Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (291 page)

ISA BOWMAN AS DUKE OF YORK

 “Ch.
Ch.
Oxford,
“
Ap.
4, ’89
.

“My Lord Duke,—The photographs, which Your Grace did me the honour 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 own darling Isa?’
Which do you like best?

“Now I’m going to find fault with my pet about her acting.
What’s the good of an old Uncle like me except to find fault?

“You do the meeting with the Prince of Wales
very
nicely and lovingly; and, in teasing your Uncle for his dagger and his sword, you are very sweet and playful and—‘but
that’s
not finding fault!’
Isa says to herself.
Isn’t it?
Well, I’ll try again.
Didn’t I hear you say ‘In weightier things you’ll say a
beggar
nay,’ leaning on the word ‘beggar’?
If so, it was a mistake.
My
rule for knowing which word to lean on is the word that tells you something
new
, something that is
different
from what you expected.

“Take the sentence ‘first I bought a bag of apples, then I bought a bag of pears,’ you wouldn’t say ‘then I bought a
bag
of pears.’
The ‘bag’ is nothing new, because it was a bag in the first part of the sentence.
But the
pears
are new, and different from the
apples
.
So you would say, ‘then I bought a bag of
pears
.’

“Do you understand that, my pet?”

“Now what you say to Richard amounts to this, ‘With light gifts you’ll say to a beggar “yes”: with heavy gifts you’ll say to a beggar “nay.”’
The words ‘you’ll say to a beggar’ are the same both times; so you mustn’t lean on any of
those
words.
But ‘light’ is different from ‘heavy,’ and ‘yes’ is different from ‘nay.’
So the way to say the sentence would be ‘with
light
gifts you’ll say to a beggar “
yes
”: with
heavy
gifts you’ll say to a beggar “
nay
”.’
And the way to say the lines in the play is—

‘O, then I see you will
part
but with
light
gifts;
In
weightier
things you’ll say a beggar
nay
.’

“One more sentence.

“When Richard says, ‘What, would you have my
weapon
, little Lord?’
and you reply ‘I
would
, that I might thank you as you call me,’ didn’t I hear you pronounce ‘thank’ as if it were spelt with an ‘e’?
I know it’s very common (I often do it myself) to say ‘thenk you!’
as an exclamation by itself.
I suppose it’s an odd way of pronouncing the word.
But I’m sure it’s wrong to pronounce it so when it comes into a
sentence
.
It will sound
much
nicer if you’ll pronounce it so as to rhyme with ‘bank.’

“One more thing.
(‘What an impertinent old 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 forgot
yourself
enough.
It was not so much a real
prince
talking to his elder brother and his uncle; it was
Isa Bowman
talking to people she didn’t
much
care 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 that there was any audience.
If you are ever 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’s 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 Emsie.
X for Isa.”

He was a fairly constant patron of all the London theatres, save the Gaiety and the Adelphi, which he did not like, and numbered a good many theatrical folk among his acquaintances.
Miss Ellen Terry was one of his greatest friends.
Once I remember we made an expedition from Eastbourne to Margate to visit Miss Sarah Thorne’s theatre, and especially for the purpose of seeing Miss Violet Vanbrugh’s Ophelia.
He was a great admirer of both Miss Violet and Miss Irene Vanbrugh as actresses.
Of Miss Thorne’s school of acting, too, he had the highest opinion, and it was his often expressed wish that all intending players could have so excellent a course of tuition.
Among the male members of the theatrical profession he had no especial favourites, excepting Mr.
Toole and Mr.
Richard Mansfield.

He never went to a music-hall, but considered that, properly managed, they might be beneficial to the public.
It was only when the refrain of some particularly vulgar music-hall song broke upon his ears in the streets that he permitted himself to speak harshly about variety theatres.

Comic opera, when it was wholesome, he liked, and was a frequent visitor to the Savoy theatre.
The good old style of Pantomime, too, was a great delight to him, and he would often speak affectionately of the pantomimes at Brighton during the régime of Mr.
and Mrs.
Nye Chart.
But of the up-to-date pantomime he had a horror, and nothing would induce him to visit one.
“When pantomimes are written for children once more,” he said, “I will go.
Not till then.”

Once when a friend told him that she was about to take her little girls to the pantomime, he did not rest till he had dissuaded her.

To conclude what I have said about Lewis Carroll’s affection for the dramatic art, I will give a kind of examination paper, written for a child who had been learning a recitation called “The Demon of the Pit.”
Though his stuttering prevented him from being himself anything of a reciter, he loved correct elocution, and would take any pains to make a child perfect in a piece.

THE LITTLE PRINCES

First of all there is an explanatory paragraph.

“As you don’t ask any questions about ‘The Demon of the Pit,’ I suppose you understand it all.
So please answer these questions just as you would do if a younger child (say Mollie) asked them.”

Mollie.
Please, Ethel, will you explain this poem to me.
There are some very hard words in it.

Ethel.
What are they, dear?

Mollie.
Well, in the first line, “If you chance to make a sally.”
What does “sally” mean?

Ethel.
Dear Mollie, I believe sally means to take a chance work.

Mollie.
Then, near the end of the first verse—“Whereupon she’ll call her cronies”—what does “whereupon” mean?
And what are cronies?

Ethel.
I think whereupon means at the same time, and cronies means her favourite playfellows.

Mollie.
“And invest in proud polonies.”
What’s to “invest?”

Ethel.
To invest means to spend money in anything you fancy.

Mollie.
And what’s “A woman of the day?”

Ethel.
A woman of the day means a wonder of the time with the general public.

Mollie.
“Pyrotechnic blaze of wit.”
What’s pyrotechnic?

Ethel.
Mollie, I think you will find that pyrotechnic means quick, with flashes of lightning.

Mollie.
Then the 8 lines that begin “The astounding infant wonder”—please explain “rôle” and “mise” and “tout ensemble” and “grit.”

Ethel.
Well, Mollie, “rôle” means so many different things, but in “The Demon of the Pit” I should think it meant the leading part of the piece, and “mise” means something extra good introduced, and “tout” means to seek for applause, but “ensemble” means the whole of the parts taken together, and grit means something good.

Mollie.
“And the Goblins prostrate tumble.”
What’s “prostrate”?

Ethel.
I believe prostrate means to be cast down and unhappy.

Mollie.
“And his accents shake a bit.”
What are “accents”?

Ethel.
To accent is to lay stress upon a word.

Mollie.
“Waits resignedly behind.”
What’s “resignedly”?

Ethel.
Resignedly means giving up, yielding.

Mollie.
“They have tripe as light to dream on.”
What does “as” mean here?
and what does “to dream on” mean?

Ethel.
Mollie, dear, your last question is very funny.
In the first place, I have always been told that hot suppers are not good for any one, and I should think that tripe would
not be light
to dream on but VERY heavy.

Mollie.
Thank you, Ethel.

I have now nearly finished my little memoir of Lewis Carroll; that is to say, I have written down all that I can remember of my personal knowledge of him.
But I think it is from the letters and the diaries published in this book that my readers must chiefly gain an insight into the character of the greatest friend to children who ever lived.
Not only did he study children’s ways for his own pleasure, but he studied them in order that he might please them.
For instance, here is a letter that he wrote to my little sister Nelly eight years ago, which begins on the last page and is written entirely backwards—a kind of variant on his famous “Looking-Glass” writing.
You have to begin at the last word and read backwards before you can understand it.
The only ordinary thing about it is the date.
It begins—I mean
begins
if one was to read it in the ordinary way—with the characteristic monogram, C.
L.
D.

“
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, Nelly dear my.”