‘She is.’
‘How old is she again?’
‘Eight.’
‘Good heavens.’
Lydia tidied part of a demountable brain into a box. It was the Fowlers’ special delight to employ, in their passions, not only their own Organs of Amativeness, but someone else’s too.
‘Shall we leave tomorrow?’
Lorenzo remembered he had an appointment with Mrs Cameron, to test the applications of phrenology on photographic models. The lady was counting on him, dammit, and he owed her a good turn. Briefly, he wrestled with his conscience.
‘I’m with you, divine one,’ he decided. ‘Let’s go!’
Lydia rose from her bed to draw back a curtain. She had firm views about fresh air at night; she had once written a hundred-page monograph about its benefits that had sold particularly well in the western frontier states, and had led to many readers being attacked in their beds by coyotes.
‘That’s odd,’ she said, as she climbed back into bed. ‘There is a youth outside sitting on the sea wall with a cap on. And beside him is a girl with very long hair. It’s late for romantic trysts, don’t you think? I hope they won’t steal my boat.’
Lorenzo sat up.
‘Shall I go and see?’
She kissed him.
‘God,’ she breathed.
She was not swearing. A Fowler never swore. She was simply doing the ‘goddess’ thing in reverse. She drank a pint of water in a manner that set her husband’s loins aflame. Which was why another half hour elapsed before Lorenzo could investigate the callow couple outside.
Dodgson had been right, you see, that the figure was Herbert. The lad made his last outing that night before being burned, with a horrible smell, in a kitchen stove at Dimbola Lodge the following day.
‘What is that? Is it wool?’ asked Cook, as Mary Ryan wiggled the tweed with a poker.
‘Ah, isn’t it such stuff as dreams are made on?’ said Mary Ryan, significantly. As we mentioned earlier, Mary Ryan had been no slouch in the literature department.
Ellen adopted Herbert once more because she needed time to think, and no longer could she bear to stay indoors. The rain had subsided, and though a wind still blew, it was warm. She walked to the bay, where she watched the waves, and tried to sort out her life, starting with the most important thing, to wit, the astounding news that Watts had money. She kept saying it to herself. Watts has money. Watts has money. Watts – who has made his proud wife behave as little more than a mendicant – actually possesses heaps of the stuff that rents houses and buys food, and secures respectable independence away from interfering, condescending patrons.
Watts had accumulated the money, of course, by taking care of the pence and looking blank and helpless whenever the cost of a ticket to the seaside was mentioned. He was paid for his portraits. He won £300 in the Westminster competition. She could never forgive him. In particular, she could never forgive him for instructing her to live on ninepence a week, and giving her nothing by way of presents except a cut-price proverb book at Waterloo Station. It is normally the case that when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window. But Ellen stopped loving Watts only when she finally found out about his dosh.
It was as she sat there, staring at the sea, that Mary Ann Hillier first watched her from the shadows, tragically retaining her firm hold of the wrong end of the stick. It would be a shame to transcribe the exact words of this lovely girl on this occasion, especially if whistersniff or rantipike were among them. Besides, when Ellen ever after looked back on this tragical-comical scene, she remembered it rather differently:
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
said Mary Ann (aside), her face all blind admiration. (‘Poor lady!’ thought Ellen; ‘She were better love a dream.’)
A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon (said Mary Ann)
Than love that would seem hid: love’s night is noon.
O Herbert, by the roses of the spring,
By maidihood, honour, truth and every thing,
I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride,
Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide.
Mary Ann gasped at the realization of what she was saying.
Do not extort thy reasons from this clause,
For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause;
But rather reason thus with reason fetter:
Love sought is good, but giv’n unsought is better.
Mary Ann Hillier did not say any of this, obviously. Her heart was tore in libbets. Was it true, in any case, that love sought was good but given unsought was better? That’s how it felt to the martyred giver, certainly; but to the receiver, love unsought was a pain in the neck. It did not flatter; it was beaten off with a bad grace, or shunned altogether. It was like unwanted wallpaper. Here was the lesson that Julia Margaret Cameron failed to learn every day of her life: simply, that oneway passion scares people off; it doesn’t work. Ellen saw Mary Ann’s hopeless attachment, and felt sorry for it. She suddenly realized how impossible it was to love in return just because someone loves you very much first.
The delicacy of the situation required Shakespeare to help her out. Forever after, when Ellen played Viola to crowds of adoring play-goers, her heart broke for her own dear Olivia, the sweet and beautiful (but very dim) Mary Ann, whom gently she rejected that momentous night in Freshwater.
By innocence I swear, and by my youth,
I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth,
And that no woman has; nor never none
Shall mistress be of it, save I alone.
If Julia thought the day had been a long one, for Emily Tennyson it was the worst birthday since Alfred had asked her in the first year of marriage what was in her pocket. Thinking it was a game, she gaily produced a thimble, and was astounded when he solemnly gave it back to her as a present. ‘I beg you to receive this elegant thimble,’ he said. Since then she had largely hidden the fact of her birthday, and enjoyed it more. Alfred had performed one kindness today, however, by removing a roll of that awful wallpaper and disposing of it. No one could find it anywhere. She meant to thank him as soon as she could. It was a thoughtful deed worthy of a great man, and all the better for being utterly uncharacteristic.
In all other respects, however, Emily’s birthday had laid her low completely. The battle with the dozen Westminsters had been so enervating that after the arrival of the late-night guests she could not even struggle up to bed unaided, and required Lionel and Alfred to carry her. In the pocket of her night gown she found this morning’s ‘Yours in aversion’ letter which she was about to slip into her bureau with the others when she realized – with a certain frisson – that it had been delivered by hand.
Was ‘Yours in aversion’ a local, then? If only her husband were like other men, if only he could stand a bit of mild criticism, none of this tiring subterfuge would be necessary. It was true to say that the more you take on, the more you will be taken advantage of. All lay load on the willing horse.
Strangely, it had been quite comforting to see Wilson, the old governess. Emily had no idea Wilson might bear a grudge about not being paid. Was Emily herself paid for her duties in this household? Of course not. What price could be placed on feminine duties? No, she and Wilson had shared almost two happy years, and yes, there had been occasional quarrels over money, but Emily had always forgiven the outbursts. Wilson’s unjust sense of furious grievance would expend itself (she did have quite a temper), and then the two women would get along famously again.
‘Wilson! It is a pleasure to see you, even at this unlikely time of night.’
Emily had thus taken the young woman aside while Alfred and Lionel picked up Dodgson from the carpet and carried him to the door. The whacking of Dodgson did not alarm the old governess. Being accustomed to the Tennysons, she wondered as little as anybody at the croquet mallet forming part of the house’s hospitality.
&
nbsp; ‘No chance of tea, I suppose?’ Wilson said. Emily laughed and rocked.
‘You and your strange wit, just like old times!’
In the bedroom now, Alfred entered and found her smiling. He decided to take advantage of the good mood.
‘Emily, do you think I should pose for Julia?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘What if I must?’
‘Must?’
‘Must.’
She pursed her lips tight.
‘Must?’ she demanded again.
‘We will discuss it tomorrow, Alfred. Wilson was saying I looked peaky, and I believe she is right. You must take us both with you on your walk tomorrow.’
‘Must?’ Alfred began.
‘Yes, must,’ she barked, and then sank to her pillow, all energies disbursed.
Ellen sat alone again. Mary Ann – or Shakespeare’s Olivia, it was all melting together in her mind – had left her. It was no fun reducing a beautiful woman to tears, Ellen thought; why did Watts admire his own handiwork so much? She wiped her eyes and stood up.
‘Mrs Watts?’
She looked around.
‘Mrs Watts?’
It was Lorenzo. Oh heavens, how thrilling. Whenever she saw this man, she felt acutely self-aware, as though her body were swelled by electricity, and moreover outlined by sparks of blue fire.
‘I thought I saw you from upstairs,’ he explained. ‘We are leaving tomorrow.’
Ellen felt a mortal pang, although she knew she was not entitled to it.
‘As are we,’ she admitted.
‘Were the tableaux a success? Was Mr Watts cured of his problem?’
‘Not entirely. He has forgotten Westminster, but unfortunately remembered something else.’
She smiled at him. She wanted very much to touch his arm, but she held back. She was half afraid the contact might kill him. She lowered her eyes instead.
‘I think my husband and I will soon conclude – oh, that all good things must come to an end.’
‘Ah. I hope there were other reasons to enjoy your stay?’
Ellen’s body sang so loudly she was amazed he couldn’t hear it. Or perhaps he could.
‘Mr Fowler, I would not have missed it. It’s the sea, you know. The sea throws up all manner of things.’ She raised her eyes. ‘Mrs Fowler, for example.’
Lorenzo did not comment. There was no call for an apology. His wife was a fact. He sniffed his fingers in the dark.
‘You seem unhappy,’ he said at last, tenderly.
‘Not unhappy at all, thank you. I just need courage.’
They looked at the black waves together.
‘You have great courage, Mrs Watts.’
‘Do I?’
Oh dear, they were getting personal again. Why did every conversation with Lorenzo Fowler have to scream with the sub-text, Please, please, for pity’s sake, touch my head?
He looked at her. She looked at him.
‘Will you take your hat off this time, Mrs Watts?’
‘I think I will, Mr Fowler.’
And as the moon broke through cloud above the ink-black bay, Ellen shook the hair out of her hat, pouring it like gold into his hands.
Fifteen
Next morning, Alfred was just reading mad Uncle Orson’s startling description of sexual frenzy when Emily was wheeled in by Wilson. In her black, pram-like invalid carriage, she looked like a squeezed doll, an image of weakness quite belying either her authority in the household or her influence over the big strapping man who stood myopically before her, his back to the fireplace in authentic baronial manner, while a grey shaggy deer-hound lay at his feet. It was quite true, she reflected, what they said about people and their dogs.
‘Reading your excellent review again, my dear?’
Tennyson took a quick look at the brown cover of the Orson pamphlet. Actually, in appearance it was not unlike the Westminster, a coincidence which might later come in handy – if he wanted, say, to read it again in bed.
‘I am indeed, Emily. Fine words, fine words, and correct in every particular.’
‘May I see it now, Alfred?’
‘Mm?’
‘Will you hand it to me? I think I have strength enough.’
Tennyson hesitated. He doubted his wife would ever have strength enough for the contents of the matter he was reading – which was a shame, but there you go. Thinking quickly, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the true Westminster.
‘Another copy,’ he announced ingeniously, and continued to read feverishly about the abomination of women who don’t want to take part.
How had Orson Fowler’s curious document found its way into his home? Alfred had no idea that Wilson had brought it. All he knew was that, ambling vaguely down the main stairs this morning, he had discovered it hanging by a thread, exactly placed so that it bumped into his forehead as he made his way to breakfast. What with the apple pie yesterday, and today the contraption with string, people were finally finding ways of drawing things to his attention.
‘This appears to be a periodical called The Train,’ pronounced Emily at last, ‘And it contains Mr Dodgson’s scandalous version of “The Two Voices”.’
Tennyson snatched it back, searched his pocket again, and found the Westminster. These papers all looked too similar. He wondered how librarians managed things at all. Impatiently he took all three pamphlets into one bundle, and cast them on the piano.
‘Do you think we should all go out at once, Emily?’ He wanted to walk alone this morning. He had lots of things on his mind.
‘Why ever should we not?’
Alfred thought for a reason. He grasped at straws.
‘What if the Queen came, for example?’
‘Alfred!’
‘Well, must Wilson accompany us, then?’ he demanded. ‘She is not pleasant company, you must confess. I firmly believe she did not deserve the wages you did not pay her.’
There was an awkward silence, broken by Wilson humming ‘Rock of Ages’, just behind his ear.
Emily cleared her throat.
‘She is standing in the room, Alfred.’
‘Is she?’ he whispered.
‘Three yards to your left, before the window.’
‘Oh good.’ He thought quickly again. ‘I thought you were a sideboard, my dear!’
He waved an arm of explanation. ‘You admit yourself that you are thick set? Broad of beam? Hm? Shall we be off?’
And so it was that half an hour later three small black figures could be seen on the down – approaching the high point of the seven-hundred foot cliffs – when Julia set out uphill from Dimbola Lodge with her wretched roll of wallpaper. Cameron had refused to let her spoil the Tennysons’ breakfast with the news of Ada, but she broke out of the house as early as she could.
There was an air of finality about the day, for Mr Watts had announced his imminent departure, as had Mr Dodgson, who pored over a piece of paper at breakfast while mysteriously holding a yellow cushion to the side of his head. She had also received a note from Mr Fowler saying that his family must return to London, so bang went the science-meets-art Absence of Hope enterprise as well. Julia hated endings, yet also loved them. She doted on the high-minded melancholy they produced. ‘He is gone, he is gone!’ was the sort of picture she loved above all to produce – a long face in profile, bereft of love. Luckily, Mary Ann had been looking positively hangdog recently. A period of excellent droopy-servant Art was therefore on the cards.
Dodgson spent his morning trading in safety pins and pictures, and bits of ornament, and writing a tortured letter to Ellen. It was conceived in kindness, as a present, but luckily Mrs Watts had become accustomed to presents of a cheap, disappointing nature. For here was yet another.
My dear Mrs Watts [he wrote]
I hope you will indulge an author’s wish, and allow me to include this little poem in my Alice, so that you may then justly claim to have inspired my book in some small, private way (if not in any big one). Y
ou will recognize at once its close allusions to the proceedings of this strange week at Freshwater, but at the same time appreciate my efforts to cloak them in terms that will make the poem a private matter between us. The system for decoding the below is a simple one, and I shall never disclose it to a living soul.
(Here followed a highly complicated system of ‘him’ for ‘her’ in lines of even number, and so on. It was obvious to anybody that this was not a system at all, but an excuse for an insulting and empty gift.)
The matter of the safety pins in stanza three [he concluded] can be readily comprehended when I tell you that Mr Bradley will send them to you this morning. He has sent me a most polite note telling me I need not call for them myself.
Ellen had no idea what Mr Dodgson’s instructions meant. She also had no idea why he would write her a poem about safety pins. He seemed to be telling her, in certain terms, that Alice was not written for her, but at least this poem was. So she tossed the instructions aside and read the attached.
They told me you had been to her
And mentioned me to him:
She gave me a good character,
But said I could not swim.
(‘Well, that last bit is true at least,’ thought Ellen. ‘Come, this is not too difficult.’)
He sent them word I had not gone
(We know it to be true):
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?
(‘What indeed?’ she commented.)
I gave her one, they gave him two,
You gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you
Though they were mine before.
(Ellen’s heart began to sink. She re-read the stanza twice, and pushed on.)
If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free
Exactly as they were.
Ellen stopped reading. She had reached the bottom of the sheet. She turned over. There was more.