“Your always loving Uncle,
“C.L.D.”
These initials were always joined as a monogram and written backward, thus,
, which no doubt, after the years of practice he had, he dashed off with an easy flourish. His general writing was not very legible, but when he was writing for the press he was very careful. “Why should the printers have to work overtime because my letters are ill-formed and my words run into each other?” he once said, and Miss Bowman has put in her little volume the facsimile of a diary he once wrote for her, where every letter was carefully formed so that Isa could read every word herself.
“They were happy days,” she writes, “those days in Oxford, spent with the most fascinating companion that a child could have. In our walks about the old town, in our visits to the Cathedral or Chapel Hall, in our visits to his friends, he was an ideal companion, but I think I was always happiest when we came back to his rooms and had tea alone; when the fire glow (it was always winter when I stayed in Oxford) threw fantastic shadows about the quaint room, and the thoughts of the prosiest people must have wandered a little into fairyland. The shifting firelight seemed almost to etherealize that kindly face, and as the wonderful stories fell from his lips, and his eyes lighted on me with the sweetest smile that ever a man wore, I was conscious of a love and reverence for Charles Dodgson that became nearly an adoration.”
“He was very particular,” she tells us, “about his tea, which he always made himself, and in order that it should draw properly he would walk about the room, swinging the teapot from side to side, for exactly ten minutes. The idea of the grave professor promenading his book-lined study and carefully waving a teapot to and fro may seem ridiculous, but all the minutiæ of life received an extreme attention at his hands.”
The diary referred to, which he so carefully printed for Isa, covered several days’ visit to Oxford in 1888, which oddly enough happened to be in midsummer, and being her first, was never forgotten. It was written in six “chapters” and jotted down faithfully the happenings of each day. What little girl could resist the feast of fun and frolic he had planned for those happy days!
First, he met her at Paddington station; then he took her to see a panorama of the Falls of Niagara, after which they had dinner with a Mrs. Dymes, and two of her children, Helen and Maud, went with them to Terry’s Theater to see “Little Lord Fauntleroy” played by Vera Beringer, another little actress friend of Lewis Carroll. After this they all took the Metropolitan railway; the little Dymes girls got off at their station, but Isa and the Aged Aged Man, as he called himself, went on to Oxford. There they saw everything to be seen, beginning with Christ Church, where the “A.A.M.” lived, and here and there Lewis Carroll managed to throw bits of history into the funny little diary. They saw all the colleges, and Christ Church Meadow, and the barges which the Oxford crews used as boathouses, and took long walks, and went to St. Mary’s Church on Sunday, and lots of other interesting things.
Every year she stayed a while with him at Eastbourne, where she tells us she was even happier if possible. Her day at Eastbourne began very early. Her room faced his, and after she was dressed in the morning she would steal into the little passage quiet as a mouse, and sit on the top stair, her eye on his closed door, watching for the signal of admission into his room; this was a newspaper pushed under his door. The moment she saw that, she was at liberty to rush in and fling herself upon him, after which excitement they went down to breakfast. Then he read a chapter from the Bible and made her tell it to him afterwards as a story of her own, beginning always with, “Once upon a time.” After which there was a daily visit to the swimming-bath followed by one to the dentist—he always insisted on this, going himself quite as regularly.
After lunch, which with him consisted of a glass of sherry and a biscuit, while little Miss Isa ate a good substantial dinner, there was a game of backgammon, of which he was very fond, and then a long, long walk to the top of Beachy Head, which Isa hated. She says:
“Lewis Carroll believed very much in a great amount of exercise, and said one should always go to bed physically wearied with the exercise of the day. Accordingly, there was no way out of it, and every afternoon I had to walk to the top of Beachy Head. He was very good and kind. He would invent all sorts of new games to beguile the tedium of the way. One very curious and strange trait in his character was shown in these walks. I used to be very fond of flowers and animals also. A pretty dog or a hedge of honeysuckle was always a pleasant event upon our walk to me. And yet he himself cared for neither flowers nor animals. Tender and kind as he was, simple and unassuming in all his tastes, yet he did not like flowers.... He knew children so thoroughly and well, that it is all the stranger that he did not care for things that generally attract them so much.... When I was in raptures over a poppy or a dog-rose, he would try hard to be as interested as I was, but even to my childish eyes it was an effort, and he would always rather invent some new game for us to play at. Once, and once only, I remember him to have taken an interest in a flower, and that was because of the folklore that was attached to it, and not because of the beauty of the flower itself.
“... One day while we sat under a great tree, and the hum of the myriad insect life rivaled the murmur of the far-away waves, he took a foxglove from the heap that lay in my lap, and told me the story of how it came by its name; how in the old days, when all over England there were great forests, like the forest of Arden that Shakespeare loved, the pixies, the ‘little folks,’ used to wander at night in the glades, like Titania and Oberon and Puck, and because they took great pride in their dainty hands they made themselves gloves out of the flowers. So the particular flower that the ‘little folks’ used came to be called ‘folks’ gloves.’ Then, because the country people were rough and clumsy in their talk, the name was shortened into ‘foxgloves,’ the name that everyone uses now.”
This special walk always ended in the coastguard’s house, where they partook of tea and rock cake, and here most of his prettiest stories were told. The most thrilling part occurred when “the children came to a deep dark wood,” always described with a solemn dropping of the voice; by that Isa knew that the exciting part was coming, then she crept nearer to him, and he held her close while he finished the tale. Isa, as was quite natural, was a most dramatic little person, so she always knew what emotions would suit the occasion, and used them like the clever little actress that she was.
We find something very beautiful in this intimacy between the grave scholar and the light-hearted, innocent little girl, who used to love to watch him in some of those deep silences which neither cared to break. This small maid understood his every mood. A beautiful sunset, she tells us, touched him deeply. He would take off his hat and let the wind toss his hair, and look seaward with a very grave face. Once she saw tears in his eyes, and he gripped her hand very hard as they turned away.
Perhaps, what caught her childish fancy more than anything else, was his observance of Sunday. He always took Isa twice to church, and she went because she wanted to go; he did not believe in forcing children in such matters, but he made a point of slipping some interesting little book in his pocket, so in case she got tired, or the sermon was beyond her, she would have something pleasant to do instead of staring idly about the church or falling asleep, which was just as bad. Another peculiarity, she tells us, was his habit of keeping seated at the entrance of the choir. He contended that the rising of the congregation made the choir-boys conceited.
One could go on telling anecdotes of Lewis Carroll and this well-beloved child, but of a truth his own letters will show far better than any description how he regarded this “star” child of his. So far as her acting went, he never spared either praise or criticism where he thought it just. Here is a letter criticising her acting as the little Duke of York:
“Ch. Ch. Oxford. Ap. 4, ’89.
“My Lord Duke:—The photographs your Grace did me the honor of sending arrived safely; and I can assure your Royal
Highness that I am very glad to have them, and like them very much, particularly the large head of your late Royal Uncle’s little, little son. I do not wonder that your excellent Uncle Richard should say ‘off with his head’ as a hint to the photographer to print it off. Would your Highness like me to go on calling you the Duke of York, or shall I say ‘my own darling Isa’? Which do you like best?
“Now, I’m gong to find fault with my pet about her acting. What’s the good of an old Uncle like me except to find fault?”
Then follows some excellent criticism on the proper emphasis of words, explained so that the smallest child could understand; he also notes some mispronounced words, and then he adds:
“One thing more. (What an impertinent uncle! Always finding fault!) You’re not as natural when acting the Duke as you were when you acted Alice. You seemed to me not to forget yourself enough. It was not so much a real prince talking to his brother and uncle; it was Isa Bowman talking to people she didn’t care much about, for an audience to listen to. I don’t mean it was that all through, but sometimes you were artificial. Now, don’t be jealous of Miss Hatton when I say she was sweetly natural. She looked and spoke like a real Prince of Wales. And she didn’t seem to know there was any audience. If you ever get to be a good actress (as I hope you will) you must learn to forget ‘Isa’ altogether, and be the character you are playing. Try to think ‘This is really the Prince of Wales. I’m his little brother and I’m very glad to meet him, and I love him very much, and this is really my uncle; he is very kind and lets me say saucy things to him,’ and do forget that there’s anybody else listening!
“My sweet pet, I hope you won’t be offended with me for saying what I fancy might make your acting better.
“Your loving old Uncle,
“Charles.
“X for Nellie.
“X for Maggie. “X for Isa.”
“X for Emsie.
The crosses were unmistakably kisses. He was certainly a most affectionate “Uncle.” He rarely signed his name “Charles.” It was only on special occasions and to very “special” people.
Here is another letter written to Isa’s sister Nellie, thanking her for a “tidy” she made him. (He called it an Antimacassar.) “The only ordinary thing about it,” Isa tells us, “is the date.” The letter reads backward. One has to begin at the very bottom and read up, instead of reading from the top downward:
“Nov. 1, 1891.
“C.L.D., Uncle loving your! Instead grandson his to it give to had you that so, years 80 or 70 for it forgot you that was it pity a what and; him of fond so were you wonder don’t I and, gentleman old nice very a was he. For it made you that him been have must it see you so: Grandfather my was, then alive was that, ‘Dodgson Uncle’ only the, born was I before long was that see you then But. ‘Dodgson Uncle for pretty thing some make I’ll now,’ it began you when yourself to said you that, me telling her without, knew I course of and: ago years many great a it made had you said she. Me told Isa what from was it? For meant was it who out made I how know you do! Lasted has it well how and Grandfather my for made had you Antimacassar pretty that me give to you of nice so was it, Nellie dear my.”
He had often written a looking-glass letter which could only be read by holding it up to a mirror, but this sort of writing was a new departure.
In one of her letters Isa sent “sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses.”
“How badly you do spell your words!” he answered her. “I was so puzzled about the ‘sacks full of love and baskets full of kisses.’ But at last I made out that, of course, you meant a ‘sack full of gloves and a basket full of kittens.’” Then he composed a regular nonsense story on the subject. Isa and her sisters called it the “glove and kitten letter” and read it over and over with much delight, for it was full of quaint fancies, such as Lewis Carroll loved to shower upon the children.
When “Bootle’s Baby” was put upon the stage, Maggie Bowman, though but a tiny child, played the part of Mignon, the little lost girl, who walked into the hearts of the soldiers, and especially one young fellow, to whom she clung most of all. Lewis Carroll, besides taking a personal interest in Maggie herself, was charmed with the play, which appealed to him strongly, so when little Maggie came to Oxford with the company she was treated like a queen. She stayed four days, during which time her “Uncle” took her to see everything worth looking at, and made a rhyming diary for her which he called—
MAGGIE’S VISIT TO OXFORD.
When Maggie once to Oxford came
On tour as “Bootle’s Baby,”
She said: “I’ll see this place of fame,
However dull the day be!”
So with her friend she visited
The sights that it was rich in,
And first of all she poked her head
Inside the Christ Church Kitchen.
The cooks around that little child
Stood waiting in a ring;
And every time that Maggie smiled,
Those cooks began to sing—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Roast, boil, and bake,
For Maggie’s sake!
Bring cutlets fine
For her to dine;
Meringues so sweet
For her to eat—
For Maggie may be
Bootle’s Baby.”
There are a great many verses describing her walks and what she saw, among other wonders “a lovely Pussy Cat.”
And everywhere that Maggie went
That Cat was sure to go—
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Miaow! Miaow!
Come make your bow!
Take off your hats,
Ye Pussy Cats!
And purr and purr
To welcome her—
For Maggie may be
Bootle’s Baby!”
So back to Christ Church-not too late
For them to go and see
A Christ Church Undergraduate,
Who gave them cakes and tea.
······
In Magdalen Park the deer are wild
With joy that Maggie brings
Some bread, a friend had given the child,
To feed the pretty things.
They flock round Maggie without fear,
They breakfast and they lunch,
They dine, they sup, those happy deer—
Still as they munch and munch,
Shouting the Battle-cry of Freedom!
“Yes, deer are we,
And dear is she.
We love this child
So sweet and mild:
We all are fed
With Maggie’s bread—
For Maggie may be
Bootle’s Baby!”
······
They met a Bishop on their way—
A Bishop large as life—
With loving smile that seemed to say
“Will Maggie be my wife?”
Maggie thought not, because you see
She was so very young,
And he was old as old could be—
So Maggie held her tongue.
“My Lord, she’s Bootle’s Baby; we
Are going up and down,”
Her friend explained, “that she may see
The sights of Oxford-town.”
“Now, say what kind of place it is!”
The Bishop gayly cried,
“The best place in the Provinces!”
The little maid replied.
······
Away next morning Maggie went
From Oxford-town; but yet
The happy hours she there had spent
She could not soon forget.
······
“Oxford, good-bye!
She seemed to sigh,
You dear old City
With gardens pretty,
And lawns and flowers
And College towers,
And
Tom’s great Bell,
Farewell! farewell!
For Maggie may be
Bootle’s Baby!”
Here is just a piece of a letter which shows that Lewis Carroll could tease when he liked. It is evident that Isa washed to buy the “Alice” book in French, to give to a friend, so she naïvely wrote to headquarters to ask the price. This is the reply:
“Eastbourne.
“My own darling Isa,—The value of a copy of the French ‘Alice’ is £45: but, as you want the ‘cheapest’ kind, and as you are a great friend of mine, and as I am of a very noble, generous disposition, I have made up my mind to a great sacrifice, and have taken £3, 10s, 0d, off the price, so that you do not owe me more than £41, 10s, 0d, and this you can pay me, in gold or bank notes, as soon as you ever like. Oh, dear! I wonder why I write such nonsense! Can you explain to me, my pet, how it happens that when I take up my pen to write a letter to you, it won’t write sense. Do you think the rule is that when the pen finds it has to write to a nonsensical, good-for-nothing child it sets to work to write a nonsensical, good-for-nothing letter? Well, now I’ll tell you the real truth. As Miss Kitty Wilson is a dear friend of yours, of course she’s a sort of a friend of mine. So I thought (in my vanity) ‘perhaps she would like to have a copy “from the author” with her name written in it.’ So I sent her one—but I hope she’ll understand that I do it because she’s your friend, for you see I had never heard of her before; so I wouldn’t have any other reason.”
When he published his last long story, “Sylvie and Bruno,” the dedication was to her, an acrostic on her name; but as “Sylvie and Bruno” will be spoken of later on, perhaps it will be more interesting to give the dainty little verses where they belong. He sent his pet a specially bound copy of the new book, with the following letter:
Complete Works of Lewis Carroll Page 170