ the doll said. So I said, ‘I think it must have been the right hand because the other hand was left.’

  “The doll said, ‘I shan’t laugh. It’s a very bad joke. Why, even a common wooden doll could make a better joke than that. And besides they’ve made my mouth so stiff and hard that I can’t laugh if I try ever so much.’ ‘Don’t be cross about it,’ I said, ‘but tell me this: I’m going to give Birdie and the other children one photograph each, whichever they choose; which do you think Birdie will choose?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said the doll; ‘you’d better ask her!’ So I took her home in a hansom cab. Which would you like, do you think? Arthur as Cupid? or Arthur and Wilfred together? or you and Ethel as beggar children? or Ethel standing on a box? or, one of yourself?

  “‘Your affectionate friend,

  “‘Lewis Carroll.’”

  There were, as you see, special occasions when
boys were accepted, or rather tolerated, and special boys with whom he exchanged courtesies from time to time. The little Hatch boys were favored, we cannot say for their own small sakes, but because there were two little sisters and their feelings had to be considered. Lewis Carroll even took their pictures, and went so far as to write a little prologue for Beatrice and her brother Wilfred. The “grown-ups” were to give some private theatricals which the children were to introduce in the following dialogue:

  (Enter Beatrice leading Wilfred. She leaves him at center [front], and after going round on tiptoe to make sure they are not overheard, returns and takes his arm.)

  B. Wiffie! I’m sure that something is the matter!

  All day there’s been-oh, such a fuss and clatter!

  Mamma’s been trying on a funny dress—

  I never saw the house in such a mess!

  (Puts her arms around his neck.)

  Is there a secret, Wiffie?

  W. (Shaking her off.) Yes, of course!

  B. And you won’t tell it? (Whimpers.) Then you’re very cross!

  (Turns away from him and clasps her hands ecstatically.)

  I’m sure of this! It’s something quite uncommon!

  W. (Stretching up his arms with a mock heroic air.)

  Oh, Curiosity! Thy name is woman!

  (Puts his arm round her coaxingly.)

  Well, Birdie, then I’ll tell! (Mysteriously.)

  What should you say

  If they were going to act—a little play?

  B. (Jumping up and clapping her hands.)

  I’d say, “How nice!”

  W. (Pointing to audience.)

  But will it please the rest?

  B. Oh, yes! Because, you know, they’ll do their best!

  (Turns to audience.)

  You’ll praise them, won’t you, when you’ve seen the play?

  Just say, “How nice!” before you go away!

  (They run away hand in hand.)

  Of course the little girl had the last word, but then, as Lewis Carroll himself would say, “Little girls usually had.”

  This prologue, Miss Hatch tells us, was Lewis Carroll’s only attempt in the dramatic line, and the two tots made a pretty picture as they ran off the stage.

  “Mr. Dodgson’s chief form of entertaining,” writes Miss Hatch, “was giving dinner parties. Do not misunderstand me, nor picture to yourself a long row of guests on either side of a gayly-decorated table. Mr. Dodgson’s theory was that it was much more enjoyable to have your friends singly, consequently these ‘dinner parties,’ as he liked to call them, consisted almost always of one guest only, and that one a child friend. One of his charming and characteristic little notes, written in his clear writing, often on a half sheet of note paper and signed with the C.L.D. monogram

  would arrive, containing an invitation, of which the following is a specimen.” [Though written when Beatrice was no longer a little girl.]

  Ch. Ch. Nov. 21, ’96.

  “‘My dear Bee:—The reason I have for so long a time not visited the hive is a logical one,” (he was busy on his symbolic Logic), “‘but is not (as you might imagine) that I think there is no more honey in it! Will you come and dine with me? Any day would suit me, and I would fetch you at 6:30.

  “‘Ever your affectionate

  “‘C.L.D.’

  “Let us suppose this invitation has been accepted.... After turning in at the door of No. 7 staircase, and mounting a rather steep and winding stair, we find ourselves outside a heavy black door, of somewhat prisonlike appearance, over which is painted ‘The Rev. C. L. Dodgson.’ Then a passage, then a door with glass panels, and at last we reach the familiar room that we love so well. It is large and lofty and extremely cheerful-looking. All around the walls are bookcases and under them the cupboards of which I have spoken, and which even now we long to see opened that they may pour out their treasures.

  “Opposite to the big window with its cushioned seat is the fireplace; and this is worthy of some notice on account of the lovely red tiles which represent the story of ‘The Hunting of the Snark.’ Over the mantelpiece hang three painted portraits of child friends, the one in the middle being the picture of a little girl in a blue cap and coat who is carrying a pair of skates.”

  This picture is a fine likeness of Xie (Alexandra) Kitchin, the little daughter of the Dean of Durham, another of his Oxford favorites.

  “Mr. Dodgson,” continues Miss Hatch, “seats his guest in a corner of the red sofa, in front of the fireplace, and the few minutes before dinner are occupied with anecdotes about other child friends, small or grown up, or anything in particular that has happened to himself.... Dinner is served in the smaller room, which is also filled with bookcases and books.... Those who have had the privilege of enjoying a college dinner need not be told how excellent it is.... The rest of the evening slips away very quickly, there is so much to be shown. You may play a game—one of Mr. Dodgson’s own invention— ... or you may see pictures, lovely drawings of fairies, whom your host tells you ‘you can’t be sure don’t really exist.’ Or you may have music if you wish it.”

  This was of course before the days of the phonograph, but Lewis Carroll had the next best thing, which Miss Hatch describes as an organette, in a large square box, through the side of which a handle is affixed. “Another box holds the tunes, circular perforated cards, all carefully catalogued by their owner. The picture of the author of ‘Alice’ keenly enjoying every note as he solemnly turns the handle, and raises or closes the lid of the box to vary the sound, is more worthy of your delight than the music itself. Never was there a more delightful host for a ‘dinner-party’ or one who took such pains for your entertainment, fresh and interesting to the last.”

  One of the first things a little girl learned in her intercourse with Lewis Carroll was to be methodical and orderly, as he was himself, in the arrangement of papers, photographs, and books; he kept lists and registers of everything. Miss Hatch tells of a wonderful letter register of his own invention “that not only recorded the names of his correspondents and the dates of their letters, but also noted the contents of each communication, so that in a few seconds he could tell you what you had written to him about on a certain day in years gone by.

  “Another register contained a list of every menu supplied to every guest who dined at Mr. Dodgson’s table. Yet,” she explains, “his dinners were simple enough, never more than two courses. But everything that he did must be done in the most perfect manner possible, and the same care and attention would be given to other people’s affairs, if in any way he could assist or give them pleasure.

  “If he took you up to London to see a play, you were no sooner seated in the railway carriage than a game was produced from his bag and all the occupants were invited to join in playing a kind of ‘Halma’ or ‘draughts’ of his own invention, on the little wooden board that had been specially made at his design for railway use, with ‘men’ warranted not to tumble down, because they fitted into little holes in the board.”

  Children, little girls especially, remember through life the numberless small kindnesses that are shown to them. Is it any wonder, then, that the name of Lewis Carroll is held in such loving memory by the scores of little girls he drew about him? Beatrice Hatch was only one among many to feel the warmth of his love. This quiet, almost solitary, man whose home was in the shadow of a great college, whose daily life was such a long walk of dull routine, could yet find time to make his own sunshine and to draw others into the light of it.

  But the children did their part too. He grew dependent on them as the years rolled on; a fairy circle of girls was always drawing him to them, and he was made one of them. They told him their childish secrets feeling sure of a ready sympathy and a quick appreciation. He seemed to know his way instinctively to a girl’s heart; she felt for him an affection, half of comradeship, half of reverence, for there was something inspiring in the fearless carriage of the head, the clear, serene look in the eyes, that seemed
to pierce far ahead upon the path over which their own young feet were stumbling, perhaps.

  With the passing of the years, some of the seven sisters married, and a fair crop of nieces and nephews shot up around him, also some small cousins in whom he took a deep interest. It is to one of these that he dedicated his poem called “Matilda Jane,” in honor of the doll who bore the name, which meant nothing in the world to such an unresponsive bit of doll-dom.

  Matilda Jane, you never look

  At any toy or picture book;

  I show you pretty things in vain,

  You must be blind, Matilda Jane!

  I ask you riddles, tell you tales,

  But all our conversation fails;

  You never answer me again,

  I fear you’re dumb, Matilda Jane!

  Matilda, darling, when I call,

  You never seem to hear at all;

  I shout with all my might and main,

  But you’re so deaf, Matilda Jane!

  Matilda Jane, you needn’t mind,

  For though you’re deaf and dumb and blind,

  There’s some one loves you, it is plain,

  And that is me, Matilda Jane!

  A little tender-hearted, ungrammatical, motherly “me”—how well the writer knew the small “Bessie” whose affection for this doll inspired the verses!

  In after years when more serious work held him close to his study, and he made a point of declining all invitations, he took care that no small girl should be put on his black list. “If,” says Miss Hatch, “you were very anxious to get him to come to your house on any particular day, the only chance was not to invite him, but only to inform him that you would be at home; otherwise he would say ‘As you have invited me, I cannot come, for I have made a rule to decline all invitations, but I will come the next day,’” and in answer to an invitation to tea, he wrote her in his whimsical way: