LEWIS CARROLL AT HOME AND ABROAD.
The popularity of "Alice in Wonderland" was a never-ending source of
surprise to the author, who had only to stand quietly by and rake in his
profits, as edition after edition was swallowed up by a public incessantly
clamoring for more, and Lewis Carroll was not too modest to enjoy the
sensation he was creating in the literary world. His success came to him
unsought, and was all the more lasting because the seeds of it were
planted in love and laughter. Let us see what he says in the preface to
"Alice Underground," the forerunner, as we know, of "Alice in Wonderland."
"The 'why' of this book cannot and need not be put into words. Those for
whom a child's mind is a sealed book, and who see no divinity in a child's
smile, would read such words in vain; while for any one who has ever loved
one true child, no words are needed. For he will have known the awe that
falls on one in the presence of a spirit, fresh from God's hands, on whom
no shadow of sin, and but the outermost fringe of the shadow of sorrow,
has yet fallen; he will have felt the bitter contrast between the haunting
selfishness that spoils his best deeds and the life that is but an
overflowing love--for I think a child's first attitude to the world is a
simple love for all living things--and he will have learned that the best
work a man can do is when he works for love's sake only, with no thought
of name or gain or earthly reward. No deed of ours, I suppose, on this
side of the grave is really unselfish, yet if one can put forth all one's
powers in a task where nothing of reward is hoped for but a little child's
whispered thanks, and the airy touch of a little child's pure lips, one
seems to have come somewhere near to this."
In the appendix to the same book he writes regarding laughter:
"I do not believe God means us to divide life into two halves--to wear a
grave face on Sunday, and to think it out of place even so much as to
mention Him on a week-day.... Surely the children's innocent laughter is
as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from 'the
dim religious light' of some solemn cathedral; and if I have written
anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are
laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I
may hope to look back upon without shame or sorrow ... when my turn comes
to walk through the valley of shadows."
Such was the man who filled the world with laughter, and wrote "nonsense"
books; a man of such deeply religious feeling that a jest that touched
upon sacred things, however innocent in itself, was sure to bring down his
wrath upon the head of the offender. There is a certain strain of sadness
in those quoted words of his, which surely never belonged to those "golden
summer days" when he made merry with the three little Liddells. We must
remember that twenty-one years had passed between the telling of the story
and the reprint of the original manuscript, and Lewis Carroll was just a
little graver and considerably older than on that eventful day when the
_White Rabbit_ looked at his watch as if to say: "Oh--my ears and
whiskers! What will the Duchess think!" as he popped down the hole with
_Alice_ at his heels.
But we are going a little too far ahead. After the writing of "Alice,"
with the accompanying excitement of seeing his first-born win favor, Lewis
Carroll went quietly forward in his daily routine. He had already become
quite a famous lecturer, being, indeed, the only mathematical lecturer in
Christ Church College, so Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was not completely
overshadowed by the glory of Lewis Carroll.
From the beginning he was careful to separate these two sides of his life,
and the numbers of letters which soon began to pour in upon the latter
were never recognized by the grave, precise "don," whose thoughts flowed
in numbers, and so it was all through his life. When anyone wrote to him,
addressing him by his real name, and praising him for the "Alice" books,
he sent a printed reply which he kept "handy," saying that as C. L.
Dodgson was so often approached as the author of books bearing another
name, it must be understood that Mr. Dodgson never acknowledged the
authorship of a book which did not bear his name. He was most careful in
the wording of this printed form, that it should bear no shadow of
untruth. It was only his shy way of avoiding the notice of strangers, and
it succeeded so well that very few people knew that the Rev. Charles
Dodgson and Lewis Carroll were one and the same person. It was also
hinted, and very broadly, too, that many of the queer characters _Alice_
met on her journey through Wonderland were very dignified and stately
figures in the University itself, who posed unconsciously as models. The
_Hatter_ is an acknowledged portrait, and no doubt there were many other
sly caricatures, for Lewis Carroll was a born humorist.
"Alice" has been given to the public in many ways besides translations.
There have been lectures, plays, magic lantern slides of Tenniel's
wonderful pictures, tableaux; and many scenes find their way, even at this
day, in the nursery wall-paper covered over with Gryphons and Mock Turtles
and the whole Court of Cards--a most imposing array. It has been truly
stated that, with the exception of Shakespeare's plays, no books have
been so often quoted as the two "Alices."
After the publication of "Alice in Wonderland," Lewis Carroll contributed
short stories to the various periodicals which were eager for his work. As
early as 1867, he sent to _Aunt Judy's Magazine_ a short story called
"Bruno's Revenge," the foundation of "Sylvie and Bruno," which was never
published in book form until 1889, twenty-two years after.
The editor of the magazine, Mrs. Gatty, in accepting the story, gave the
author some wholesome advice wrapped up in a bundle of praise for the
dainty little idyll. She reminded him that mathematical ability such as he
possessed was also the gift of hundreds of others, but his story-telling
talent, so full of exquisite touches, was peculiarly his own, and whatever
of fame might come to him would be on the wings of the fairies, and not
from the lecture room.
In "Bruno's Revenge" we have, for the first time in any of his stories, a
little boy. It was a sort of unwilling tribute Lewis Carroll paid to the
poor despised "roundabouts," and for all the winsome fairy ways and merry
little touches, _Bruno_ was never _quite_ the real thing; at any rate the
story was put away to simmer, and as the long years passed, it was added
to bit by bit until--but _that_ is another story.
Between the publication of "Alice" and the summer vacation of 1867 he
wrote several very learned mathematical works that earned him much
distinction among the Christ Church undergraduates, who found it hard to
believe that Mr. Dodgson and Lewis Carroll were so closely connected. It
was during this summer (1867) that he and Dr. Liddon took a short tour on
the Continent.
The two men had much in common and were firm friends. Both had the true
Oxford spirit, both were churchmen, Dr. Liddon being quite a famous
preacher, and both were men of high intelligence with a good supply of
humor; consequently the prospect of a trip to Russia together was a very
delightful one. Lewis Carroll kept a journal which was such a complete
record of his experiences that at one time he thought of publishing it,
though it was never done.
He went up to London on July 12th, remarking in his characteristic way
that he and the Sultan of Turkey arrived on the same day, _his_ entrance
being at Paddington station--the Sultan's at Charing Cross, where, he was
forced to admit, the crowd was much greater. He met Dr. Liddon at Dover
and they crossed to Calais, finding the passage unusually smooth and
uneventful, feeling in some way that they had paid their money in vain,
for the trip across the channel is generally one of storm and stress.
All such tours have practically the same object--to see and to enjoy--and
the young "don" came out of his den for this express purpose. It had been
impossible in the busy years since his graduation to take his holidays far
away from home, but at the age of thirty-five he felt that he had earned
the right, and proceeded to use it in his own way. Their route lay through
Germany, stopping at Cologne, Danzig, Berlin and Koenigsberg, among other
places, and he feasted on the beauties which these various cities had to
offer him; the architecture and paintings, the pageantry of strange
religions, the music in the great cathedrals, and last, but not least, the
foreign drama interested him greatly. The German acting was easy enough to
follow, as he knew a little of the language; but the Russian tongue was
beyond him, and he could only rely upon the gestures and expression.
Their special object in going to Russia was to see the great fair at
Nijni-Novgorod. This fair brought all the corners of the earth together;
Chinese, Persians, Tartars, native Russians, mingled in the busy, surging
life about them, and lent color and variety to every step. The two friends
spent their time pleasantly, for the fame of Dr. Liddon's preaching had
reached Russia, and the clergy opened their doors to the travelers and
took them over many churches and monasteries, which otherwise they might
never have seen. They stopped in Moscow, St. Petersburg, Kronstadt,
Warsaw, taking in Leipzig, Giessen, Ems, and many smaller places on the
homeward road.
They visited a famous monastery while in Moscow, and were even shown the
subterranean cells of the hermits. At Kronstadt they had a most amusing
experience. They went to call upon a friend, and Dr. Liddon, forgetting
his scanty knowledge of the Russian language, rashly handed his overcoat
to one of the servants. When they were ready to leave there was a
waiting-maid in attendance--but no overcoat. The damsel spoke no English,
the gentleman spoke no Russian, so Dr. Liddon asked for his overcoat with
what he considered the most appropriate gesture. Intelligence beamed upon
the maiden's face; she ran from the room, returning with a clothes brush.
No, Dr. Liddon did not want his coat brushed; he tried other gestures,
succeeding so beautifully that the girl was convinced that he wanted to
take a nap on the sofa, and brought a cushion and a pillow for that
purpose. Still no overcoat, and Dr. Liddon was in despair until Lewis
Carroll made a sketch of his friend with one coat on, in the act of
putting on another, in the hands of an obliging Russian peasant. The
drawing was so expressive that the maid understood at once; the mystery
was solved--and the coat recovered.
With this gift of drawing a situation, it is remarkable that Lewis Carroll
never became an artist. With all his artistic ideas, and with his real
knowledge of art, it seems a pity that he could not have gratified his
ambition, but after serious consultation with John Ruskin, who as critic
and friend examined his work, he decided that his natural gift was not
great enough to push, and sensibly resolved not to waste so much precious
time. Still, to the end of his life, he drew for amusement's sake and for
the pleasure it gave his small friends.
Altogether their tour was a very pleasant one, and their return was
through Germany, that most interesting country of hills and valleys and
pretty white villages nestling among the trees. What Lewis Carroll
specially liked was the way the old castles seemed to spring out of the
rock on which they had been built, as if they had grown there without the
aid of bricks and mortar. He admired the spirit of the old architects,
which guided them to plan buildings naturally suited to their
surroundings, and was never tired of the beautiful hills, so densely
covered with small trees as to look moss-grown in the distance.
On his return to Oxford, he plunged at once into very active work. The new
term was beginning--there were lectures to prepare and courses to plan,
and undergraduates to interview, all of which kept him quite busy for a
while, though it did not interfere with certain cozy afternoon teas, when
he related his summer adventures to his numerous girl friends, and kept
them in a gale of laughter over his many queer experiences.
But these same little girls were clamoring for another book, and a hundred
thousand others were alike eager for it, to judge by the heavy budgets of
mail he received, so he cast about in that original mind of his for a
worthy sequel to "Alice in Wonderland." He was willing to write a sequel
then, for "Alice" was still fresh and amusing to a host of children, and
its luster had been undimmed as yet by countless imitations. To be sure
"Alice in Blunderland" had appeared in _Punch_, the well-known English
paper of wit and humor, but then _Punch_ was _Punch_, and spared nothing
which might yield a ripple of laughter.
When it was known that he had finally determined to write the book, a
leading magazine offered him two guineas a page (a sum equal to about ten
dollars in our money) for the privilege of printing it as a serial. This
story as we know was called "Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice
Found There," though few people take time to use the full title. It is
usually read by youngsters right "on top" of "Alice in Wonderland." They
speak of the two books as the "Alices," and some of the best editions are
even bound together, so closely are the stories connected.
With Lewis Carroll's aptness for doing things backward, is it any wonder
that he pushed Alice through the Looking-Glass? And so full of grace and
beauty and absurd situations is the story he has given us, we quite forget
that it was written for the public, and not entirely for three little
girls "all on a summer's day." No doubt they heard the chapters for they
were right there across "Tom Quad" and could be summoned by a whistle, if
need be, along with some other little girls who had sprung up within the
walls of Christ Church.
At any rate the story turned out far beyond his expectations and he was
again fortunate in securing Tenniel as his illustrator. It was no easy
task to illustrate for Lewis Carroll, who criticised every stroke, and
being quite enough of an artist to know exactly what he wanted, he was
never satisfied until he had it. This often tried the patience of those
who worked with him, but his own good humor and unfailing courtesy
generally won in the end.
In the midst of this pleasant work came the greatest sorrow of his life,
the death of his father, Archdeacon Dodgson, on June 21, 1868. Seventeen
years had passed since his mother's death, which had left him stunned on
the very threshold of his college life; but he was only a boy in spite of
his unusual gravity, and his youth somehow fought for him when he battled
with his grief. In those intervening years, he and his father had grown
very close together. One never took a step without consulting the other.
Christ Church and all it meant to one of them was alike dear to the other.
The archdeacon took the keenest interest in his son's outside work, and we
may be quite sure that "Alice" was as much read and as thoroughly enjoyed
by this grave scholar as by any other member of his household. It was the
suddenness of his death which left its lasting mark on Lewis Carroll, and
the fact that he was summoned too late to see his father alive. It was a
terrible shock, and a grief of which he could never _speak_. He wrote some
beautiful letters about it, but those who knew him well respected the wall
of silence he erected.
In truth, our quiet, self-contained "don" was a man of deep emotions; the
quiet, the poise, had come through years of inward struggle, and he
maintained it at the cost of being considered a little cold by people who
never could know the trouble it had been to smother the fire. He put away
his sorrow with other sacred things, and on his return to Oxford went to
work in his characteristic way on a pamphlet concerning the Fifth Book of
Euclid, written principally to aid the students during examinations, and
which was considered an excellent bit of work.
In November, 1868, he moved into new quarters in Christ Church and, as he
occupied these rooms for the rest of his life, a little description of
them just here would not be out of place.
"Tom Quad," we must not forget, was the Great Quadrangle of Christ Church,
where all the masters and heads of the college lived with their families.
This was called being _in residence_, and a pretty sight it was to see the
great stretch of green, and its well-kept paths gay with the life that
poured from the doors and peeped through the windows of this wonderful
place; a sunny day brought out all the young ones, and just here Lewis
Carroll's closest ties were formed.
The angles of "Tom Quad" were the choice spots for a lodging, and Lewis
Carroll lived in the west angle, first on the ground floor, where, as we
know, "Alice in Wonderland" was written; then, when he made his final
move, it was to the floor above, which was brighter and sunnier, giving
him more rooms and more space. This upper floor looked out upon the flat
roof of the college, an excellent place for photography, to which he was
still devoted, and he asked permission of those in charge to erect a
studio there. This was easily obtained, and could the walls tell tales
they would hum with the voices of the celebrated "flies" this clever young
"spider" lured into his den. For he took beautiful photographs at a time
when photography was not the perfect system that it is now, and nothing
pleased him better than posing well-known people. All the big lights of
Oxford sat before his camera, including Lord Salisbury, who was Chancellor
at that time. Artists, sculptors, writers, actors of note had their
pleasant hour in Lewis Carroll's studio.
Our "don" was very partial to great people, that is, the truly great, the
men and women who truly counted in the world, whether by birth and
breeding or by some accomplished deed or high aim. Being a cultured
gentleman himself, he had a vast respect for culture in other people--not
a bad trait when all is told, and setting very naturally upon an
Englishman born of gentle stock, with generations of ladies and gentlemen
at his back. One glance into the sensitive, refined face of Charles
Dodgson would convince us at once that no friendship he ever formed had
anything but the highest aim for him. He might have chosen for his motto--
"Only what thou art in thyself, not what thou hast, determines thy
value."
Even among his girl friends, the "little lady," no matter how poor or
plain, was his first object; that was a strong enough foundation. The rest
was easy.
But here we have been outside in the studio soaring a bit in the sky, when
our real destination is that suite of beautiful big rooms where Lewis
Carroll lived and wrote and entertained his many friends, for hospitality
was one of his greatest pleasures, and his dining-room and dinner parties
are well remembered by every child friend he knew, to say nothing of those
privileged elders who were sometimes allowed to join them. He was very
particular about his dinners and luncheons, taking care to have upon the
table only what his young guests could eat.
He had four sitting rooms and quite as many bedrooms, to say nothing of
store-rooms, closets and so forth. His study was a great room, full of
comfortable sofas and chairs, and stools and tables, and cubby-holes and
cupboards, where many wonderfully interesting things were hidden from
view, to be brought forth at just the right moment for special
entertainment.
Lewis Carroll had English ideas about comfortable surroundings. He loved
books, and his shelves were well filled with volumes of his own choosing;
a rare and valuable library, where each book was a tried friend.
A man with so many sitting rooms must certainly have had use for them all,
and knowing how methodical he was we may feel quite sure that the room
where he wrote "Through the Looking-Glass" was not the sanctum where he
prepared his lectures and wrote his books on Logic and Higher Mathematics;
it _might_ have served for an afternoon frolic or a tea party of little
girls; _that_ would have been in keeping, as probably he received the
undergraduates in his sanctum.
As for the other two sitting rooms, "let's pretend," as Alice herself
says, that one was dedicated to the writing of poetry, and the other to
the invention of games and puzzles; he had quite enough work of all kinds
on hand to keep every room thoroughly aired. We shall hear about these
rooms again from little girls whose greatest delight it was to visit them.
What we want to do now is to picture Lewis Carroll in his new quarters,
energetically pushing Alice through the Looking-Glass, while at the same
time he was busily writing "Phantasmagoria," a queer ghost poem which
attracted much attention. It was published with a great many shorter
poems in the early part of 1869, preceding the publication of the new
"Alice," on which he was working chapter by chapter with Sir John Tenniel.
It was wonderful how closely the artist followed the queer mazes of Lewis
Carroll's thought. He was able to draw the strange animals and stranger
situations just as the author wished to have them, but there came a point
at which the artist halted and shook his head.
"I don't like the 'Wasp Chapter,'" was the substance of a letter from
artist to author, and he could not see his way to illustrating it. Indeed,
even with his skill, a wasp in a wig was rather a difficult subject and,
as Lewis Carroll wouldn't take off the wig, they were at a standstill.
Rather than sacrifice the wig it was determined to cut out the chapter,
and as it was really not so good as the other chapters, it was not much
loss to the book, which rounded out very easily to just the dozen, full of
the cleverest illustrations Tenniel ever drew. It was his last attempt at
illustrating: the gift deserted him suddenly and never returned. His
original cartoon work was always excellent, but the "Alices" had brought
him a peculiar fame which would never have come to him through the columns
of _Punch_, and Lewis Carroll, always generous in praising others, was
quick to recognize the master hand which followed his thought. There was
something in every stroke which appealed to the laughter of children, and
the power of producing unthinkable animals amounted almost to inspiration.
No doubt there may be illustrators of the present day quite as clever in
their line, but Lewis Carroll stood alone in a new world which he created;
there were none before him and none followed him, and his Knight of the
Brush was faithful and true.
"Through the Looking-Glass" was published in 1871, and at once took its
place as another "Alice" classic. There is much to be said about this
book--so much, indeed, that it requires a chapter of its own, for many
agree in considering it even more of a masterpiece than "Alice in
Wonderland," and though more carefully planned out than its predecessor,
there is no hint of hard labor in the brilliant nonsense.
Those who have known and loved the man recognize in the "Alices" the best
and most attractive part of him. In spite of his persistent stammering, he
was a ready and natural talker, and when in the mood he could be as
irresistibly funny as any of the characters in his book. His knowledge of
English was so great that he could take the most ordinary expression and
draw from it a new and unexpected meaning; his habit of "playing upon
words" is one of his very funniest traits. When the _Mock Turtle_ said in
that memorable conversation with _Alice_ which we all know by heart: "no
wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise," he meant, of course,
without a _purpose_, and having made the joke he refused explanations and
seemed offended that _Alice_ needed any. Another humorous idea was that
the whitings always held their tails in their mouths.
"The reason is," said the Gryphon, "that they _would_ go with the lobsters
to the dance. So they were thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long
way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get
them out again. That's all."
This is not the natural position of the whiting, as we all know, but the
device of the fishmonger to make his windows attractive, and _Alice_
herself came perilously near saying that she had eaten them for dinner
cooked in that fashion and sprinkled over with bread crumbs. It was just
Lewis Carroll's funny way of viewing things, in much the same fashion that
one of his child-friends would look at them. His was a real child's mind,
full of wonder depths where all sorts of impossible things existed,
two-sided triangles, parallel lines that met in a point, whitings who had
their tails in their mouths, and many other delightful contradictions,
some of which he gave to the world. Others he stored away for the benefit
of the numberless little girls who had permission to rummage in the
store-house.
"Alice through the Looking-Glass" made its bow with a flourish of
trumpets. All the "Nonsense" world was waiting for it, and for once
expectation was not disappointed and the author found himself almost
hidden beneath his mantle of glory. People praised him so much that it is
quite a wonder his head was not completely turned. Henry Kingsley, the
novelist, thought it "perfectly splendid," and indeed many others fully
agreed with him.
As for the children--and after all they were his _real_ critics--the
little girl who thought "Through the Looking-Glass" "stupider" than
Wonderland, voiced the popular sentiment. Those who were old enough to
read the book themselves soon knew by heart all the fascinating poetry,
and if the story had no other merit, "The Jabberwocky" alone would have
been enough to recommend it. Of all the queer fancies of a queer mind,
this poem was the most remarkable, and even to-day, with all our clever
verse-makers and nonsense-rhymers, no one has succeeded in getting out of
apparently meaningless words so much real meaning and genuine fun as are
to be found in this one little classic.
Many people have tried in vain to trace its origin; one enterprising lady
insisted on calling it a translation from the German. Someone else decided
there was a Scandinavian flavor about it, so he called it a "Saga." Mr. A.
A. Vansittart, of Trinity College, Cambridge, made an excellent Latin
translation of it, and hundreds of others have puzzled over the many
"wrapped up" meanings in the strange words.
We shall meet the poem later on and discuss its many wonders. At present
we must follow Charles Dodgson back into his sanctum where he was eagerly
pursuing a new course--the study of anatomy and physiology. He was
presented with a skeleton, and laying in the proper supply of books, he
set to work in earnest. He bought a little book called "What to do in
Emergencies" and perfected himself in what we know to-day as "First Aid to
the Injured." He accumulated in this way some very fine medical and
surgical books, and had more than one occasion to use his newly acquired
knowledge.
Most men labor all their lives to gain fame. Lewis Carroll was a hard
worker, but fame came to him without an effort. Along his line of work he
took his "vorpal" sword in hand and severed all the knots and twists of
the mathematical Jabberwocky. It was when he played that he reached the
heights; when he touched the realm of childhood he was all conquering, for
he was in truth a child among them, and every child felt the youthfulness
in his glance, in the wave of his hand, in the fitting of his mood to
theirs, and his entire sympathy in all their small joys sorrows--such
great important things in their child-world. He often declared that
children were three fourths of his life, and it seems indeed a pity that
none of his own could join the band of his ardent admirers.
Here he was, a young man still in spite of his forty years, holding as his
highest delight the power he possessed of giving happiness to other
people's children. Yet had anyone ventured to voice this regret, he would
have replied like many another in his position:
"Children--bless them! Of course I love them. I prefer other people's
children. All delight and no bother. One runs a fearful risk with one's
own." And he might have added with his whimsical smile, "And supposing
they _might_ have been boys!"