Tennyson's Gift by Lynne Truss Read Free Book Online Page B

George remarried, she would dance the sailor’s hornpipe and set up house with a parrot. Ellen was the least morbid person who ever lived. Those pink tights, for instance. She thought Watts had found her verve attractive; she hoped that was why he had asked her to marry him. But then as his first act as a married man he had asked her to pose for ‘Choosing’ and she was forced to realize the extent of his self-deception. Given the choice between the big showy camellia and the humble scented violet, Ellen had a decided floral preference, and the violets were in the bin. ‘Choosing’ was a blatant case of authorial wish-fulfilment. It was so funny it was almost sad.
    She looked at Watts. In his dream, he was trying to talk to Haydon as though there was nothing between them, but Haydon was pale and accusing, with a long white finger and a jagged crimson slash at his neck. Ellen kicked him lightly on the shin. Her husband only frowned. Haydon was talking about gouache costing a thousand pounds a pint. Ellen decided on the ungrateful course proscribed by proverb, and with some force threw the book again at the giver’s head. Nothing.
    In his dream, the railway carriage bucked in the air as though jumping a river. And at that point, Watts felt a terrible wrench to his face, as though someone were trying to pull his head off. He jerked, he saw an ungraspable vision of theabsence of hope; and woke to discover that for some reason Ellen had fallen against him and grabbed his beard to steady herself.

    Half an hour to go, and still no Alfred. Julia’s daily letters had been written (a servant chased the post-boy up the road), so the rest of the time was hers. But it went against the grain, this quiet time. She had promised her dear husband that she would sometimes take things easy, but temperamentally it was quite beyond her. Besides – as she often pointed out to him, as he lay in his bed with his beard spread across the counterpane, a volume of Greek verse under his hand – dear old Cameron took things quite easily enough for both of them.
    â€˜Why do you write so many letters, Julia?’ Alfred had once inquired. ‘I would as soon kill a pig as write a letter. You write to your sisters every day. Do they reciprocate? I can’t believe they do.’
    â€˜I write to my sisters because they are beautiful; ever since our childhood, I felt I owed it to them.’ ‘Nonsense,’ said Alfred. Emily had intervened at this point.
    â€˜All Alfred’s family are mad or morbid, or morbidly mad; isn’t that right, Alfred?’
    â€˜Barking, the lot of them,’ boomed her lord. ‘That’s why we lost our inheritance, and I’m so beastly poor.’
    Nobody said anything. Tennyson’s belief in his own crushing poverty was a sacrosanct delusion. ‘So we feel it better to remove ourselves as much as possible,’ continued Emily sweetly. ‘For the boys’ sake.’
    Alfred had a thought.
    â€˜Did you check the boys for signs of madness this morning
    Emily?’
    â€˜I did, my dear.’
    â€˜Any signs of black blood at all? Gloom, or anything?’
    â€˜None, dear. Nobody’s mad in our house. As I will never tire of saying.’
    â€˜Well,
you’re
not mad, Emily.’
    â€˜I never said I was.’
    There was a pause.
    â€˜Will you pose for me, Alfred?’ asked Julia.
    â€˜No, I won’t,’ he replied.
    Just then, Mary Ryan knocked and came in. Mary Ann tried to put down her knitting, but unfortunately she was more tangled up in it than ever. When she let go of it, it still hung in the air in front of her face.
    â€˜Mrs Tennyson has sent back the Indian box, madam,’ said Mary Ryan. ‘She says she cannot accept it.’
    Julia was astounded. ‘Cannot? But it’s a very beautiful box. I felt sure she would treasure it.’
    â€˜There is a letter, too.’
    Julia jumped to her feet, took