The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll by Stuart Dodgson Collingwood
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Stuart Dodgson Collingwood >> The Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll
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Some of the letters, to which Miss Chataway refers in these
reminiscences, I am enabled, through her kindness, to give below:--
Christ Church, Oxford, _October_ 13, 1875.
My dear Gertrude,--I never give birthday _presents_,
but you see I _do_ sometimes write a birthday
_letter_: so, as I've just arrived here, I am writing
this to wish you many and many a happy return of your
birthday to-morrow. I will drink your health, if only I can
remember, and if you don't mind--but perhaps you object? You
see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to drink your
tea, you wouldn't like _that_, would you? You would say
"Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson's drunk all my tea, and I
haven't got any left!" So I am very much afraid, next time
Sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting by the sad
sea-wave, and crying "Boo! hoo! Here's Mr. Dodgson has drunk
my health, and I haven't got any left!" And how it will
puzzle Dr. Maund, when he is sent for to see you! "My dear
Madam, I'm very sorry to say your little girl has got _no
health at all_! I never saw such a thing in my life!"
"Oh, I can easily explain it!" your mother will say. "You
see she would go and make friends with a strange gentleman,
and yesterday he drank her health!" "Well, Mrs. Chataway,"
he will say, "the only way to cure her is to wait till his
next birthday, and then for _her_ to drink _his_
health."
And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder how you'll
like mine! Oh, Gertrude, I wish you wouldn't talk such
nonsense!...
Your loving friend,
Lewis Carroll.
Christ Church, Oxford, _Dec_. 9, 1875.
My dear Gertrude,--This really will _not_ do, you know,
sending one more kiss every time by post: the parcel gets so
heavy it is quite expensive. When the postman brought in the
last letter, he looked quite grave. "Two pounds to pay,
sir!" he said. "_Extra weight_, sir!" (I think he
cheats a little, by the way. He often makes me pay two
_pounds_, when I think it should be _pence_). "Oh,
if you please, Mr. Postman!" I said, going down gracefully
on one knee (I wish you could see me go down on one knee to
a postman--it's a very pretty sight), "do excuse me just
this once! It's only from a little girl!"
"Only from a little girl!" he growled. "What are little
girls made of?" "Sugar and spice," I began to say, "and all
that's ni--" but he interrupted me. "No! I don't mean
_that_. I mean, what's the good of little girls, when
they send such heavy letters?" "Well, they're not
_much_ good, certainly," I said, rather sadly.
"Mind you don't get any more such letters," he said, "at
least, not from that particular little girl. _I know her
well, and she's a regular bad one!"_ That's not true, is
it? I don't believe he ever saw you, and you're not a bad
one, are you? However, I promised him we would send each
other _very_ few more letters--"Only two thousand four
hundred and seventy, or so," I said. "Oh!" he said, "a
little number like _that_ doesn't signify. What I meant
is, you mustn't send _many_."
So you see we must keep count now, and when we get to two
thousand four hundred and seventy, we mustn't write any
more, unless the postman gives us leave.
I sometimes wish I was back on the shore at Sandown; don't
you?
Your loving friend,
Lewis Carroll.
Why is a pig that has lost its tail like a little girl on
the sea-shore?
Because it says, "I should like another tale, please!"
Christ Church, Oxford, _July_ 21, 1876.
My dear Gertrude,--Explain to me how I am to enjoy Sandown
without _you_. How can I walk on the beach alone? How
can I sit all alone on those wooden steps? So you see, as I
shan't be able to do without you, you will have to come. If
Violet comes, I shall tell her to invite you to stay with
her, and then I shall come over in the Heather-Bell and
fetch you.
If I ever _do_ come over, I see I couldn't go back the
same day, so you will have to engage me a bed somewhere in
Swanage; and if you can't find one, I shall expect
_you_ to spend the night on the beach, and give up your
room to _me_. Guests of course must be thought of
before children; and I'm sure in these warm nights the beach
will be quite good enough for _you_. If you _did_
feel a little chilly, of course you could go into a
bathing-machine, which everybody knows is _very_
comfortable to sleep in--you know they make the floor of
soft wood on purpose. I send you seven kisses (to last a
week) and remain
Your loving friend,
Lewis Carroll.
Christ church, Oxford, _October_ 28, 1876.
My dearest Gertrude,--You will be sorry, and surprised, and
puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since
you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some
medicine, for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You
don't want medicine: go to bed!" I said, "No; it isn't the
sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the
_face_." He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's
your _nose_ that's tired: a person often talks too
much when he thinks he nose a great deal." I said, "No; it
isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the _hair_." Then he
looked rather grave, and said, "_Now_ I understand:
you've been playing too many hairs on the piano-forte." "No,
indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the
_hair_: it's more about the nose and chin." Then he
looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking
much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said,
"it puzzles me very much. Do you think that it's in the
lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"
Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you
must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I
did give _one_ kiss to a baby child, a little friend of
mine." "Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only
_one_?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was
eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her
_any_ more till your lips are quite rested again." "But
what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a
hundred and eighty-two more." Then he looked so grave that
the tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send
them to her in a box." Then I remembered a little box that I
once bought at Dover, and thought I would some day give it
to _some_ little girl or other. So I have packed them
all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe, or if
any are lost on the way.
Reading Station, _April_ 13, 1878.
My dear Gertrude,--As I have to wait here for half an
hour, I have been studying Bradshaw (most things, you know,
ought to be studied: even a trunk is studded with nails),
and the result is that it seems I could come, any day next
week, to Winckfield, so as to arrive there about one; and
that, by leaving Winckfield again about half-past six, I
could reach Guildford again for dinner. The next question
is, _How far is it from Winckfield to Rotherwick?_ Now
do not deceive me, you wretched child! If it is more than a
hundred miles, I can't come to see you, and there is no use
to talk about it. If it is less, the next question is,
_How much less?_ These are serious questions, and you
must be as serious as a judge in answering them. There
mustn't be a smile in your pen, or a wink in your ink
(perhaps you'll say, "There can't be a _wink_ in
_ink_: but there _may_ be _ink_ in a
_wink_"--but this is trifling; you mustn't make jokes
like that when I tell you to be serious) while you write to
Guildford and answer these two questions. You might as well
tell me at the same time whether you are still living at
Rotherwick--and whether you are at home--and whether you get
my letter--and whether you're still a child, or a grown-up
person--and whether you're going to the seaside next
summer--and anything else (except the alphabet and the
multiplication table) that you happen to know. I send you
10,000,000 kisses, and remain.
Your loving friend,
C. L. Dodgson.
The Chestnuts, Guildford, _April_ 19, 1878.
My dear Gertrude,--I'm afraid it's "no go"--I've had such a
bad cold all the week that I've hardly been out for some
days, and I don't think it would be wise to try the
expedition this time, and I leave here on Tuesday. But after
all, what does it signify? Perhaps there are ten or twenty
gentlemen, all living within a few miles of Rotherwick, and
any one of them would do just as well! When a little girl is
hoping to take a plum off a dish, and finds that she can't
have that one, because it's bad or unripe, what does she do?
Is she sorry, or disappointed? Not a bit! She just takes
another instead, and grins from one little ear to the other
as she puts it to her lips! This is a little fable to do you
good; the little girl means _you_--the bad plum means
_me_--the other plum means some other friend--and all
that about the little girl putting plums to her lips
means--well, it means--but you know you can't expect
_every bit_ of a fable to mean something! And the
little girl grinning means that dear little smile of yours,
that just reaches from the tip of one ear to the tip of the
other!
Your loving friend,
C.L. Dodgson.
I send you 4-3/4 kisses.
The next letter is a good example of the dainty little notes Lewis
Carroll used to scribble off on any scrap of paper that lay to his
hand:--
Chestnuts, Guildford, _January_ 15, 1886.
Yes, my child, if all be well, I shall hope, and you may
fear, that the train reaching Hook at two eleven, will
contain
Your loving friend,
C.L. Dodgson.
Only a few years ago, illness prevented him from fulfilling his usual
custom of spending Christmas with his sisters at Guildford. This is
the allusion in the following letter:--
My dear old Friend,--(The friendship is old, though the
child is young.) I wish a very happy New Year, and many of
them, to you and yours; but specially to you, because I know
you best and love you most. And I pray God to bless you,
dear child, in this bright New Year, and many a year to
come. ... I write all this from my sofa, where I have been
confined a prisoner for six weeks, and as I dreaded the
railway journey, my doctor and I agreed that I had better
not go to spend Christmas with my sisters at Guildford. So I
had my Christmas dinner all alone, in my room here, and
(pity me, Gertrude!) it wasn't a Christmas dinner at all--I
suppose the cook thought I should not care for roast beef or
plum pudding, so he sent me (he has general orders to send
either fish and meat, or meat and pudding) some fried sole
and some roast mutton! Never, never have I dined before, on
Christmas Day, without _plum pudding_. Wasn't it sad?
Now I think you must be content; this is a longer letter
than most will get. Love to Olive. My clearest memory of her
is of a little girl calling out "Good-night" from her room,
and of your mother taking me in to see her in her bed, and
wish her good-night. I have a yet clearer memory (like a
dream of fifty years ago) of a little bare-legged girl in a
sailor's jersey, who used to run up into my lodgings by the
sea. But why should I trouble you with foolish reminiscences
of _mine_ that _cannot_ interest you?
Yours always lovingly,
C. L. Dodgson.
It was a writer in _The National Review_ who, after eulogising
the talents of Lewis Carroll, and stating that _he_ would never
be forgotten, added the harsh prophecy that "future generations will
not waste a single thought upon the Rev. C.L. Dodgson."
If this prediction is destined to be fulfilled, I think my readers
will agree with me that it will be solely on account of his
extraordinary diffidence about asserting himself. But such an
unnatural division of Lewis Carroll, the author, from the Rev. C.L.
Dodgson, the man, is forced in the extreme. His books are simply the
expression of his normal habit of mind, as these letters show. In
literature, as in everything else, he was absolutely natural.
To refer to such criticisms as this (I am thankful to say they have
been very few) is not agreeable; but I feel that it is owing to Mr.
Dodgson to do what I can to vindicate the real unity which underlay
both his life and all his writings.
Of many anecdotes which might be adduced to show the lovable character
of the man, the following little story has reached me through one of
his child-friends:--
My sister and I [she writes] were spending a day of
delightful sightseeing in town with him, on our way to his
home at Guildford, where we were going to pass a day or two
with him. We were both children, and were much interested
when he took us into an American shop where the cakes for
sale were cooked by a very rapid process before your eyes,
and handed to you straight from the cook's hands. As the
preparation of them could easily be seen from outside the
window, a small crowd of little ragamuffins naturally
assembled there, and I well remember his piling up seven of
the cakes on one arm, and himself taking them out and doling
them round to the seven hungry little youngsters. The simple
kindness of his act impressed its charm on his child-friends
inside the shop as much as on his little stranger friends
outside.
It was only to those who had but few personal dealings with him that
he seemed stiff and "donnish"; to his more intimate acquaintances, who
really understood him, each little eccentricity of manner or of habits
was a delightful addition to his charming and interesting personality.
That he was, in some respects, eccentric cannot be denied; for
instance he hardly ever wore an overcoat, and always wore a tall hat,
whatever might be the climatic conditions. At dinner in his rooms
small pieces of cardboard took the place of table-mats; they answered
the purpose perfectly well, he said, and to buy anything else would be
a mere waste of money. On the other hand, when purchasing books for
himself, or giving treats to the children he loved, he never seemed to
consider expense at all.
He very seldom sat down to write, preferring to stand while thus
engaged. When making tea for his friends, he used, in order, I
suppose, to expedite the process, to walk up and down the room waving
the teapot about, and telling meanwhile those delightful anecdotes of
which he had an inexhaustible supply.
Great were his preparations before going a journey; each separate
article used to be carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper all to
itself, so that his trunks contained nearly as much paper as of the
more useful things. The bulk of the luggage was sent on a day or two
before by goods train, while he himself followed on the appointed day,
laden only with his well-known little black bag, which he always
insisted on carrying himself.
He had a strong objection to staring colours in dress, his favourite
combination being pink and grey. One little girl who came to stay with
him was absolutely forbidden to wear a red frock, of a somewhat
pronounced hue, while out in his company.
At meals he was very abstemious always, while he took nothing in the
middle of the day except a glass of wine and a biscuit. Under these
circumstances it is not very surprising that the healthy appetites of
his little friends filled him with wonder, and even with alarm. When
he took a certain one of them out with him to a friend's house to
dinner, he used to give the host or hostess a gentle warning, to the
mixed amazement and indignation of the child, "Please be careful,
because she eats a good deal too much."
Another peculiarity, which I have already referred to, was his
objection to being invited to dinners or any other social gatherings;
he made a rule of never accepting invitations. "Because you have
invited me, therefore I cannot come," was the usual form of his
refusal. I suppose the reason of this was his hatred of the
interference with work which engagements of this sort occasion.
He had an extreme horror of infection, as will appear from the
following illustration. Miss Isa Bowman and her sister, Nellie, were
at one time staying with him at Eastbourne, when news came from home
that their youngest sister had caught the scarlet fever. From that day
every letter which came from Mrs. Bowman to the children was held up
by Mr. Dodgson, while the two little girls, standing at the opposite
end of the room, had to read it as best they could. Mr. Dodgson, who
was the soul of honour, used always to turn his head to one side
during these readings, lest he might inadvertently see some words that
were not meant for his eyes.
Some extracts from letters of his to a child-friend, who prefers to
remain anonymous, follow:
_November_ 30, 1879.
I have been awfully busy, and I've had to write _heaps_
of letters--wheelbarrows full, almost. And it tires me so
that generally I go to bed again the next minute after I get
up: and sometimes I go to bed again a minute _before_ I
get up! Did you ever hear of any one being so tired as
_that?_...
_November_ 7, 1882.
My dear E--, How often you must find yourself in want of a
pin! For instance, you go into a shop, and you say to the
man, "I want the largest penny bun you can let me have for a
halfpenny." And perhaps the man looks stupid, and doesn't
quite understand what you mean. Then how convenient it is to
have a pin ready to stick into the back of his hand, while
you say, "Now then! Look sharp, stupid!"... and even when
you don't happen to want a pin, how often you think to
yourself, "They say Interlacken is a very pretty place. I
wonder what it looks like!" (That is the place that is
painted on this pincushion.)
When you don't happen to want either a pin or pictures, it
may just remind you of a friend who sometimes thinks of his
dear little friend E--, and who is just now thinking of the
day he met her on the parade, the first time she had been
allowed to come out alone to look for him....
_December_ 26, 1886.
My dear E--, Though rushing, rapid rivers roar between us
(if you refer to the map of England, I think you'll find
that to be correct), we still remember each other, and feel
a sort of shivery affection for each other....
_March_ 31, 1890.
I _do_ sympathise so heartily with you in what you say
about feeling shy with children when you have to entertain
them! Sometimes they are a real _terror_ to
me--especially boys: little girls I can now and then get on
with, when they're few enough. They easily become "de trop."
But with little _boys_ I'm out of my element
altogether. I sent "Sylvie and Bruno" to an Oxford friend,
and, in writing his thanks, he added, "I think I must bring
my little boy to see you." So I wrote to say "_don't_,"
or words to that effect: and he wrote again that he could
hardly believe his eyes when he got my note. He thought I
doted on _all_ children. But I'm _not_
omnivorous!--like a pig. I pick and choose....
You are a lucky girl, and I am rather inclined to envy you,
in having the leisure to read Dante--_I_ have never
read a page of him; yet I am sure the "Divina Commedia" is
one of the grandest books in the world--though I am
_not_ sure whether the reading of it would _raise_
one's life and give it a nobler purpose, or simply be a
grand poetical treat. That is a question you are beginning
to be able to answer: I doubt if _I_ shall ever (at
least in this life) have the opportunity of reading it; my
life seems to be all torn into little bits among the host of
things I want to do! It seems hard to settle what to do
_first. One_ piece of work, at any rate, I am clear
ought to be done this year, and it will take months of hard
work: I mean the second volume of "Sylvie and Bruno." I
fully _mean_, if I have life and health till Xmas next,
to bring it out then. When one is close on sixty years old,
it seems presumptuous to count on years and years of work
yet to be done....
She is rather the exception among the hundred or so of
child-friends who have brightened my life. Usually the child
becomes so entirely a different being as she grows into a
woman, that our friendship has to change too: and
_that_ it usually does by gliding down from a loving
intimacy into an acquaintance that merely consists of a
smile and a bow when we meet!...
_January_ 1, 1895.
... You are quite correct in saying it is a long time since
you have heard from me: in fact, I find that I have not
written to you since the 13th of last November. But what of
that? You have access to the daily papers. Surely you can
find out negatively, that I am all right! Go carefully
through the list of bankruptcies; then run your eye down the
police cases; and, if you fail to find my name anywhere, you
can say to your mother in a tone of calm satisfaction, "Mr.
Dodgson is going on _well_."
* * * * *
CHAPTER XI
(THE SAME--_continued_.)
Books for children--"The Lost Plum-Cake"--"An Unexpected
Guest"--Miss Isa Bowman--Interviews--"Matilda Jane"--Miss
Edith Rix--Miss Kathleen Eschwege.
Lewis Carroll's own position as an author did not prevent him from
taking a great interest in children's books and their writers. He had
very strong ideas on what was or was not suitable in such books, but,
when once his somewhat exacting taste was satisfied, he was never
tired of recommending a story to his friends. His cousin, Mrs. Egerton
Allen, who has herself written several charming tales for young
readers, has sent me the following letter which she received from him
some years ago:--
Dear Georgie,--_Many_ thanks. The book was at Ch. Ch.
I've done an unusual thing, in thanking for a book, namely,
_waited to read it_. I've read it _right through_!
In fact, I found it very refreshing, when jaded with my own
work at "Sylvie and Bruno" (coming out at Xmas, I hope) to
lie down on the sofa and read a chapter of "Evie." I like it
very much: and am so glad to have helped to bring it out. It
would have been a real loss to the children of England, if
you had burned the MS., as you once thought of doing....
[Illustration: Xie Kitchin as a Chinaman. _From a
photograph by Lewis Carroll_.]
The very last words of his that appeared in print took the form of a
preface to one of Mrs. Allen's tales, "The Lost Plum-Cake," (Macmillan
& Co., 1898). So far as I know, this was the only occasion on which he
wrote a preface for another author's book, and his remarks are doubly
interesting as being his last service to the children whom he loved.
No apology, then, is needed for quoting from them here:--
Let me seize this opportunity of saying one earnest word to
the mothers in whose hands this little book may chance to
come, who are in the habit of taking their children to
church with them. However well and reverently those dear
little ones have been taught to behave, there is no doubt
that so long a period of enforced quietude is a severe tax
on their patience. The hymns, perhaps, tax it least: and
what a pathetic beauty there is in the sweet fresh voices of
the children, and how earnestly they sing! I took a little
girl of six to church with me one day: they had told me she
could hardly read at all--but she made me find all the
places for her! And afterwards I said to her elder sister
"What made you say Barbara couldn't read? Why, I heard her
joining in, all through the hymn!" And the little sister
gravely replied, "She knows the _tunes_, but not the
_words_." Well, to return to my subject--children in
church. The lessons, and the prayers, are not wholly beyond
them: often they can catch little bits that come within the
range of their small minds. But the sermons! It goes to
one's heart to see, as I so often do, little darlings of
five or six years old, forced to sit still through a weary
half-hour, with nothing to do, and not one word of the
sermon that they can understand. Most heartily can I
sympathise with the little charity-girl who is said to have
written to some friend, "I think, when I grows up, I'll
never go to church no more. I think I'se getting sermons
enough to last me all my life!" But need it be so? Would it
be so _very_ irreverent to let your child have a
story-book to read during the sermon, to while away that
tedious half-hour, and to make church-going a bright and
happy memory, instead of rousing the thought, "I'll never go
to church no more"? I think not. For my part, I should love
to see the experiment tried. I am quite sure it would be a
success. My advice would be to _keep_ some books
for that special purpose. I would call such books
"Sunday-treats"--and your little boy or girl would soon
learn to look forward with eager hope to that half-hour,
once so tedious. If I were the preacher, dealing with some
subject too hard for the little ones, I should love to see
them all enjoying their picture-books. And if _this_
little book should ever come to be used as a "Sunday-treat"
for some sweet baby reader, I don't think it could serve a
better purpose.
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