Free Tennyson's Gift by Lynne Truss

peach-pear-peach-pear, and then pear-peach-pear-peach.
    â€˜But you wrote
Mariana
in 1830, Alfred,’ exclaimed Julia. ‘That’s thirty-four years ago. Why don’t you leave it alone? Thousands of people have learned it as “peach”.’
    â€˜She’s right,’ mumbled Watts, his contribution so unexpected that the others jumped. Tennyson blinked in confusion and looked behind him. He clearly had no idea where the noise had come from.
    â€˜It is still my poem, Julia. I can do what I like. You might say that I like what I do, and I do what I like.’
    â€˜But you gave
Mariana
to the world –’
    â€˜I did no such thing.’
    â€˜You published it, Alfred.’
    â€˜That’s quite different.’
    Tennyson scowled, and changed the subject. He looked away from the table altogether.
    â€˜And as for Ruskin,’ he continued, tiresomely, ‘that foolish man, when he read my
Maud,
objected to the lines, “For her feet have touched the meadows / And left the daisies rosy”,representing me most unjustly as a subscriber to the pathetic fallacy. Ha! The pathetic fallacy? Me? Such stupidity is enough to make the heavens weep!’
    Nothing agitated or excited Tennyson more than adverse criticism.
Enoch Arden
was already in the shops. The title poem ends with the lines, ‘So passed the strong heroic soul away / And when they buried him that little port / Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.’ No wonder he was getting punchy.
    â€˜But what lack of understanding,’ he continued (he was still banging on about Ruskin). ‘Daisies
do
go rosy when trodden on.
Ask any botanist.
I have every intention of sending Mr Ruskin a real daisy one of these days, without comment, to show him that the under-petals are pink.’
    Mrs Cameron, still reeling from the news of the peach, felt she could make no further comment on poetic licence today, but the saintly Emily chipped in – and with surprising vehemence.
    â€˜For the last time, Alfred!’ she shouted, ‘We all agree with you about the daisy!’ ‘I know, but –’
    â€˜It was years ago! You know more about daisies than Ruskin does! It is understood! You are right and he is wrong! The man has a brain the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, but he does not understand that daisies can be rosy! That’s enough!’
    â€˜But –’
    â€˜All right!
Send
him a daisy, then! Here’s one!’ Emily leaned over the arm of her chair and ripped a daisy from the grass. ‘Here’s two!’ She did it again. ‘Here’s a
whole bunch!’
    Tennyson narrowed his eyes. The normally placid Emily seemed to have lost her grip.
    â€˜I will,’ he said, gravely.
    â€˜Go on, then.’
    â€˜Don’t think I won’t, because I will.’ ‘I dare you.’
    Ellen shrugged. These grown-up literary discussions were beyond her; perhaps because of her extreme youth. Looking on the bright side, however, she calculated that nobody would miss her if she slipped away, to investigate the curious man.
    Instead, she met Lionel Tennyson skulking behind a camellia bush. From the state of his cheeks, smeared with red, he seemed to have scored rather well with the Dimbola jam tarts this afternoon.
    â€˜Lionel? It’s Mrs Watts. Do you remember me? We played at Indians.’
    â€˜Shh,’ said Lionel. ‘Keep down, won’t you?’
    Assuming this was a new game, Ellen joined him in hiding behind the bush.
    â€˜I thought I saw a man in a straw hat,’ she whispered. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’
    â€˜That’s who we’re hiding from,’ said Lionel. ‘It’s a Mr Dodgson from Oxford. Mother doesn’t like him, so I’m making sure he doesn’t reach the house. Nobody knows he’s here except me. Not even Hallam. Did you see the way he was lurking? Mother says –’ Lionel looked around before