Tennyson's Gift (11 page)

Shadows crept across the lawn, and Mrs Cameron moved the printing frame progressively nearer to the house, to keep it in the light. The process of printing was like hatching an egg, she explained to Watts. You had to keep it warm for hours and hours. In fact, the paper had been coated in albumen, which was egg-white, funnily enough, and –

‘So you think Haydon did not hold me directly responsible?' said Watts. He was still harping on, apparently.

‘If he did, he was even sillier than everybody thought,' said Julia. ‘But what's brought all this on, George? He killed himself eighteen years ago.'

‘Is it as long as that?'

‘Yes, it is.'

Watts had no explanation, but Haydon had haunted his dreams (‘Remember Westminster!') only since the marriage to Ellen. Sometimes he showed Watts a tumbling heap of unpaid dress-making bills, and gestured with an unambiguous neck-sawing motion.

‘Shall we place the apparatus on the garden wall, perhaps?' Watts suggested. ‘If it would be secure, it would catch the last of the warm sun.'

‘You are a genius, Il Signor. I have always said as much. We will place it above Alfred's gate, for he never calls at this time. There is no breath of wind, hm? Another hour and the print is made.'

And so Mary Ryan took the precious delicate plate in its printing press, and placed it above the Tennyson gate to catch the last hot rays from the west. Mrs Cameron squeezed Il Signor's hand.

‘Thank you,' she said. She should have said it earlier, but she could say it now.

‘My dear Julia,' said Watts, with dignity. ‘It was the least I could do.'

They went inside.

‘I do apologize for my outburst earlier, George, when I said that Alfred wouldn't care if I died from potassium cyanide poisoning. It was unjust.'

Watts was puzzled by the reference. ‘Consider it forgotten,' he said, carefully. ‘I have been contemplating a picture of “The Absence of Hope”,' she said. ‘Perhaps that explains my unusually sombre mood.'

‘“The Absence of Hope”?' said Watts. ‘My own dearest project, Julia! I long to show it to the world. Haydon felt it, I am sure. It is like an undercurrent dragging pebbles down the beach, the sound of a wire snapping, Eurydice dragged back to Hades, or a door slamming at the edge of your hearing.' ‘But how to show it?' ‘Indeed.' ‘Indeed.'

They sat together in glum silence, with Absence of Hope written all over them.

‘Despair is not the same, of course,' said Watts. ‘Oh no.'

‘Haydon, you know, sketched his own children in their death-throes, such was his dedication to his art.'

‘Do you think we could stop talking about Haydon now, George?'

‘Julia, of course.'

‘Would a cup of tea be acceptable, George?' ‘I would worship you for the rest of my life.' Julia laughed. How pleasant it was to hear real gratitude, for once. ‘You know what Cameron would say if I asked him that? He would say, “If it makes you happy, Julia”.' Watts considered it. ‘He's got a point, I suppose.'

Julia spluttered.

‘But George, it is the most infuriating reply! It suggests that I perform kind deeds merely for my own satisfaction. I can't tell you how dispiriting that is.'

This was too deep for Watts, who had never performed a kind deed. But he smiled sympathetically, being keen to smooth the path to the teapot.

‘Don't concern yourself about Haydon –' Julia began. But as they made their way to the drawing room, a faint but unmistakable slam and a crash reached their ears. They looked at each other. The sound came from the far end of the garden. On their joint countenance, the Absence of Hope made a long and fruitful visit.

‘George!' yelled Ellen, as she capered into the house, showing her petticoats.

‘Hello?'

She appeared at the door with shards of glass in her hands. ‘Was this important?' she said excitedly, holding out a corner of plate negative.

‘I just came in through the gate, and the next thing I knew, well – all the king's horses and all the king's men!' She paused, but only for breath. ‘I was lucky it didn't fall on my head, actually.'

Mrs Cameron, who had remained unusually silent, spoke up.

‘Oh, I don't know about that, Mrs Watts.' And with a muffled ‘Excuse me,' retired upstairs, at an undignified half-run. ‘What have I done now?' said Ellen. ‘You should take more care,' snapped Old Greybeard.

‘Why?'

He gave her an accusing look. ‘We shan't have tea now.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' said the girl. ‘Why does everybody expect so much of me, without telling me what it is? But I wish you would listen, George. I have
discovered a very charming clergyman on the beach who has written a book all about me. Isn't that perfect? This is the first time anyone has written a book about me, George! You should be pleased. And best news of all, tonight there will be a demonstration of phrenology at the parish hall. I knew we would have fun here if we made the effort. Phrenology, George! As Mr Kean used to say so beautifully,
So much for Buckingham! Off with his head!'

Watts harumphed, and reached his hand towards her face. But it was not a gesture of tenderness; he adjusted her collar, which had come up.

She knew what he was going to say. He said it.

‘The phrenologist will manage without us, Ellen, as you well know. Phrenology! At the parish hall! You might as well express the wish to see the Gymnastic Feats of Mr Reynoldson, the Celebrated Cripple!'

‘Why, is he on too?'

‘Ellen!'

‘Well, honestly!'

‘Ellen, tonight we must stay with our hosts, of course, and try to repair some of the damage you have done.'

Unquelled, indeed not even listening, she examined the shards of glass and peered at the fractured, ghostly image of Watts. It looked like a real hoot. Was that a toasting fork? Surely not. She tried to pull a long face, indicative of regret.

‘What was it called, George – this lovely picture I have ruined?'

‘“Tho' Much is Taken, Much Abides”, if you must know.'

She brightened. ‘Well, not much of it abiding now,' she said, and ran upstairs to prepare herself for an evening of adventure.

That evening, at Plumbley's Hotel, Dodgson made notes in his diary about the children he'd met on the seashore. He was attempting to keep his spirits up. Next to the name ‘Daisy' he made a large emphatic cross, and then, after a pause, added a thoughtful question mark. There was certainly something very attractive about the child, even though her forwardness terrified him. Perhaps it was the image of her in the garden with the wings. For some deep reason, Victorians always liked to picture small girls as figuring somewhere between a corpse and a chicken. Next to ‘Annie' he wrote ‘A triumph, pic soon' and next to ‘Jessie' he wrote ‘Needs work. Unimpressed by bunny tricks. Poss not child at all, but imposter midget?'

What a life for a grown man with a huge intellect: sucking up to kiddies on their holidays. Yet every day he recorded the names of the new conquests, and calculated whether their parents would let him share them for a couple of hours. Sharing was Dodgson's life, really. The way he looked at it, other people seemed to have lives not so much full to the brim as wastefully overflowing; they generated left-overs of all sorts; it seemed therefore an offence against the Almighty not to cream off some of the surplus. Great trees are good for nothing but shade, as the saying is. So Dodgson shared other
people's fame when he took their pictures. He shared other people's poems when he made a parody. He shared other people's teatimes when he dropped by at six. And the little girls? Well, he would never have one of his own.

He stood up and made a decision. He would attend the phrenology lecture. In Oxford or London, he would not have risked the impropriety, but here in the Isle of Wight he could mingle with the artisans and housemaids, and pay his tuppence for the privilege. He always loved a show, as long as there was no harm in it; and to be honest, the social opportunities of Freshwater had been a bit of a disappointment thus far. No response to his letter from Farringford yet; and as for Dimbola Lodge, he was so anxious about being hauled in to pose for Mrs Cameron as Beowulf with a coal scuttle on his head that he had started going past on all fours.

Even from the photographic view, he had got nowhere in Freshwater. Both evenings since his arrival he had stayed in his hotel, alone, writing little letters to child-friends, closing his eyes to picture them with not much on, and polishing his equipment vigorously with a rag.

And why should he not attend the lecture? From all that the dear, pretty Ellen had told him, none of the resident geniuses of Freshwater would stoop to the level of Lorenzo Fowler (‘Old Watts will never let
me
go,' she said), so Dodgson felt safe from recognition if he joined the throng. No, the biggest worry was the possibility of audience participation. The great Lorenzo would require heads to practise on; what if Fowler called Dodgson on stage? Phrenologized him in front of a hall full of people? Pulled the secrets out of his head like a magician producing a coloured scarf from a nose? Dodgson reached for a hat and tugged it firmly on his head. He placed another on top of it. And then the boater.

Dodgson had been phrenologized once before, and had hated it utterly. Even years later, the thought of it made him
feel nauseous. That another person should touch one's head, even in a private consulting room in Edinburgh – the intimacy was outrageous, horrifying. And then one must endure the diagnosis, too. Dodgson's outstandingly logical mind had been deduced in Edinburgh; also his abnormally large love of children. But ‘Emulous' this insolent Scotsman had called him, to Dodgson's indignance.
Emulous?
Why, he was no more emulous than any other distinguished man of letters writing in England today, if he might include himself in that company (and he thought, on the whole, he might).

Dodgson resolved to stand firm against Mr Fowler if the question of volunteers arose. He wished only to watch the phrenologizing of the lesser orders. If asked to participate, he must simply say no in the firmest possible way.

He practised it now.

‘You are very k-k—' he began.

‘Thank you but n-n—'

‘I f-f—feel I must decl-cl—'

As usual with the Reverend C. L. Dodgson, the firm words needed work.

It was eight o'clock when he left the hotel, and the sun had almost disappeared behind the western downs, but the bay beneath glowed sapphire as though lit from within, the surf danced, and Dodgson felt a surge of happiness. His skin still burned from the day, and he shivered in the sea breeze, but he decided not to return for a scarf, even though he had prudently packed a nice woollen one when leaving Oxford. Life for Dodgson was a succession of resisted urges – as he walked up the lane to Dimbola (it was on the way), he wanted to turn up his collar; he wanted also to break into a frantic run; he fancied snorting like a buffalo, or striking an Anglo-Saxon attitude. But he resisted all of these things, and hardly admitted them even to himself. No wonder he didn't want a scientist poking at the assorted giveaway offal inside his head.

All the rooms at Dimbola Lodge were lit this evening (a typical extravagance of the Cameron woman) and since the curtains were open, he saw as he approached that all sorts of merry larks were taking place inside, including the table and sideboards set for a fashionable dinner
à la russe –
a wasteful method of dining, in Dodgson's opinion. Heaps of fruit, there were, too; and Mrs Cameron darted from room to room with a dripping photographic print in her hands, letting chemicals fall on the table linen as well as on the bare heads of her guests. Dodgson noted that Mr Watts, the painter, was taking an enthusiastic interest in Mrs Cameron's efforts, while pocketing some biscuits for later, and that Miss Terry was nowhere to be seen.

Dodgson clucked at the mess Mrs Cameron made; it was quite unnecessary. In all his years photographing, Dodgson had never sustained the smallest mark or abrasion from his hobby, yet Mrs Cameron ran around with fingers blackened by the chemicals to the state of rotten bananas. ‘This is not dirt, but art!' she exclaimed. But the story was told that the great Garibaldi, visiting Tennyson to plant that tree in the garden, had sent her packing, assuming she was a gypsy. He gave her sixpence, apparently, and warned her in Italian that God's eye was upon us all.

This sea breeze was surprisingly nippy. Dodgson sheltered beside Dimbola's briar to readjust his sleeves and cuffs, and was pleased that he had done so, for straightaway from the house came two maids, evidently heading in the same direction as himself.

He let them pass. They didn't see him. One he recognized to be the Irish Mary Ryan; the other must be the famously photogenic Mary Ann. And as if reading his thoughts, the unknown girl threw back her head to observe the first stars, and a beam of silver light picked out her chiselled profile, illuminating her with a kind of halo. It was quite a spooky gift
this girl had, actually – even a religious chap like Dodgson had to acknowledge it.

Luckily Mary Ryan noticed what she was doing.

‘Will you stop that!' she snapped.

Mary Ann lowered her face and stuck out her tongue, and the sublime patina fled.

Dodgson was just about to move when a door slammed at Dimbola again, and another figure came hurrying past – one of Mrs Cameron's sons, perhaps? – a slim young man in a peaked cap who muttered to himself as he walked. There was nothing very remarkable in that, of course; a man may mutter. No, it was
what
he muttered that intrigued Dodgson.

‘My name is, er, um, Herbert Pocket,' he said, in a squeaky and then a gruff tone.

Dodgson wrinkled his nose. What?
My name is, er, um, Herbert Pocket?
Why would the young chap be telling himself his own name? Also, why wasn't he completely sure what it was?