Tennyson's Gift (12 page)

‘Yes sir, Herbert's my name, sir,' Mr Pocket continued, ‘Down from Lunnon; don't know nobody in the districk –'

Dodgson followed quietly behind. Herbert's stride was lengthening, and he was beginning to stick out his elbows like the ears on a pitcher. What on earth was going on? Herbert poked some loose hair up into the hat, impatiently. He seemed to have a thin waist and ample chest, too; there was a suggestion of hips, moreover. Dodgson would have said ‘Curiouser and curiouser', but true to his instincts, resisted it. He knew it might take him all evening to get it out.

Jessie Fowler had known no other life than this. A hundred times she had heard her father announce to a complete stranger, ‘Now, I don't know you from a side of sole leather,
is that correct, sir?' And a hundred times the subject had grimaced and shrugged that he supposed the case was so.

The useful thing about phrenology, from the showmanship point of view, was that it really worked. There was no need of trickery. What made one phrenologist better than another were presentation, entertainment, and the quantity of easily affordable products available for sale at the exit. Lorenzo had made and squandered a personal fortune from phrenology, mostly out of selling pamphlets at a penny a go. Getting the character analysis correct was merely the first, easy stage; Lorenzo honestly thought nothing of it. Back in America, where he hit the sawdust trail thirty years before with his big brother Orson, the Phrenological Fowlers were know to be infallible. Imposters they exposed, murderers they accused, the secrets of human distress they diagnosed with compassion. Almost never had they been run out of town. Those stout fingers could not be fooled. The Fowlers were awesome.

‘No Conscientiousness whatsoever!' Orson once exclaimed, his hand flying off a volunteer head as though subjected to a shock of electricity.

‘Oh! No Conscientiousness!' repeated the audience with a lot of hissing, as they glanced at one another, wondering exactly what this meant.

Orson bit his lip. Cautiously (as though the head might explode if he pushed it in the wrong place) he continued his search for clues of depravity. The audience held its breath. He lifted a handful of hair and peeked beneath. ‘No Approbativeness!' he cried (the audience recoiled). ‘No Shame!' He backed away from the head, and begged the audience to tell him what this man had done. He killed a female slave, they said. Orson shook his own head and drooped his shoulders, as though all the strength had been taken from him by the evil of this man. The Fowlers sold out all their pamphlets that famous night in Virginia, even the dog-eared unsaleable ones about
the modern miracle of the broad bean and the cause of female suffrage.

Jessie's role on these English tours was to pick out the volunteers, and also to help with the heads and charts at the beginning of the show. Lorenzo always began slowly with a history of the science and a quick run-down of the ‘congeries of organs' that comprised the brain. ‘Three storeys and a skylight,' was how he genially explained cranial organization – with the base instincts such as sexuality (Amativeness) in the cerebellum, then reflective and perceptive qualities as you moved further upstairs (‘You can see more from the top floor!'); and finally Veneration and Hope and Benevolence with the best view of all. You could always tell an archbishop or theologian from the high cathedral dome of his head, Lorenzo explained. And it's true, when you think about it. People who have been dropped head-first on a stone floor in infancy almost never make it into the higher echelons of the church.

During the lecture, Jessie kept her eye on the audience, and smoothed her special stage frock. It was a misguided shade of coral. She would pay particular attention to the people who surreptitiously removed their hats and ran their hands over their Self Esteem. As she looked out now, she could see several people she recognized from the beach, including Mr Dodgson (that pedagogue), who was currently poking his Amativeness with a small pencil. She would have
him,
she resolved quickly, if only to pay him back for all the ‘I love my love with a D' business. She also alighted on the Irish maid from Mrs Cameron's house, who had a broad space between her eyebrows – a quality Lorenzo always admired in a woman, since it betokened Individuality.

Jessie listened to the lecture, though she had heard it all before – the pygmies and Napoleon and the Idiot of Amsterdam (aged twenty-five). Lorenzo gave her the Montrose Calculator and she indicated the enormous Organ of Number beside
his eyes while mugging in Scots. She watched Dodgson reach up and touch his own head again. Dodgson had Number and Causality so obvious that Lorenzo would instantly guess he was a logician. In phrenological terms Dodgson was a
gift;
she could hardly wait to give him to her pa.

But tonight Lorenzo was not to be rushed; he was making his public wait and wait. He was displaying Benjamin Robert Haydon now, showing his lack of Firmness but also his Individuality.

‘Persons who have this organ large,' he said, ‘are apt to personify abstractions.' Jessie noticed that when he said this, a slim young lad in the audience frowned under his peaked cap as though deeply interested.

Jessie was very proud of her father sometimes. These people were ripe for the picking. By the time she finally raided the stalls for volunteers, she would be knocked down in the commotion.

‘And now,' said Lorenzo, ‘My daughter Jessie will ask some of you to join me on this little stage. At no extra cost I will conduct a personal analysis. Please do not resist the call; do not insult me by refusing. Our time is short enough.'

Jessie tugged at his sleeve, as though excited.

‘Yes, my dear,' he commanded her grandly. ‘Find me a head!'

Dodgson watched with astonishment the downright eagerness of the paying public to be made laughing stocks. Every time Jessie plunged into the audience, he resolved to leave the hall before she did it again – yet something (let's call it prurience) repeatedly prevented him. Up they went, one after another, to be told that their Ideality was superior to their Adhesiveness, each nodding gravely as if making a
mental note, and feeling in their pockets for change (charts and explanations were on sale after). One volunteer had Approbativeness out of all proportion – ‘An intense need for approval, ladies and gentlemen!' – and then proved the diagnosis, rather neatly, by asking nervously ‘But I do hope that's
a good thing?'

Dodgson watched enthralled, horrified, especially in that portion of the evening devoted to Mary Ryan, who spoke up well under questioning, was found to have a good mind and strong character, and even agreed to be hypnotized.

‘In this experiment,' said Lorenzo, ‘I will demonstrate the power of Phreno-Magnetism.'

‘Oooh,' said the audience.

‘Phreno-Magnetism is the very latest development, and luckily for you Freshwater folks I am its principal exponent. By hypnosis we may cure the diseases of the brain, direct the mind to purity. For we all strive for perfection, do we not?'

The audience, who had perhaps never looked at itself in quite such a flattering light before, cheerfully agreed that perfection was all it lived for.

‘By hypnotizing this young lady I can not only indicate the organs of her brain, but obtain direct access to them. Prepare to be amazed. Simply by touching the Organ of Self Esteem, for example, I will alter this young woman's demeanour.'

Mary, in her trance, sat staring forward at the audience, looking slightly disgruntled as she always did.

‘Mary, I will now excite your Organ of Self Esteem,' said Lorenzo, and with his beautiful hands smoothing and swarming over her head, he exerted pressure with his thumbs on a back section of her skull. Dodgson was astonished at her reaction. Mary Ryan sat up straight, held her nose in the air, and gave a look of such confidence that some of the audience started to titter.

‘Please do not laugh,' commanded Lorenzo. ‘Self Esteem
is a very serious matter. Mary, tell us what you do from day to day.'

The hall fell silent. Mary spoke quietly, but they all heard.

‘I do work that is beneath me.'

Mary Ann leaned forward.

‘Why do you continue with it?' asked Lorenzo.

‘Because I am indebted to my mistress.'

‘Indebted? I see. You mean you are grateful to her?'

‘No, that's different.'

‘You are proud, Mary!'

‘Not proud, but I know my worth. I may not be beautiful but I am educated. I am not seventeen, but I am tall and stately. I will marry well.'

‘You will?'

‘I know it.'

Mary Ann Hillier guffawed, and stopped herself. The audience was agog, but Dodgson shifted in his seat. He hated seeing someone so vulnerable and off-guard. He also hated to hear the lower orders getting above themselves.

‘So much for Self Esteem,' said Lorenzo, releasing his grip. ‘I must explain that if I asked anybody those questions they would reply in the same surprising way. Our true estimation of ourselves may be masked by daily convenience, but the self esteem remains intact, waiting its moment. It is a flame that is never snuffed out.'

‘Tho much is taken, much abides?' said Mary, still in her trance.

‘Precisely,' said Lorenzo, pleasantly surprised. ‘I will now excite your Organ of Mirthfulness, Mary.' And as he pressed her temples with his fingers Mary started to laugh so cheerfully that the audience laughed with her, and Lorenzo brought her gently out of her trance. Finding herself laughing and joyful, she grasped his hand and would not let go until Jessie grabbed at her skirt and pulled it.

‘Thank you, sir,' she said to Lorenzo, wiping her eyes. ‘I don't know what you did to me, sir, but don't I feel a whole lot better for it?'

All this was very intriguing for Dodgson, but he never forgot his original resolve to leave while someone else was on stage. The last thing he wanted was to be trapped by his own curiosity. A couple of times he changed seats, to encourage his own false perception that he was invisible. He vowed that during the next demonstration he would definitely slip away – and yet, when the next sitter proved to be the mysterious young er-um-Herbert from Dimbola Lodge, he found himself lingering dangerously. There was something very familiar about the young fellow; he made Dodgson think
of Twelfth Night
for some reason, in which he had once seen Miss Terry play Viola.

Herbert was on stage already, but refusing absolutely to remove his cap. And the audience jeered at him, to take it off.

‘Come now,' said Lorenzo, ‘You must be reasonable.'

‘Either read me with my cap on, or not at all,' said the fellow in his gruff breathless voice.

Lorenzo acquiesced, saying he had never done such a thing before, in thirty years as a practical phrenologist. But when he started to feel the youth's head, he stopped grumbling, because he soon found several things to intrigue him.

‘I find that you have large Amativeness, combined with large Hope and small Caution. This will tend to warp your judgement in matters of love, and blind you to obvious failings in the object of your affections.'

The boy looked up at him in amazement. ‘It doesn't say all that, does it?' he said.

‘Ah, I see I have hit on a truth,' said Lorenzo.

The boy denied it, but looked glum. Down in the audience, Mary Ann nudged Mary Ryan; she liked the look of this boy.

‘I think I have never felt a Caution as small as this, sir,' continued Lorenzo. ‘It will lead you to many rash deeds. You
must remember never to confuse Courage with Carelessness, Firmness with Foolhardiness. You would make a fine actor, sir, incidentally.'

‘Oh good,' squeaked Herbert faintly, and tried to rise from his chair. It was clear he would like to step down, but Lorenzo was enjoying himself too much. In all his years of phrenology, he had never encountered a transvestite before – not even on the island of Manhattan! Yet here was one, amazingly, in this little place at the back end of the Isle of Wight.