Alice I Have Been_ A Novel

Chapter 18


I suppose you don’t remember when Mr. Dodgson ceased coming to the Deanery? How old were you? I said his manner became too affectionate toward you as you grew older and that mother spoke to him about it, and that offended him so that he ceased coming to see us, as one had to give some reason for all intercourse ceasing—
OH, INA.
I had warned her not to talk to any of the hordes of biographers—really, it was as if they were dropping out of the trees, like monkeys!—that had suddenly decided, with the centenary celebration of Mr. Dodgson’s birth approaching, to write books about him.
I had received letter after letter, all saying the same thing: Dear Mrs. Hargreaves, I am writing to request an interview, as I am researching the papers of Charles L. Dodgson, or Lewis Carroll, my goal to be publication of a book about his life. As your life was obviously so very intertwined with his, I’m certain you will wish to aid me in my quest to find the real man behind the myth. Your recollections, in particular, of the creation of the Alice story will be most interesting and valuable, as well as any further insight you can provide as to the nature of your relationship with Mr. Dodgson.
The nature of your relationship with Mr. Dodgson.
Really, the impertinence of these people! They made my whole life sound like a cheap novel. What business was it of theirs?
I did not protest being trotted out as Alice in Wonderland now and then, if it was for a good cause; usually a charitable organization or some such thing. At these events—requests for my presence at which had started up after the auction—people only wanted to look at me, pose for photographs with me—generally with a stuffed rabbit, or a man in a silly top hat, holding a teacup—and ask a few benign questions: Did he really tell you the story while out rowing? Did you pose for the illustrations? Was there really a kitten named Dinah? But that was the extent of it; they simply wanted to be assured that my life was exactly like the little girl’s on the pages, and I was content to give them that. It wasn’t truthful, but there was no harm in it, even if it did get to be tiresome after a while.
There are only so many things one can say about rabbits, no matter how cuddly, after all.
These biographers—I was loath to use the word; sensationalists was more like it—were quite different. They came armed with information—naming names from Oxford, citing specific incidents I had thought I had forgotten but, once prompted, remembered, not always to my pleasure. Some had even inquired, boldly, as to the origin of the break in our relations. One in particular—a Mrs. Lennon, whom Ina actually allowed into her home, and whose inquiries prompted this odd letter to me; she had been very forward in her questioning, which was why I had refused to speak with her.
Yet Ina had not been so discreet and now, in somewhat of a panic, was offering either a garbled explanation—of course, dear Ina was getting rather senile in her dotage—or was seeking some sort of reassurance or forgiveness. Or was she trying to warn me?
I had no idea, and while I attempted to answer it—Dear Ina, I received your kind letter of Tuesday last—I could get no further; my pen froze, as did my mind, unable to direct me one way or the other. What else had Ina told the woman? What had Ina wanted her to believe; what had Ina wanted me to believe all these years?
What did I believe, after all?
It was too exhausting, and I could not find a reason to try to muddle through it today. So I folded the unfinished letter, opened my desk drawer, removed another stack of letters, some yellowed and faded, others stained with more recent tears, all bound with a simple black silk ribbon; I added both Ina’s letter and my unfinished one to the group, slipped them back inside my drawer, and shut it. I would answer it another day.
However, the memories it stirred—memories I had quite forgotten these past few years, since the boys died—haunted me for days, weeks, and before I could make any sense of them, Ina passed on. The dear soul lived to be eighty-one; a good, long age, longer than she deserved and I’m not ashamed to say it. When I thought of all who had died so young; Edith, Leopold, Alan, Rex—but that is uncharitable of me. It is not my will be done, after all, but God’s.
There are many questions I believe I’ll ask Him about this, however, when my time comes.
With Ina’s passing, it no longer seemed necessary to sort through my thoughts, try to piece together the scattered pieces of the past. There was simply no one left to whom any of it mattered; no one, of course, but me. The biographers had even stopped pestering me, although I suppose I shouldn’t have taken this to mean they were no longer interested; I was sure they’d make up their own minds, regardless of what I had to say.
Still the letter nagged at me; I was drawn to it, time and again, taking it out, picking up my pen, and then putting it away. It seemed as if I would never rest until I answered it.
Then came the invitation to America.
I sailed with Caryl, who insisted upon having a new wardrobe made up for the occasion; I received the honorary degree—I did not think I looked very nice at all in the academic robe and mortarboard cap, although I had no say whatsoever in the matter—I spoke fondly of Mr. Dodgson, as was expected of me; I put up with the endless questions and photographs and staged tea parties.
Then, mere days before I was to leave, I met a young man who looked barely thirty; no older than Alan and Rex had been when they died. He was introduced to me by the officials at Columbia—all graying, serious professors suddenly beaming like little boys at Christmas—as Peter Llewelyn-Davies, the inspiration for Mr. Barrie’s Peter Pan.
“Ah,” I said, instantly understanding. “How very delightful! The real Peter Pan!”
“And the real Alice—I suppose they couldn’t pass up the opportunity; I was in America on business when I was contacted.” Peter shook my hand, and we engaged in small talk while the photographers snapped away with their awful noisy flashbulbs; photography had changed so very much since Mr. Dodgson’s days.
There was something about Peter that arrested me—a very old look about his dark eyes, a look I instantly recognized. I wore it myself, of course; but then, I was eighty. He was a young man.
“I do get tired of being Peter Pan,” he confessed, after the photographers were shooed away by the Columbia contingent, and we were left alone with Caryl in the hall—so very much like the great halls of learning from my childhood, with portraits of grim, ancient professors whom no one could name. “I wasn’t, really—the family thought my brother Michael was the model. And Uncle Jim wasn’t quite the person people believe him to be, either. But people like to think life is a fairy tale, and it seems that I’m quite unable to shake it. However have you managed to put up with Alice for such a long time?”
I smiled, and did not take offense at the impolite reference to my age. He looked so very curious, touchingly hopeful; hopeful that somehow, I would be able to help him with merely a word or a handshake or a kiss on the cheek.
“My dear boy, I’m sure I don’t know.” For to tell the truth, I was tired of being Alice in Wonderland; my bones ached for the simplicity of life at Cuffnells, where no one expected anything of me other than that I pay the bills and order dinner—and where, I vowed, I would not drink another cup of tea for a very long time.
Yet the lad looked so disappointed and lost—his eyes were such a peculiarly melting shade of brown; I was quite inclined to take him home with me and install him in one of the boys’ bedrooms—that I forced myself to ramble on. “I suppose, at some point, we all have to decide which memories—real or otherwise—to hold on to, and which ones to let go. I’m sure I haven’t quite gotten the knack of it myself. But soon, perhaps. Perhaps, soon.”
“But you’re—well, you’re rather—well.” The poor lad blushed, but I merely laughed in sympathy.
“You mean, I’m rather old, don’t you?”
“Yes, well. I do apologize, but—rather.”
“Perhaps it’s best to look at it this way—we may be the only two people in the world who know, absolutely, what it will say on our headstones. Here lies Alice in Wonderland. Naturally I’ve had a great many other things happen to me in my life—a great many. But Alice is what people will want to remember. Not all the rest.” Shaking my head, I tried to hold all the suddenly surging memories at bay. “All the rest belongs to us. Only to us. Remember that—and allow the public to believe what they want. We’ll know the truth, after all. I hope.” I whispered this last, for remembering Ina’s letter, I knew that I did not.
“I suppose.” He did not look as if he was really listening; he looked as if he was trying to be polite to a doddering old lady who was spouting nonsense. I decided to forgive him anyway, and kissed him on the cheek in farewell.
“I didn’t ask for this, you know,” Peter suddenly blurted, grabbing my hand.
“I did.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could think; surprised, I pulled my hand away. What was it about this poor young man, seemingly alone, that prompted such honest confession? “I suppose that’s the difference between us, then. I most certainly did ask for this—as I did a great many things, when I was young.”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose that must be the difference.” He smiled politely, but his soft brown eyes—like the eyes of a doe—glistened with sadness. I worried about him, for he did not appear to have the strength of character I believed myself to possess.
“Dear boy, do you have much family?” I asked, even though I knew it was not polite. Still, he seemed so alone.
“No, not much living,” he said.
“Neither do I—except, of course, for Caryl.” I looked round, suddenly aware that I had not included Caryl in this conversation and ashamed of myself. “Caryl, do let me present Peter Llewelyn-Davies.”
Caryl stepped forward eagerly. “So delighted to meet you. I have a marvelous idea for a business venture, Peter—you do know the airline industry is going to grow by leaps and bounds. Who better to be a spokesman than the real Peter Pan, eh? What do you think of that?”
“Caryl, for heaven’s sake, please—”
“I think it sounds rather enticing,” Peter interrupted, genuine interest upon his face. “I would be happy to discuss it further—airlines, you say? I’ll be in London next month.”
“My card, then.” Caryl gave it to him, and the two shook hands eagerly.
“I must be going. It’s been a pleasure.” Peter turned to me, and although he was smiling, I could not shake the feeling that he was not Peter Pan but rather one of the Lost Boys. I had the oddest impulse to embrace him, and shield him from what lay ahead; just what it was, I could not tell, other than that I feared for him.
“Take care, my lad,” I said, settling for a handshake instead, as unexpected tears pricked my eyes. Goodness, I was becoming rather dotty! I blinked my eyes furiously and sniffed. “Oh dear, I must be catching a cold. Good-bye, Peter!”
“Good-bye, Alice!”
We looked at each other and laughed; it was so very theatrical. I watched him walk away, so alone; then I turned to my own son.
“So, tell me all about this airline venture.” I hooked my arm through his as we walked down the corridor.
“It’s the most amazing coincidence, but I talked to a chap just before we sailed.…” Caryl beamed, his face shining just like a little boy’s; he talked nonstop for a quarter of an hour, and while I did not understand most of it, I knew it made him happy to share his plans with me, and it made me happy to be able to give him that.
Days later, full of tea and pomp and circumstance, we finally left for home, for—

CUFFNELLS, 1932.

But oh my dear, I am tired of being Alice in Wonderland. Does it sound ungrateful? It is. Only I do get tired.
Only I do get tired.
So tired that I recline on my chaise longue near the fire, pulling up the old red afghan—Mamma’s afghan, one of the few things I’ve kept of hers—over my weary, aching bones. The letters are still scattered across my desk, and words pound my brain, insisting I take notice of them. Ina’s unanswered questions—I suppose you don’t remember when Mr. Dodgson ceased coming to the Deanery? How old were you?
Words, pictures, questions, and finally—dreams; it always begins with a dream, doesn’t it? Alice’s dream by the river, her head in her sister’s lap, dreaming of a rabbit, a white rabbit; my dream, also. My dreams. One of them—I remember one dream when I was small; a dream after a long walk on a summer day. A dream on a train, my head against Mr. Dodgson’s shoulder, as I dreamed of babies on flower stems; Papa walking along, crying; a man in a tall black hat, gray gloves, a stiff way about him. “May they be happy,” he whispered to me, and I smiled. Nighttime, fireworks, a couple in a darkened doorway, she arched her arm, gracefully, about his neck, bringing him closer and closer to her upturned lips.
“Alice,” the man in the hat said tenderly—only it was Leo. “Alice, be happy. Be happy with me.”
“Of course,” I said with a contented sigh. “Of course. I’ll always be happy with you, my love.”
But no—the man in the hat was not Leo, he was not Regi. He was Mr. Dodgson. I opened my eyes, my girl’s eyes, clear and sharp, no need for spectacles, and saw only him. His soft brown hair curling at the ends, his kind blue eyes, one higher than the other.
He had acted boldly—wasn’t that what Ina had said? But no. No, he was not bold; he was shy, he was kind, he loved a seven-year-old girl. I was an eleven-year-old girl, however, and I was not shy.
I was bold. I saw what I wanted and I took it; I did not know, yet, that love was not mine to claim whenever I wanted. I did not know, so I reached for it; my arm arching gracefully about his neck, pulling his face toward me, his lips so soft, seeking an answer, asking a question—
No.
My lips sought, asked; not his. He was merely trying to wake me up, gently rocking me, kissing the top of my head. It was I who reached up, met him—and kissed him, kissed him ardently, my lips parting his, asking him to be happy—may we be happy. And in that moment, I will always believe—the two of us were.
But then he pushed me away, shocked; but not soon enough, for I had felt his stirring, his surprise but his pleasure; I tasted it in his lips, lips that moved beneath mine—
Until he did, finally, push me away.
I was hurt; I was confused; I sat up, rubbed my still-sleepy eyes, and looked across at my sister. Ina was watching us; she had always been watching us with those eyes, those gray, unblinking camera eyes. Her face red, eyes bright with anger, she gasped, she rose—looking out the window, she saw Pricks standing at the platform, for the train had just pulled into the station.
Ina was sobbing now, even as Mr. Dodgson was holding on to her arm, trying to explain. “Ina, wait—you’re upset!” Shaking her head, pulling free, she kicked against the door until the conductor reached up to open it.
I was still seated, strangely calm, watching but not understanding. Ina ran to Pricks; I saw her tug at Pricks’s arm, point back at the train—back at me, and at Mr. Dodgson standing by my side, his gloves suddenly splotched with perspiration. I looked up at him and tried to pat his arm, to comfort him, for I sensed he was agitated. For the first time in my life, he pulled away, rejecting me—as if he was ashamed.
Pricks strode over to the train carriage; she reached up to Edith, who was standing in the doorway, and helped her down. I slid off the seat, walked to the top of the step—there was steam coming from the engine, just two carriages up—and I looked at Pricks. I met her gaze levelly; she reached her hand back and slapped me across the face, hard. Tears sprang to my eyes, but they did not prevent me from seeing the horrible grin that split her ugly brown face in two.
Without a word, she grabbed my hand, pulled me roughly off the train—I tumbled down the last step, twisting my ankle—and tugged me away, off toward the waiting carriage. Only before I would follow, I turned back; Mr. Dodgson was standing on the platform, alone. His hat was in his hands, his face was pale, his soft, sensuous mouth was open, but for once he had no words; no story, to help me make sense of it all. He simply stood, a tall, slim, suddenly lesser man.
He looked as if he had just been robbed of something precious.
I did not see him again for a very long time. Pricks and Ina filled Mamma’s head with words that were true, yet not; I heard them whisper, scheme, like two harpies or witches. When I found them, she was wearing hardly any clothes. When I saw them at the fireworks, he had her head upon his breast. She said she knew all about where babies come from. They kissed, Mamma. I saw it with my own eyes. He kissed her, like Papa kisses you. I saw it, too, madam—I saw it in his eyes.
Then Mamma ordered me to show her the letters he had sent:
Do you remember how it felt, to roll about on the grass?
With a cry, a horrible, anguished—furious—cry, Mamma tore through the nursery, tore through my things—my beautiful little box where I stored all my treasures, my drawers, my cupboards and trunks—looking for something; looking for more. She took the letters, and she threw them in the nursery hearth, stirring them up, ripping them with the poker, all the while crying and saying things I could not understand. “You wicked, wicked girl! That horrible man! You’re ruined, that’s what! Ruined! No one will ever have you now!”
I ran after her, pulling at her arm; this felt like a violation more than anything else. “You can’t read my letters! You have no right!” Hot, angry tears rushed to my eyes as I watched the papers burn.
With only one look—one deadly, disgusted look—Mamma forbade me to cry.
She did not forbid me to speak, however; but I did not. Through it all, I spoke not a word. I sat, and I listened to them ruin Mr. Dodgson for me—for us—forever. They called him horrible names; they begged Papa to dismiss him from the college. It would only be much later, when I was a parent myself, that I would wonder why Papa never appeared to consider this.
I said nothing in Mr. Dodgson’s defense. Although I knew his innocence, I was more interested in protecting my own. I hid behind my age—for they were willing to give me that, at least; telling me, telling one another, that fortunately, I was young, too young. He had nothing to hide behind, however; after all, he was an adult. And I suspected that outside of Wonderland, adults were supposed to behave differently. Adults were supposed to know better.
So, with my silence, I banished him from Wonderland; years later, he would do the same to me.
And this—instead of happiness—would be only what the two of us deserved, after all.
THE SHADOWS ARE LONG and deep; the fire has died down to a contented glow, the embers winking lazily at me as I open my eyes. I stir, my body stiff from lying so still upon the chaise. I must have been here for an hour, at the very least.
Sitting up, clutching the afghan about my shoulders like a shawl, I blink my watery old eyes, but I am no longer tired. I am energized, all of a sudden; my thoughts no longer muddled, no dark cloud of confusion, suspicion, hovering over my mind.
Clearly, I see; finally, my memories are my own.
My words to young Peter come back to me—I suppose, at some point, we have to decide which memories to hold on to, and which ones to let go.
I walk to my desk. Ina’s letter is still there, still unanswered. Sitting down, putting my spectacles back on, I unbind the black ribbon around the other letters and open them up with trembling fingers, forcing myself to read them one last time:
Dearest Heart,
I am wretched with worry over you. I must maintain a detached, dignified air, outwardly expressing mild concern, for naturally, as the daughter of the Dean, I would be properly anxious to hear word of your welfare.
My letters to Leo, the ones I wrote during his illness but never sent. I had intended to show them to him one day, but one day never came.
There are other letters, too: Letters to Alan, and to Rex, written after they had died. Letters of a grieving mother to her fallen sons. Letters I never shared with Regi, although I realize now—too late—he might have found comfort in them.
Ina’s letter, as well. The letter I began to her but never finished. The letter I could not have written until today.
I will not write it, after all; it is not my place to do so.
I take these letters and walk resolutely toward the fire; pulling up a low wicker stool, I sit down and clasp the packet to my heart. It is love, after all, that is within them; it is love, after all, that is within me. I started out too boldly; I wanted love too much, and I believed that was my mistake, causing all that came after: losing Leo, Edith, marrying a man I did not know I loved until it was far too late, having three sons as a result, two of whom had to lose their lives on a battlefield. Everyone I loved died, while I lived on. Is that a tragedy?
Or is it a fantasy? A wondrous tale for children?
For there is still the story of a little girl.
The other stories—memories—are mine to do with as I choose, for the world, after all, only wants to know the other. And that is how it should be; she—I—should live on as a happy, plucky little girl, for whom no conundrum is too difficult to solve with common sense and patience.
I raise the packet of letters to my lips, kiss them—for if I cannot, at eighty, indulge my emotions, when can I?—and slowly let them fall into the slumbering embers. I do not poke them or tear them. I simply watch as their edges brown, then curl, then burn.
Yet they are not gone; they are within me, all of them—Leo, Edith, Alan, Rex, Regi. I will take them all with me when I am gone, which will not be long from now; I can feel it in my tired heart, a heart that has been torn up and pieced back together too many times. The threads are fraying, as fragile as the black silk ribbon in my hand; they will soon give way.
I did not choose this, Peter had said.
I did, I had replied. And so I did; so, now, I do.
For eighty years I have been, at various times, a gypsy girl, a muse, a lover, a mother, a wife. But for one man, and for the world, I will always be a seven-year-old girl named Alice. That is the only letter that need remain; it is the memory I decide, in this moment, to hold on to, as I watch the rest disappear into cinders and ash and, finally, smoke; smoke that flies up the chimney, out into the cold air, floating down across the peaceful grounds of my home, of Cuffnells.
Alice I am, Alice I will be.
Alice I have been.




CUFFNELLS, 1932


But oh my dear, I am tired of being Alice in Wonderland. Does it sound ungrateful? It is. Only I do get tired.
ONLY I DO GET TIRED.
I pause, place the pen down next to the page, and massage my aching hand; the joints of my fingers, in particular, are stiff and cold and ugly, like knots on a tree. One does get tired of so many things, of course, when one is eighty, not the least of which is answering endless letters.
However, I cannot say that, not to my own son. Although I’m not entirely sure what I am trying to say in this letter to Caryl, so kindly inquiring as to my health after our hectic journey. He accompanied me to America, naturally; if I’m being completely truthful, I would have to admit my son was much more excited about the prospect of escorting Alice in Wonderland across the ocean than Alice herself was in going.
“But Mamma,” he said in that coy way—entirely ridiculous for a man of his age, and I told him so. “We—you—owe it to the public. All this interest in Lewis Carroll, simply because it’s the centennial of his birth, and everyone wants to meet the real Alice. An honorary doctorate from Columbia University.” He consulted the telegram in his hand. “Interviews on the radio. You simply must go. You’ll have a marvelous time.”
“You mean you’ll have a marvelous time.” I knew my son too well, knew his strengths and his flaws, and unfortunately the latter outnumbered the former, and they always had. When I thought of his brothers—
No, I will not. That is uncharitable to Caryl and painful to myself.
Surprisingly, when the time came I did have a marvelous time. So much fuss made over me! Bands playing when the ship docked, banners everywhere, even confetti; endless photographs of me drinking tea—so tedious, but the Americans simply could not get enough of that. Alice in Wonderland at a tea party! Imagine! It was a miracle they didn’t ask Caryl to dress up as the Mad Hatter.
However, to be feted by scholars—it took me back, in such an unexpected way, to my childhood, to Oxford. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed the stimulating atmosphere of academia, the pomp and circumstance, the endless arguments that no one could win, which was never the point; the point was purely the love of discourse, the heat of the battle.
Shockingly—and despite what I had been warned—I found everyone in America to be perfectly charming, with the exception of one unfortunate youth who offered me a stick of something called “chewing gum” just prior to the ceremony at Columbia. “What does one do with it?” I inquired, only to be told, simply, to chew. “Chew? Without swallowing?”
A nod.
“To what end? What possibly could be the point?”
The young man could not answer that, and withdrew his invitation with a sheepish smile.
Still, what was truly tiresome—what is always truly tiresome—was the disappointment, brief and politely suppressed, evident in all the faces. The disappointment of looking for a little girl, a bright little girl in a starched white pinafore, and finding an old lady instead.
I understand. I myself suffer it each time I consult a looking glass, only to wonder how the glass can be so cracked and muddled—and then realize, with a pang of despair, that it is not the glass that is deficient, after all.
It is not merely vanity, although I admit I have more than my fair share of this conceit. Other elderly dowagers, however, were not immortalized in print as a little girl, and not merely as a little girl but rather as the embodiment of Childhood itself. So they are not confronted by people who ask, always so very eagerly, to see “the real Alice”—and who cannot hide the shock, the disbelief, that the real Alice has not been able to stop time.
So, yes, I do get tired. Of pretending, of remembering who I am, and who I am not, and if I sometimes get the two confused—much like the Alice in the story—I may be excused. For I am eighty.
I am also tired of being asked “Why?”
Why did I sell the manuscript, the original version of Alice’s Adventures Under Ground, printed by Mr. Dodgson just for me? (Lewis Carroll I did not know; they are merely words on a page—written by Lewis Carroll. They have nothing to do with the man I remember.)
Why would the muse part with the evidence of the artist’s devotion? Even Americans, with their eagerness to put a price on everything, could not understand.
I look out the windows—the heavy leaded-glass windows, not as sparkling as I would wish; I’ll have to speak to Mary Ann about that—of my sitting room, which overlooks the lush, heavily forested grounds of Cuffnells. Today the clouds are low, so the tempting glitter of the Solent is hidden from view. I can see the lawn where the boys played, Alan and Rex (and yes, Caryl); the pitch where they played cricket; the paths where they first learned to ride and where they strode home with their first stag, accompanied by their father, so very proud—and I know I made the only decision possible. This place, this is my sons’ childhood, their heritage, and it’s all I have left.
The other, the simply bound manuscript posted to me one cold November morning, long after the golden afternoon of its creation—that was my childhood. Only it had never truly belonged to me; Mr. Dodgson, of all people, understood that.
The clock on the mantel chimes twice; how long have I been sitting here staring out the window? The ink on the nib of my pen has dried. I find myself doing such idle, silly things so often these days, these days when my thoughts scatter like billiard balls into their respective pockets, these days when I am so very tired, unaccountably weary; I even find myself dozing off at the oddest moments, such as teatime, or late mornings when I should be going over accounts.
Simply contemplating my eternal weariness provokes a yawn, and I look longingly at the chaise in the corner, with its faded red afghan thrown over the arm. I manage to stifle the yawn and tell myself sternly that it is only two o’clock, and there is much to do.
I fold the letter to Caryl neatly in thirds; I’ll finish it later. I open my desk drawer and remove a stack of letters bound with a worn black silk ribbon, letters that I have begun and not finished, for various reasons. I have learned, through the years, it is the letter not sent that is often the most valuable.
There, right on top, is the letter I began almost two years ago:
Dear Ina,
I received your kind letter of Tuesday last—
And that is all I have managed to write. Ina’s kind letter of Tuesday last also is within this bundle; I remove it, adjust my spectacles (really, the indignities of age are most trying), and peruse it once more.
I suppose you don’t remember when Mr. Dodgson ceased coming to the Deanery? How old were you? I said his manner became too affectionate toward you as you grew older and that Mother spoke to him about it, and that offended him so that he ceased coming to see us again, as one had to give some reason for all intercourse ceasing—
This is the letter that I long to answer, not the one from Caryl kindly inquiring as to my health. No, this letter, this ghost missive from my sister, dear Ina, dead now two years, almost. Yet the muddled memories she stirred up—the memories she always managed to stir up, or manufacture, as if she were a conjurer or a witch instead of a perfect Victorian lady—will not die with her.
Will they die with Alice? I often wonder. Before I am gone from this earth, before my bones lie in the churchyard, so far away from where those other bones lie, I do hope that others’ memories will finally fall away and I will be able to remember, with a clarity of my very own, what happened that afternoon. That seemingly lovely summer afternoon, when between the two of us, we set out to destroy Wonderland—my Wonderland, his Wonderland—forever.
So yes, I do get tired; tired of pretending to be Alice in Wonderland still, always. Although it has been no easier being Alice Pleasance Hargreaves. Truly, I wonder; I have always wondered—
Which is the real Alice, and which the pretend?
Oh dear! I’m sounding like one of Mr. Dodgson’s nonsense poems now. He was so very clever at that sort of thing; much cleverer than I, who never had the patience, not then, not now.
I remove my spectacles; massage the bridge of my nose where they pinch. My head is throbbing, threatening, and I do not like being in this state. The journey was exhausting, if I’m being entirely truthful. I am tired of being Alice, period; yet my memories will not let me rest, not as long as I’m reading through old letters, which is the surest sign yet that I have become a doddering old fool.
The chaise looks so inviting; it’s such a cold afternoon.
Perhaps I will lie down, after all.