Chapter 3
Dear Miss Alice,
The Perfect Day knocked on my window this morning. It said you were to be ready this afternoon, after your lessons, for an Adventure. Would you mind if your silly old Uncle Dodgson joined you, too? I don’t know about you, but I am rather tired of being myself. Aren’t you? Would you like to be someone else, just for today?
Yours,
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson
(22 letters, still, to your 21)
HOWEVER DID HE KNOW? THAT TODAY WAS THE PERFECT day for me to escape, unnoticed, and have an adventure? Also, that I was rather tired of being myself, clumsy, lazy, thoughtless Alice (to name just a few of the words that Pricks, Mamma, and Ina had used to describe me in the last few weeks)?
I paused only a second to marvel at his insight. Then I set about trying to plot my escape, which would not be difficult, as today was the day we were going to get the new baby and everyone was much exercised. Mamma was up in her bedroom; she had not come down at all, not for more than a day. Phoebe was running to and from the nursery and the bedroom, carrying piles of freshly laundered towels and linens and bundles and bundles of candles even though the sun was bright; I’d never seen so many, not even in church.
Dr. Acland was in the hall outside Mamma’s room with Papa; they were talking in low tones, occasionally laughing, and not looking very useful at all. Dr. Acland had brought with him several women, who were in Mamma’s room. I imagined they were all having some sort of tea party while they waited.
Pricks and Ina were in a frightful state. Pricks declared a holiday from lessons today, as she felt we would make too much noise; the schoolroom was directly above Mamma’s bedroom. She and Ina were supposed to be assisting Phoebe in getting the nursery ready, although I could not see that they were much help at all. Ina insisted upon placing fresh flowers all around—which Phoebe insisted upon removing, muttering that they smelled of outdoors and most likely were full of insects—while Pricks sat in the rocking chair, gliding back and forth with a dreamy smile on her face. She was back to her silly ways, now that Mr. Dodgson had resumed his visits.
Still, by the way she looked at me—always with a little intake of breath, as if simply seeing me reminded her of her own worst fears—I understood that she had not forgotten that afternoon, when I told her all I knew. I had no real comprehension of what had transpired, yet I did know that it would linger, always, between Pricks and me, and that I would never try to help her again.
With all that was going on—really, I wondered at the demanding nature of babies; this one hadn’t even arrived, and the household was topsy-turvy!—I had no difficulty stealing down to the front door (remembering to bring a compass, a handkerchief, and four chocolate-covered biscuits, tucked in my skirt pocket, because I didn’t know what Mr. Dodgson had in mind, and I was resolved to be prepared) to wait.
Only one person noticed. The Mary Ann from the kitchen—Mamma called all maids Mary Ann; she said it was easier that way—came running past, carrying a hot kettle of water, the handle wrapped tightly in a kitchen towel. She stopped when she saw me, and some water sloshed out from under the lid, splashing her already damp apron. She frowned, her face as red and perspiring as all maids’ faces generally were; her damp hair frizzed out from under her plain white cap.
“Oh, my heavens! What are you doing here, lamb? Won’t Miss Prickett be wondering where you are?”
“She sent me out on an errand,” I replied, surprised at how easily I told the lie, and wondering why I chose to in the first place. What did I have to hide? Nothing; something. “I’m to run to the stationer’s to get some notepaper for the baby. The baby needs notepaper.”
“Fine, fine,” Mary Ann said absently. “Don’t get dirty.” She hurried upstairs, trying not to spill water on the carpet.
I sighed. Why did everyone—even maids—feel the need to tell me this on a daily basis?
I decided I ought to slip out now, in case Mary Ann ran into Pricks and told her my plans. Carefully I opened the door—it did have a tendency to squeak, like most doors, but today it decided to behave—and stepped out into the sunshine, shutting the door behind me. I surveyed the Quad; it was full of students, as the term had just begun. I wondered if I’d see the Prince of Wales. He’d just come down to Oxford, and it had been very exciting. Even as fat as she was, Mamma had insisted on holding the first reception; I had been allowed to stay up and meet him. He was very jolly, and shook my hand, and signed my autograph book, and told me my curtsy was very pretty, indeed, and that he had a brother my age named Leopold, who was a capital little fellow, and that I’d probably like him very much.
Then I was whisked off to the nursery, as usual.
Mr. Dodgson told me he’d asked if he could photograph him, but the Prince said no. I understood how posing for pictures could be tiring, but the Prince did not know Mr. Dodgson. He turned it all into a game, first posing us and then sitting down and telling us stories, sometimes drawing pictures; just at the point when we’d become absorbed in the stories, he’d run to prepare the plate, put it into the camera and tell us to hold very still, and remove the lens cover. He always counted out loud, sometimes as high as forty-five, but sometimes he did it backward, and other times he did it from the middle—starting at twenty-two and going back and forth until he said, “Forty-five, one—finished!” Finally, we could relax, and then he would continue the story.
He made it such a lark; not a bore, not at all. After the photograph was taken, we’d be rewarded by helping him develop the glass plate, and the combination of odors—of acid, chemical smells, and then the faint scent of cloves that always surrounded Mr. Dodgson, combined with the lingering smoke from the fire in his rooms—could make my head spin. Sometimes I imagined I got rather drunk on them. I didn’t exactly know what drunk meant, only that often the characters in Mr. Dickens’s stories got that way, and when they did, they acted peculiarly and talked strangely and made Papa laugh.
I did not see the Prince out today. Only the usual mass of students, some alone, others in groups, some walking backward to continue conversations—all of them very intense about something. Even so, there were always a few fellows who were lazing about the fountain or swinging cricket bats, although this was generally frowned upon in the Quad.
At that moment, I was the only girl in sight. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, so it didn’t trouble me. My presence did not appear to trouble them, either; I felt as safe there, surrounded by dozens of adult males, none of whom gave me even a second glance except perhaps to smile my way, as I did in the nursery surrounded by females. That the two—men and women—were different, of course, I was aware. Never did I feel, however, that one was more or less dangerous than the other.
“Miss Alice!” Mr. Dodgson was standing in front of me; I hadn’t noticed his approach. He raised his black silk hat. “How is your mother?”
“Having a tea party, I suppose,” I replied. “She and the ladies Dr. Acland brought with him. The baby should be here directly.”
“Oh.” Mr. Dodgson looked at me, a peculiar expression on his face, as if he was deciding whether or not to laugh. After a minute he simply nodded.
“Pricks and Ina are busy in the nursery, so they told me to go without them,” I lied; once more, I wondered why I did so. My thoughts simply would not behave this afternoon!
“I supposed they might be busy today,” Mr. Dodgson said. Surprised, I glanced up at him; was that why this was the Perfect Day—because he knew Pricks and Ina couldn’t accompany us? (Edith I had left in the nursery, playing happily with her dolls.)
“What is it? What’s the surprise?” I couldn’t stop myself from jumping up and down; I’d waited so long—months, even! Months during which Mr. Dodgson had gone on holiday, although we hadn’t, not this year; usually we summered in Wales, where Papa was going to build us a house. This year, Mamma was too tired to travel; she said the train was too bouncy. So I’d passed the summer at home in Oxford; such a quiet, lazy place during the holidays. Unlike during the school terms, when there was always a constant, catching buzz in the very air.
Even as I was prancing about, I was dismayed to see that in one hand Mr. Dodgson was carrying his camera, folded neatly in its wooden box; with the other, he held his tripod over his shoulder.
“That’s the surprise?” My heart sank as I stopped in my tracks. Another photograph? That was what the Perfect Day had meant?
“Y-yes and no. Yes, I’d like to take your photograph, please. But this is going to be different. How would you like to walk on the grass in your bare feet?”
“Without my shoes?” I looked up at him, unable to believe what I’d heard. Walking—perhaps even running—on grass, simply feeling it against my bare skin, no fussy, confining layers of clothing or stiff shoes between me and the earth? It was one of my fondest desires, and I’d never, ever told Mr. Dodgson. Somehow he’d known anyway; his blue eyes, one slightly higher than the other, gazing down at me intently as if I were the answer to a question he could not bring himself to ask, told me so. He’d known, he knew, so very much about me.
“Without your shoes, just like a wild gypsy. Would you like to be a gypsy today, Alice?”
“That’s what you meant in your note, about being someone else?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, it sounds tremendous! Shall I take my shoes off now?” I desired so very much to please him; he looked at me wistfully, as if he was already imagining the gypsy me. Smiling, he set the camera down, bent slightly, in that stiff way of his, and stroked my cheek. His gloved hand was soft as the blanket I had placed, just this morning, in the new baby’s bed.
“Not now.” He jerked his hand away from me and looked over his shoulder, as if he feared someone was watching. “Let’s go to the far corner of the garden. I’ve already brought my tent and case there—the light’s perfect.” I was no longer in his thoughts; now he was concerned with the photograph—would the light be favorable, the wind too strong, the chemicals spoiled, and the glass plates cracked? So many things could go wrong, I knew. I grew very anxious, thinking of them all.
“Do you think it will turn out right?” I proceeded to follow him through the arch that led round to the back of the house, to our private garden. Tripping on an uneven stone in the walk, I scuffed the toe of my shoe; my heart sank—already, I was dirty.
“Most likely. Who knows? It will be exciting to find out, won’t it?”
I nodded. Of course it would. That was the jolly part about being photographed; one never really knew how it would turn out. There was always that moment in the chemical bath when the image first appeared on the glass plate, like a ghost swimming up from the past, and you didn’t know if the image would be clear and sharp or remain a blur forever. My stomach always was in pleasurable knots at that moment. It was like opening a present, every time.
“Oh, but wait!” I stopped.
“What is it, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson turned around, so patient with me.
“Whatever shall I wear? I don’t have any gypsy clothes!”
“Ah, but I have. An old gypsy herself lent them to me.”
“Really?” I did so want to believe him; believe that an old gypsy woman, with rings and bells and scarves draped all over, had knocked on the door to his rooms and given him a little girl gypsy’s dress.
Yet there was always that watchful part of me that asked, Have you ever chanced upon a gypsy woman in the Quad? On the High Street? In the Meadow? And how would she know where Mr. Dodgson lived? Why would she give him a dress?
Sometimes I despised that part of me.
“Truly she did, Alice. Don’t you believe me?”
I sighed. I did so want to.
“You’re an old soul, Alice. Did you know that? Most children your age would leap at the notion of a gypsy woman. But not you. You’re too wise.”
I didn’t know what to say to him; he looked at me so dreamily, so hopefully. I knew that if I said a word, I’d disappoint him. So I merely smiled, allowing myself to be happy for this moment, this Perfect Day, and relaxed my watchfulness for now.
Opening the weathered gate to the garden, I shrank back from walking directly across it. I kept to the outer stone wall instead, even though it was much farther that way. Mr. Dodgson didn’t ask why. Yet he knew. He knew I didn’t want anyone inside the Deanery to see. I imagined—I hoped—that everyone was too busy to notice us. Still, Mamma would be very angry if she saw me as a gypsy girl in my bare feet. Perhaps even angry enough to drop the baby, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that. However, I was more concerned about Ina and Pricks. If either of them saw me alone with Mr. Dodgson—my stomach fluttered uneasily at the notion. They hadn’t been invited, and the longer they remained ignorant of this, the better for everyone, myself in particular.
“There are your rooms,” said I, when we were halfway around the wall, far enough away from the Deanery—the windows looked like little half-closed eyes along the back of the house—that I felt safe. I pointed up toward the library, directly across the garden from the Deanery. “Did you see us playing croquet yesterday?” I knew he sometimes looked down at us while we played in the garden, but never before had I mentioned it.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” was all he said, and I felt as if this was a subject we should discuss no further, although I was puzzled as to the reason.
It was chilly in the shadows of the garden, as it was October; I hugged myself to keep warm and wondered how cold I’d be in my bare feet. I determined that I would not let Mr. Dodgson see that it worried me.
At last we achieved the corner farthest from the Deanery, well hidden by trees showing off their autumn colors; this was where Mr. Dodgson had set up his equipment. There was his black leather chemical case, and a gauzy awning on poles, shading the corner where two walls met—he used this awning to filter the sun whenever he photographed us outside—and also his dark canvas tent, so cunningly small. It was just my height, so naturally Mr. Dodgson had to stoop very low in order to use it, which never failed to make me laugh.
“Where is my gypsy dress?”
“Behind the tent. But first, let’s set you up and take a photograph of you just as you are.”
“Just as me?” I couldn’t conceal my disappointment; I did get so weary of being me.
“Just as you, but that’s a wonderful thing. Just Alice.” Mr. Dodgson smiled, and I felt somewhat better.
“I do despise my hair so.” I didn’t stifle my sigh as I shook my head, feeling the ends of my hair brush the back of my neck. I so longed to feel the weight of hair hanging down my back.
Mr. Dodgson laughed.
“Don’t you know? Your hair is part of what makes you special! I could photograph every little girl in Oxford, and they’d all have the same kind of hair—long curls with bows. You stand out, of all of them. That’s why I want to photograph you—only you could be my gypsy girl.”
“Oh!” I hadn’t thought of it that way, and the notion tickled my insides until I smiled. I beamed at him as he busied himself with the tripod and camera. However did he do it? How did he make me feel so special? I wondered if he had anyone in his life to do the same for him; I knew that he probably didn’t. He did seem so very lonely at times.
“Your—your hair is very nice, too. And I like your gloves.” I didn’t, though. They were always either black or gray, as strange and off-putting as he himself often appeared to others. He did not appear that way to me, however, and so I vowed, from that moment, to tell him so as often as possible.
Every person, no matter how old, no matter how odd, needed someone like that in their lives, I thought.
Mr. Dodgson paused; his eyes widened, and his color deepened. I believed I saw his hands tremble. “Tha-thank you, Alice,” was all he said. Then he busied himself with his camera, and while I was nearly shivering as I stood motionless, watching, he worked so energetically that eventually he removed his hat, his black coat, and placed them carefully upon a stone bench. He pushed his white shirtsleeves up as well, but never did he remove his gray gloves.
“Now, stand in the corner, please.”
“Like this?” I posed, my hands by my sides, experience having taught me it was easier to hold still that way.
“Yes, but turn to your left—not that much! Just a little. Turn your head back toward me. Can you hold that?”
Steadying myself on my feet, I pressed my hands down upon my skirt. My neck already felt stiff, but I would not tell him. “Yes, I think so.”
“Well done! Now relax a moment, but don’t move. I’ll just go prepare the plate.” He dashed beneath the tent, although part of him—his rear part—stuck out. I didn’t dare laugh.
Instead, I glanced back toward the Deanery to see if there was movement in any of the windows. The tree branches obscured most of the windows from view, which was a relief; if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. So I relaxed and allowed myself to wonder what the gypsy-girl dress looked like. I did hope that it had smudges on it, and that it might be torn.
“Now, back to your pose!” Mr. Dodgson emerged from the tent, the plate holder in his hand. Pushing it into the back of the camera, he waited for me to take a big breath. Then he removed the round lens cover and began to count. “One, three, two, four, six, five, eight, seven, ten, nine—” and I felt it was very unfair of him to be so silly when I had to keep still, concentrating on the lens, that round, unblinking eye. Finally he got to forty-five, and he placed the cover back over the lens; I let out my breath in a big laugh. He ran to embrace me—“There’s a good girl!”—then hurried back to the camera, pulling out the lens holder and rushing it to the tent.
“May I bathe it?” I asked, shaking my arms and legs, twisting my neck. I did so enjoy washing the plate in its tray, waiting for the picture to emerge.
“Not this time, I’ve already started. Next one, I promise.”
“Where’s my dress? Shall I change?”
“Just on the other side of the tent. Go ahead, but try not to jostle it, please.”
“I won’t!”
I walked carefully around the tent and found a piece of worn, faded fabric draped across one corner. It took me a moment to realize this was the dress; there wasn’t very much to it, not at all like my regular frocks with their flounces and layers—why, the sleeves of the frock I was wearing had three layers to them!
Holding this sliver of cloth—for that was what it seemed to me—my heart began to race. I was very certain that Mamma would not like me to wear this, especially not in front of a gentleman, even Mr. Dodgson. My nightgown had much more fabric to it.
“Shall I—shall I leave my petticoats on, anyway?” I couldn’t control my voice; it warbled like a nightingale. A bug tickled the back of my neck, and I swatted at it. It felt peculiar back here, hidden in this corner by the tent, clutching a strange girl’s dress; it didn’t feel as if I was in my own garden at all. I might as well have been in deepest Africa, a notion that normally would have excited me. At that moment, however, it scarcely registered.
“Oh, no. Would a gypsy girl have petticoats?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice was muffled; I heard the swish of liquid in a container, inhaled the sharp smell of acid.
“I suppose not. What about my chemise?” Imagining myself clad only in this thin layer of cotton, I actually shivered.
“I don’t—your chemise? I’m not sure—at any rate, I don’t think a gypsy girl would have many clothes on except her dress, do you? So just the dress, please.”
“Oh.” I took the dress, held it up to me, then dropped it to the ground. Clutching my own skirt, I fingered the stiff, familiar lace like a good-luck charm. Then I realized something very important.
I realized I had never before undressed myself.
Phoebe performed that task, or one of the Mary Anns. All my buttons were in the back; every night I obediently turned around and waited for someone to unbutton all of them, help me step out of the billowing fabric, unfasten all my petticoats—again, all of which fastened at my back. Every night someone did.
Yet I couldn’t let Mr. Dodgson down. So I resolved to do it myself; I reached behind my shoulder, feeling for the top button; I felt and felt but never did find it, although my shoulder began to ache and little drops of perspiration dribbled down my back. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and tried once more.
Finally I felt the top button, cold and hard, and managed to push it through its hole. But there were so many buttons still to go! My eyes filled with tears, for I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to bother Mr. Dodgson. Oh, what did little gypsy girls do when they had to get undressed? Suddenly that thin layer of clothing made sense; at least they weren’t so dependent upon adults. I hadn’t realized how helpless I myself was, really—no better than the new baby—until this moment.
Blinking my eyes—I resolved not to cry, as I knew my nose would get red and ruin the photograph—I tried once more. Reaching down the middle of my back, I groped and groped for a button, until I thought I heard the telltale rip of fabric splitting. I dropped my arm, panicked. How would I explain a torn dress to Mamma?
“Here, allow me to help,” a kind, soft voice said. I didn’t turn around; I squeezed my eyes shut, letting out my breath in a ragged, soggy burst; not quite tears, though. Then I felt hands—Mr. Dodgson’s hands—upon my back. First one button. Then the next. He carefully—awkwardly—undid all my buttons from the top down, and as the bodice of my dress fell away, I felt the cool breeze tickle my shoulders, working its way down to my waist. Mixed with that breeze was warm, steady breath, and the combination made me shiver.
“Are you cold?” He sounded worried.
“N-no,” I lied.
“You’ll be in the sun soon enough.”
“I know.”
My dress was unbuttoned; I started to wriggle out of it but somehow became tangled up in the hem. Mr. Dodgson steadied me, his hands upon my shoulders; his hands felt both warm and cold at the same time. They felt different; they felt—
Bare. He had removed his gloves.
My mouth was dry, for some reason. I wished I had some lemonade. Or tea.
“Here, let’s get you out of the rest,” Mr. Dodgson said, his voice still very soft and patient. His hands, though, were not. They trembled, and twisting around I saw, as he unfastened my top petticoat, that they were stained, black on the fingertips; I hoped they wouldn’t stain my petticoats as well.
“Is that why you always wear gloves?” I tried to ignore whatever it was that was worrying me; it was too vague, at any rate, to name. I did want to know the answer to my question, though, even as I realized, too late, that it might not be polite to ask.
“N-no, not really. It’s from the chemicals,” he explained, turning me around so that I faced him. And now that I could see him, see his kind, sad face with the soft cheeks, long eyelashes, as long as any girl’s, I forgot the worry that had sat, uneasily, in the pit of my stomach. I was eager to help; we got my petticoats off in a flash, and it didn’t appear to me that he had left his dirty fingerprints upon them. I pulled my chemise over my head.
He did look away then, passing his hand over his eyes as if he had a headache. Quickly, I tugged the gypsy dress down over my shoulders; its folds were thin and worn, soft as a caress against my skin.
“It’s so torn!” It was; it hung over my shoulder in strips; most of my arm was bare. It was also quite short, scarcely covering my knees.
“Let’s fix it,” Mr. Dodgson said, starting to pull at the fabric with his clumsy, stained fingers. Suddenly, however, he dropped his hands, stood up, and told me, quite sharply, to rumple it myself. Then he went back round the front of the tent, to the camera.
I followed, tugging on the dress, but something did not feel quite right. Should I tear the dress further? Rub dirt in it? I didn’t feel as unkempt as I had hoped; I still felt like myself. Like Alice.
“Oh, my shoes!” I realized. I sat down upon the grass, for once not mindful of stains; the ground was cool and damp against the back of my thighs, as the dress did not offer much protection. I removed my stockings and shoes, tossing them away in a heap. Then I jumped up, and I felt the dirt, the tickling grass, the hard little pebbles digging into the bottoms of my tender feet, and I wiggled my toes.
“It’s wonderful!” I looked up at Mr. Dodgson. He was leaning on his camera, gazing at me, one of his sad, serious smiles on his lips. I felt my skin—my naked, vulnerable skin—warm under his gaze. “How do I look?”
“Like a gypsy girl. Like a wild little beggar girl. Go on—run about, run all you want, roll if you want. I know you want to!”
“Oh, I do, I do!” And I did; I jumped about, kicking at branches on the ground—they slapped at my toes, stinging a little; holding on to the trunk, I ran around a tree, rubbing against it, feeling it rough against my arms, tearing at my dress. I ran and ran, round and round, delighting in the freedom—I could lift my legs as high as I wished, for there were no petticoats holding them down; I could run as fast as I desired, too, because my dress was not tight against my waist. I could breathe freely, deeply.
Finally, I rolled. I rolled in the grass, like a wild creature. I rolled, every leaf, every twig sticking to my dress, my hair, and when I stood up I was so dizzy I fell right back down again. I did not care. Best of all, no one was there to tell me, “Alice, don’t get dirty.” “Alice, don’t tear your dress.” “Alice, don’t lose your gloves.”
Only Mr. Dodgson was there, watching me, always watching me, looking quite as if he wished he could roll on the ground with me, but that was too silly to contemplate. He smiled, and asked nothing of me other than that I enjoy this moment. And that he be allowed to share it with me.
“Do I look wild enough?” I shouted, digging up a handful of dirt and crumbling it between my fingers.
“Quite. Almost too wild—we’ll have to get those leaves out of your hair.”
“Oh!” I jumped up again, and started shaking my head. I was grateful, for once, that it was short and simple. I could scarcely imagine how difficult it would be to comb leaves and twigs out of Edith’s mass of hair; it would take days, even using one of the stableboy’s hay forks as a comb.
“You missed one.” Mr. Dodgson pulled me close, bending down, brushing at my wispy hair. His hand—his dry, bare hand—lingered at my temple, and I closed my eyes and leaned into it. I was out of breath and content to rest in the palm of his hand. I believe he was content, too, for when I opened my eyes he was smiling, and while it was dreamy, it wasn’t sad. His eyes, deep blue, brighter than usual, turned up at the edges for once. We stayed that way; somehow our breaths started to match until a bird flew overhead, throwing a shadow across us.
“The light will be going soon,” Mr. Dodgson said then, looking up at the sky. “Are you ready, gypsy girl?”
“Yes, kind gentleman. The gypsy girl will pose for you now.”
“Excellent. Why don’t you stand in the corner, then—up on that ledge, see? Can you balance on it?”
“Yes.” I did so, although the ledge was cold and a bit slippery, and I had to curl my toes around it.
“Now. Why don’t you hold your hands out, in front of you—both of them?”
“Like this?” I turned my palms up and out, just like the poor urchins I’d seen in the streets, the last time we’d been up to London. There had been so many of them, so pale and thin and dirty, but Mamma had said we weren’t to feel sorry for them. They knew their place.
I could not understand her meaning. Perhaps they knew their place, but they obviously weren’t very content with it. Why else did some of them beg to be taken home with us?
“Yes, that’s good. Can you hold that?”
I nodded.
“I’ll just prepare the plate.” He disappeared inside the tent once more; I stifled a yawn. Rolling on the ground was awfully tiring; so, too, was posing.
Mr. Dodgson returned, forcing the plate holder into the camera. Instead of hurrying to expose it, however, he walked over to me, moving my hands up, pulling one side of the dress down. He smoothed my hair, plucked another leaf out of it, then walked backward—very slowly—toward the camera. He did not take his eyes off me.
“Lower your head a trifle, Alice, then look up. Look up at me.”
I did so.
“No, only your eyes—look at me with your eyes, Alice. Look only at me.”
His voice sounded strange, thick and unsure. I looked up, keeping my head lowered, using only my eyes, waiting for him to remove the lens cover and count.
Only he did not.
“I dr-dreamed of you, Alice,” he said, standing next to the camera, his arms hanging stiffly by his sides, his white shirt rumpled, his face flushed with strange emotion. “I dreamed of you this way. Do you dream, Alice?”
I looked at him, unsure what to do. Did he desire me to move or answer? If I did, I’d spoil the photograph. Yet he looked so strange, so lost, as if he had forgotten the camera was even there.
“Y-yes, I do,” I answered slowly, trying to keep my head from moving.
“What do you dream?”
“I don’t remember, not usually. Sometimes I dream of animals, or birthdays. I don’t really remember.”
“I dream when I’m awake sometimes,” he continued, still not moving toward the camera; holding me upright through the power of his gaze. “I rarely dream at night. But during the day, sometimes—I get headaches, Alice. I d-don’t tell people that. But I do.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not, because of the dreams I get, beforehand. Do you know what I dream of?”
“No,” I whispered. I was afraid to move; I was afraid not to.
“I dream of you,” Mr. Dodgson whispered back. “Of Alice. Wild and charming and ever young, yet also old. I dream of you as you are—and you as you would like to be. As I would like you to be.”
“Which am I now?” I tried very hard to understand what he meant, but his words would turn and twist, allowing me no clear path to follow.
“You’re who you want to be. You always are.”
“Mayn’t I just be the gypsy girl now, please?” My legs were on the verge of trembling from holding the same position for so long; my shoulders wanted to twitch; every part of me desired to move. It was getting colder by the minute, and there was nothing between me and the brisk autumn air.
Finally Mr. Dodgson remembered the camera. He gave a little start, shook his head—which worried me, because I didn’t want him to get one of his headaches—and looked at me again, but he only looked at the outside me. The position of my hands, the turn of my head. He did not, this time, see something else; someone else.
“Good, good. Look at me.”
I did, and was relieved to see that he looked as usual. He removed the lens cover, made an amusing face at me, daring me not to laugh, and began to count, although just in the regular way.
“Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five. There!” He replaced the cover, removed the holder, and darted back under the tent without even a backward glance.
I slid off the ledge—the arch of my foot ached—and looked around. After the strange closeness of the last few minutes—it was almost as if Mr. Dodgson and I had been the only two people alive in the entire world—I felt abandoned. A sad little gypsy girl, left behind to fend for herself—how tragic! How unfair life was to wretched little girls forced to beg in the streets, at the mercy of gentlemen, kind gentlemen, but perhaps not so kind ones; for the first time, I wondered if some gentlemen might not be as understanding as Mr. Dodgson, which only made me miss him more. Even though he was merely a few feet away, I felt something gigantic, like an ocean or a universe, separated us. I wondered if we’d ever be that close again.
So bereft did I feel that when he emerged with the plate holder in his hand to pose me once more, I laughed out loud, a laugh of pure happiness. It must have been contagious, for he began to giggle as well; he threw his head back and laughed at the sky, a hearty laugh I’d never heard from him before. It sounded full and satisfied, as if it originated from someplace deep inside. We were both laughing, although neither of us could have voiced just why, when all of a sudden Ina was before us. Face pinched, hands trembling, eyes ablaze.
“Where have you been, Alice?” Her voice was high and strained; it sounded as if she was trying not to cry. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I stole her,” Mr. Dodgson said with a smile for Ina, a conspiratorial wink for me. “I kidnapped her.”
“You?” Now I believed she was going to cry; she blinked her eyes, over and over, and took a step back, just as Mr. Dodgson turned to greet her.
“I’m afraid so. It was such a lovely day, I sent round a note this morning.”
“Just for Alice?” Ina managed to smooth her face, turning a deceptively placid gaze toward him.
“Yes, you see—I knew you would be such a help to your mother today, so I couldn’t possibly have been so selfish as to send for you. How is she, may I ask?” He smiled at her, so unruffled; I had to admire him. I knew I couldn’t have manufactured such a smashing lie on such short notice. I hadn’t imagined him to be capable of deception; today had been a revelation, in so many ways.
“She—she’s doing well, and we have a baby sister named Rhoda, which is why I was looking for Alice.”
Another sister! I already had two; I couldn’t begin to think what I would do with another one. I didn’t mind brothers so much; I hardly ever saw Harry anymore, but when he was home, Mamma and Papa were always so happy it was like having a holiday every day. Another sister was tremendously disappointing; I couldn’t suppress a sigh.
“That’s wonderful,” Mr. Dodgson said. Ina simply shrugged, then turned back to me, snub little nose in the air, as if I smelled as distasteful as I must have looked to her.
“Alice, what on earth are you wearing?”
“Doesn’t she look marvelous?” Mr. Dodgson said, before I could open my mouth. “I had an idea for an unusual photograph, as you can see, and Alice has been most cooperative.”
They stood side by side, close but not together, and looked at me. Almost naked in my torn dress, I felt exposed, betrayed—and then, suddenly, alarmingly, powerful. It was I they were looking for; it was I they were looking at; it was I, clad in nothing but rags, whom Mr. Dodgson had dreamed of.
Not Ina.
Suddenly I was proud, I was defiant, I was sure. Sure that it was I who drew Mr. Dodgson to our house, time and time again, causing people to gossip, Mamma to fret, Pricks to sigh and be ridiculous—Ina to pale and quiver and act so maddeningly.
Ina was sure, too. Perhaps I should have been afraid of that, but right then, wild and powerful and victorious, I was not. I placed my hand on my hip, held my hand out—the little gypsy girl who wasn’t to be pitied, after all.
“Hold it,” Mr. Dodgson breathed, as he ran to the camera and shoved in the plate holder. “Don’t move—that’s perfect!”
I wouldn’t; I couldn’t. For I was looking right at Ina, standing next to Mr. Dodgson. Looking at her face, mouth open, face pale, eyes red-rimmed, entire body quivering. She stared at him; she stared at me. Storing it all away, she didn’t utter a word.
Neither did I. I didn’t have to. I had won.
“Forty-five,” Mr. Dodgson said, and replaced the lens cover with a loud snap—happily unaware that he was the prize.
“I won’t forget this, Alice,” Ina hissed, blinking her eyes furiously, as he disappeared inside the dark tent. “I’m still older than you. You’re only a child, after all. I’ll make him see.”
“He already does see,” I shot back, understanding more than Ina, for once.
I held my breath as Mr. Dodgson packed away the glass plates, for they were fragile; I did not want the evidence of this day to crack or break or vanish in any way. I wanted to live on, always, as the beggar girl, his gypsy child, wild and knowing and triumphant.
What I did not understand, despite all my newly acquired wisdom, was that others might not see me—might not want to see me—that way, too.