Tennyson's Gift (8 page)

He resumed his slumber, and Mrs Cameron nodded shrewdly as though a great pronouncement had been made. Tennyson continued to read his own poetry silently, with occasional bird-like tippings of the head, to indicate deep thought.

‘At what time do we arrive at the terminus?' Ellen persisted, her voice rising a fraction. ‘I have the correct money for the watering can. You dance very well, do you know any quadrilles? No heavy fish is unkind to children. Will you help me with this portmanteau, it is heavy. I require a view with southerly light. Please iron my theatrical costumes. This gammon is still alive. Northamptonshire stands on other men's legs. Phrenology is a fashionable science. Would you like to feel my bumps?'

It was at this point, when Ellen was just beginning to think she would not survive in this atmosphere for another instant, that she spotted a dapper figure in a dark coat and boater dodge nervously between some trees in the garden. Behind him ran a little girl in a pinafore.

‘That man is behaving very curiously,' she said aloud. But since this exclamation might have been just a further instalment of her phrasebook speech, no one glanced to see what she was talking about. Ellen, however, burned with curiosity.

Tennyson looked up from his book, but luckily did not notice the intruder. So wary was he of fans and tourists (‘cockneys') that he had once run away from a flock of sheep in the belief they were intent on acquiring his autograph. In fact, even after the mistake was pointed out, he still maintained that they might have been.

‘George Gilfillan should not have said I was not a great poet,' he finally announced, in an injured tone.

Emily sighed. She didn't know who George Gilfillan was – indeed nobody knew who George Gilfillan was – but she had heard this complaint a hundred times. Gilfillan's opinions of Tennyson's poetry had somehow eluded her vigilance. Meanwhile, a hundred yards away, between the trees, the curious man had frozen to the spot, gazing at a pocket watch.

Emily tried to recruit Julia to her cause.

‘Really, Alfred, you must forget Mr Gilfillan, he is of no consequence. And besides, to repeat bad criticism of yourself shows no wisdom. Yet you do it perpetually. What of the many fine words written in your praise? What of the kindness and approbation of the monarch? It is too vexing. The Chinese say that the wise forget insults as the ungrateful a kindness.'

Julia murmured her approval. ‘And apart from all that, you should be a man, Alfred, big fellow like you,' she said. ‘People will say there's no smoke without fire, if the cap fits!'

She tried to think of more suitable clichés. Watts beat her to it.

He opened one eye. ‘The more you tramp on a turd, the broader it grows,' he remarked.

Julia patted his hand. ‘Thank you for that, Il Signor,' she said. ‘There never was a man more apt with a vivid precept. We shall have dinner at Dimbola later,' she added, in a comforting whisper. ‘With food.'

‘Kill not the goose that lays the golden egg,' he said, and closed his eye again.

To Tennyson in full flow, however, all this talk of broadened turds was mere interruption.

‘He should not have said I am not a great poet,' he continued. ‘And I shall prove it to you. Listen to this:

‘Peach,' interjected Mrs Cameron, dreamily.

‘I beg your pardon.'

‘Did I speak? Yes, I do apologize, Alfred, I did speak without meaning to. It's just that the line is,
That held the peach to the garden wall.'

‘No, it isn't.'

‘I ought to know, Alfred! It's your
Mariana.
I recite your
Mariana
to myself every day of my life! I make a point of it!'

‘You do?' asked Emily, quickly. Julia gulped. She suddenly realized what she'd said.

‘Well, perhaps not every day,' she laughed, hoping to make light of it. ‘And not because it means anything, of course.'

Tennyson huffed. He wanted to press on with the recital. But Emily was not to be put off.

‘But that's very curious, Julia. Why do you recite
Mariana?
I can hardly think of anybody less like Alfred's Mariana than yourself, my dear. She is all passivity and tranquillity. You do not die for love, surely, Julia? For whom do
you
wait, aweary, aweary, wishing you were dead? It is quite the antithesis of your lively character!'

Julia pulled a shawl tighter, and stirred a cup furiously, which was an odd thing to do, because there was nothing in it.

‘Well –' she began, but Alfred huffed again. He had no idea what was going on.

‘She recites
Mariana,
my dear, because it's a very fine poem, of course! What an absurdly simple question! I am surprised you could not guess it!'

And he flung himself back in his chair, quite satisfied. ‘Now, where was I?' he said, and resumed his book. ‘At
peach,'
insisted Julia, spiritedly. ‘Pear,' he rejoined.

‘Peach.'

‘Pear.'

‘Peach.'

‘Stop!' snapped Emily. ‘You must explain yourself, Alfred.'

Tennyson shut the book.

‘You are right, Julia. The word was “peach”. I changed it.'

‘You did? When?'

‘I don't know. Recently. “Pear” sounds better, as I think you will agree.'

Emily silently practised peach-pear-peach-pear, and then pear-peach-pear-peach.

‘But you wrote
Mariana
in 1830, Alfred,' exclaimed Julia. ‘That's thirty-four years ago. Why don't you leave it alone? Thousands of people have learned it as “peach”.'

‘She's right,' mumbled Watts, his contribution so unexpected that the others jumped. Tennyson blinked in confusion and looked behind him. He clearly had no idea where the noise had come from.

‘It is still my poem, Julia. I can do what I like. You might say that I like what I do, and I do what I like.'

‘But you gave
Mariana
to the world –'

‘I did no such thing.'

‘You published it, Alfred.'

‘That's quite different.'

Tennyson scowled, and changed the subject. He looked away from the table altogether.

‘And as for Ruskin,' he continued, tiresomely, ‘that foolish man, when he read my
Maud,
objected to the lines, “For her feet have touched the meadows / And left the daisies rosy”,
representing me most unjustly as a subscriber to the pathetic fallacy. Ha! The pathetic fallacy? Me? Such stupidity is enough to make the heavens weep!'

Nothing agitated or excited Tennyson more than adverse criticism.
Enoch Arden
was already in the shops. The title poem ends with the lines, ‘So passed the strong heroic soul away / And when they buried him that little port / Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.' No wonder he was getting punchy.

‘But what lack of understanding,' he continued (he was still banging on about Ruskin). ‘Daisies
do
go rosy when trodden on.
Ask any botanist.
I have every intention of sending Mr Ruskin a real daisy one of these days, without comment, to show him that the under-petals are pink.'

Mrs Cameron, still reeling from the news of the peach, felt she could make no further comment on poetic licence today, but the saintly Emily chipped in – and with surprising vehemence.

‘For the last time, Alfred!' she shouted, ‘We all agree with you about the daisy!' ‘I know, but –'

‘It was years ago! You know more about daisies than Ruskin does! It is understood! You are right and he is wrong! The man has a brain the size of St Paul's Cathedral, but he does not understand that daisies can be rosy! That's enough!'

‘But –'

‘All right!
Send
him a daisy, then! Here's one!' Emily leaned over the arm of her chair and ripped a daisy from the grass. ‘Here's two!' She did it again. ‘Here's a
whole bunch!'

Tennyson narrowed his eyes. The normally placid Emily seemed to have lost her grip.

‘I will,' he said, gravely.

‘Go on, then.'

‘Don't think I won't, because I will.' ‘I dare you.'

Ellen shrugged. These grown-up literary discussions were beyond her; perhaps because of her extreme youth. Looking on the bright side, however, she calculated that nobody would miss her if she slipped away, to investigate the curious man.

Instead, she met Lionel Tennyson skulking behind a camellia bush. From the state of his cheeks, smeared with red, he seemed to have scored rather well with the Dimbola jam tarts this afternoon.

‘Lionel? It's Mrs Watts. Do you remember me? We played at Indians.'

‘Shh,' said Lionel. ‘Keep down, won't you?'

Assuming this was a new game, Ellen joined him in hiding behind the bush.

‘I thought I saw a man in a straw hat,' she whispered. ‘Is he a friend of yours?'

‘That's who we're hiding from,' said Lionel. ‘It's a Mr Dodgson from Oxford. Mother doesn't like him, so I'm making sure he doesn't reach the house. Nobody knows he's here except me. Not even Hallam. Did you see the way he was lurking? Mother says –' Lionel looked around before finishing the sentence.

‘What does she say?' asked Ellen, in an excellent stage whisper, which could be heard for a hundred yards in all directions.

‘Shh,' said Lionel. ‘Mother says
he's not a gentleman.'

‘Indeed?' said Ellen. ‘How dreadful.'

‘He takes people's photographs without asking.'

‘But that's not possible,' objected Ellen. Lionel's handsome little face assumed a contemptuous expression.

‘You agree that photographs are taken?'

‘Well yes, but –'

‘Have you ever heard of anyone giving a photograph?' ‘I suppose not.'

‘So.'

Just then, Dodgson appeared in a glade twenty yards away. He seemed to be having trouble shaking off the little girl.

‘Go away,' he pleaded. (Dodgson had no stammer or ceremony when he talked with children.)

‘But you said you loved your love with a D,' said the child, who was holding a sheet of paper with writing on it. ‘Doesn't that mean you want to run away and get married?'

Dodgson closed his eyes. ‘Please, please,' he said. ‘Hop it.'

‘But I love you too, Mr Dodgson. I love my love with a D because he is Dapper. Come to the beach and tell me a story.'

‘Daisy. I am here to see a man about a book. I have come to make a magnificent gesture; a priceless gift, the fruit of my genius. You wouldn't understand.'

‘If you come to the beach, I'll let you do the thing with the safety pins.'

Dodgson considered. He looked at his watch again.

Daisy rested her hands on her hips.

‘If you
don't
come to the beach, I'll tell Mama about the thing with the safety pins.'

‘You wouldn't.' He gasped.

‘I would though.'

He groaned and capitulated. He took her little hand and turned back.

‘I suppose it
is
a bit late to call now,' he said. ‘They seem to have company, too.'

Ellen and Lionel watched him out of sight. For some reason, his retreat filled Ellen with a sense of loss, and she had an urge to wave a handkerchief. As he disappeared from sight, they heard him say, ‘But apart from making my excellent gift, I would dearly love to talk to Mr Tennyson about the railway. It sounds such a splendid proposal …'

Ellen looked at Lionel. ‘What a strange man,' she said. ‘What did she mean about safety pins?'

‘I have no idea. But I happen to know a secret. Mr Dodgson writes parodies of Father's poems. I'm not supposed to know, because if Father finds out, Mother says he'll froth at the mouth.'

‘Why is your father so sensitive to other people's opinions?

Is he mad? Surely he knows he is a great, great man?'

Lionel did not answer at once. He was seriously considering the ‘mad' part of Ellen's question, like the true black-blooded Tennyson that he was.

‘Is he mad? Is
he
mad? Is he mad?'

He tried it all three ways. The exercise was not particularly helpful.

‘Well,' he said, ‘He's not exactly Mister Stable of the Isle of Wight. Let's just say it's a bit rich the way he checks
us
for madness every day.'

Lionel straightened up.

‘He's gone,' he said. ‘Shall we go down to the sea?'

‘Yes, please. Where's Hallam?'

‘Oh, Hallam stays indoors a lot. He's such a girly.'

Ellen smiled. ‘I see.'

‘Are you coming, then?'

‘But won't we see Mr Dodgson there too?'

‘Oh yes, but we'll ignore him. I'm terribly good at that. I'll teach you, if you like.'