Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (255 page)

As to dancing, my dear, I
never
dance, unless I am allowed to do it
in my own peculiar way.
There is no use trying to describe it: it has to be seen to be believed.
The last house I tried it in, the floor broke through.
But then it was a poor sort of floor—the beams were only six inches thick, hardly worth calling beams at all: stone arches are much more sensible, when any dancing,
of my peculiar kind
, is to be done.
Did you ever see the Rhinoceros, and the Hippopotamus, at the Zoölogical Gardens, trying to dance a minuet together?
It is a touching sight.

Give any message from me to Amy that you think will be most likely to surprise her, and, believe me,

Your affectionate friend,

Lewis Carroll.

My dear Gaynor,—So you would like to know the answer to that riddle?
Don't be in a hurry to tell it to Amy and Frances: triumph over them for a while!

My first lends its aid when you plunge into trade.

Gain
.
Who would go into trade if there were no gain in it?

My second in jollifications—

Or
[The French for "gold"—] Your jollifications would

be
very
limited if you had no money.

My whole, laid on thinnish, imparts a neat finish

To pictorial representations.

Gaynor
.
Because she will be an ornament to the Shakespeare Charades—only she must be "laid on thinnish," that is,
there musn't be too much of her.

Yours affectionately,

C.
L.
Dodgson.

My dear Gaynor,—Forgive me for having sent you a sham answer to begin with.

My first—
Sea
.
It carries the ships of the merchants.

My second—
Weed
.
That is, a cigar, an article much used in jollifications.

My whole—
Seaweed
.
Take a newly painted oil—picture; lay it on its back on the floor, and spread over it, "thinnish," some wet seaweed.
You will find you have "finished" that picture.

Yours affectionately,

C.L.
Dodgson.

Lewis Carroll during the last fifteen years of his life always spent the Long Vacation at Eastbourne; in earlier times, Sandown, a pleasant little seaside resort in the Isle of Wight, was his summer abode.
He loved the sea both for its own sake and because of the number of children whom he met at seaside places.
Here is another "first meeting"; this time it is at Sandown, and Miss Gertrude Chataway is the narrator:—

I first met Mr.
Lewis Carroll on the sea-shore at Sandown in the Isle of Wight, in the summer of 1875, when I was quite a little child.

We had all been taken there for change of air, and next door there was an old gentlemen—to me at any rate he seemed old—who interested me immensely.
He would come on to his balcony, which joined ours, sniffing the sea-air with his head thrown back, and would walk right down the steps on to the beach with his chin in air, drinking in the fresh breezes as if he could never have enough.
I do not know why this excited such keen curiosity on my part, but I remember well that whenever I heard his footstep I flew out to see him coming, and when one day he spoke to me my joy was complete.

Thus we made friends, and in a very little while I was as familiar with the interior of his lodgings as with our own.

I had the usual child's love for fairy-tales and marvels, and his power of telling stories naturally fascinated me.
We used to sit for hours on the wooden steps which led from our garden on to the beach, whilst he told the most lovely tales that could possibly be imagined, often illustrating the exciting situations with a pencil as he went along.

One thing that made his stories particularly charming to a child was that he often took his cue from her remarks—a question would set him off on quite a new trail of ideas, so that one felt that one had somehow helped to make the story, and it seemed a personal possession It was the most lovely nonsense conceivable, and I naturally revelled in it.
His vivid imagination would fly from one subject to another, and was never tied down in any way by the probabilities of life.

To
me
it was of course all perfect, but it is astonishing that
he
never seemed either tired or to want other society.
I spoke to him once of this since I have been grown up, and he told me it was the greatest pleasure he could have to converse freely with a child, and feel the depths of her mind.

He used to write to me and I to him after that summer, and the friendship, thus begun, lasted.
His letters were one of the greatest joys of my childhood.

I don't think that he ever really understood that we, whom he had known as children, could not always remain such.
I stayed with him only a few years ago, at Eastbourne, and felt for the time that I was once more a child.
He never appeared to realise that I had grown up, except when I reminded him of the fact, and then he only said, "Never mind: you will always be a child to me, even when your hair is grey."

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.