A Look At Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland Through the Pool of Tears
As the Royal Scholar of Wonderland, I, Bibwit Harte am tasked with peering through the Pool of Tears to see the myriad of creations inspired by Wonderland, from Lewis Carroll's fanciful novels, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass first published in 1865, to the 1951 animated movie Alice in Wonderland from Disney to the very accurate 2006 New York Times best-selling series The Looking Glass Wars with Princess Alyss by Frank Beddor.
Today we will explore the influence of The Royal Millinery on other worlds. You maybe quite surprised to learn that in the less imaginative realms, hats are never imbued with Caterpillar Thread and are very rarely used as weapons. The only acts of violence ever ascribed to this mundane millinery is they are on occasion referred to as “Killer Looks.” (chortle)
In spite of their less dangerous designs, several hats in this world (and their owners) have become rather famous. Here is a little list…
The Venus of Willendorf’s Woven Cap
While there are not many official records of hats before 3,000 BC, they probably were commonplace before that. The 27,000-to-30,000-year-old Venus of Willendorf figurine appears to depict a woman wearing a woven hat. Similar sculptures, first discovered in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, are traditionally referred to in archaeology as "Venus figurines", due to the widely-held belief that depictions of women represented an early fertility deity, perhaps a mother goddess. Hats have been around since the time of the mastodon.
The Cap-Crown of Queen Nefertiti
Nefertiti was a queen of the 18th Dynasty of Ancient Egypt, the great royal wife of Pharaoh Akhenaten. Nefertiti and her husband were known for a religious revolution, in which they worshipped solely the sun disc, Aten, as the only god. With her husband, she reigned at what was arguably the wealthiest period of ancient Egyptian. Nefertiti favored a flat-topped version of the blue war crown (or Cap-Crown.) The famous bust of Nefertiti depicts her wearing this crown. The crown linked the queen with the goddess Tefnut, a solar deity and it looked stunning! (Note to self: I should look into getting a similar hat made for Alyss of Wonderland.)
Archibald Armstrong’s Jester’s Cap
When King James I succeeded to the English throne, Armstrong was appointed court jester. Archibald modified the traditional “donkey eared” fool’s cap and added bells and a third floppy cone creating the now famous (or infamous) Jester’s Cap.
His influence was considerable and he was greatly courted and flattered, but his success appears to have gone to the jester’s head. He became presumptuous, insolent, and mischievous and was much disliked by the members of the court, but James favored him and as long as he pleased his audience of one, he was able to keep his head (and his hat) safely attached to his body. Certainly, if Archibald had been in the Court of Queen Redd of Wonderland, she would have said, “Off with his head!”
Marie Antoinette’s Boat Hat
Marie Antoinette was the last Queen of France prior to the French Revolution and before she lost her head, she was known for her outlandish hats and hairstyles. In Paris, following a maritime skirmish in 1778, women of fashion commemorated what they saw as a French victory against the British with the Coiffure à la Belle Poule, an elaborate hairstyle containing a replica of the ship itself.
The Queen was not to be outdone by her courtiers, so she created the most lavish nautical fascinator of them all. Certainly, this elaborate headpiece did nothing to silence claims of her extravagance. Queen Genevieve of Wonderland (Queen of Hearts) would have never tolerated such decadent behavior! Her royal subjects were her priority.
Napoleon Bonaparte’s Bicorne
French emperor Napoleon understood the importance of branding, and throughout his life used imagery and clothing to convey power and status. His most famous hat was his black-felted beaver fur bicorne. The imposing nature of this chapeau gave the Emperor some much needed stature. Traditionally, the bicorne, with its distinctive deep gutter and two pointed corners, was worn with the corners facing to the front and back, but so as to be distinct on the battlefield, Napoleon wore the hat sideways so that anyone scanning the crowds would instantly know him by his jauntily angled hat.
Davy Crockettwas a celebrated 19th-century American folk hero, frontiersman, soldier and politician. Even after he left his deep woods home to become a member of the United States House of Representatives, he still would frequently don his signature cap to remind himself (and others) of his humble beginnings. Coonskin caps are fur hats made from the skin of a raccoon, with the animal’s tail hanging down the back.
The caps were originally worn by Native Americans, but were appropriated by 18th century frontiersmen as hunting caps. Davy Crockett, who is frequently depicted wearing a coonskin cap, seems to have had an authentic connection to them. He wore the hat during the famous Battle at the Alamo and the presence of the coon skin cap allowed his battle torn body to be identified.
Abraham Lincoln’s Stovepipe Hat
Sixteenth president of the United States Abraham Lincolnwas exceedingly tall at 6 foot 4 inches, and the addition of his famous top hat accentuated his height even further. Lincoln used to keep papers and speeches tucked inside his hat and he would fish them out when needed, making his hat not just a natty bit of headgear but also a useful repository. The most famous of Lincoln’s stovepipe hats was the very one he wore on the night of his assassination at Ford's Theater on April 14, 1865. Gentle readers, you may recall that Hatter Madigan once instructed President Lincoln on the art of Hat Throwing. This adventure was chronicled in the thrilling tome, Mad with Wonder.
Winston Churchill’s Homburg
British wartime prime minister Winston Churchill was renowned for his hats. Churchill himself once wrote a humorous essay on the subject, remarking that as he did not have a distinctive hairstyle, spectacles, or facial hair like other famous statesmen. Cartoonists and photographers of the day focused instead on his love of headgear.
Churchill wore a number of styles of hat, from top hats to bowler hats, but he is probably most famous for his homburg. The homburg is a felt hat with a curved brim, a dent that runs from front to back, and a grosgrain ribbon that forms a band. On the subject of homburgs, we are all very familiar with the Wonderland resident, Molly Homberg. Churchill certainly would have admired her spirit!
Jackie Kennedy’s Pillbox Hat
Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis was one of America’s greatest style icons, and one of her most memorable looks was the pillbox hat perched on the back of her head. Kennedy had many versions of the pillbox, but the most famous is the watermelon pink one she wore with matching pink Chanel-style suit on November 22, 1963, the day President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Jackie, who had been at his side in her pink suit, was covered in her husband’s blood. When aides repeatedly suggested she change her clothes, according to biographer William Manchester Jackie refused, saying "No, let them see what they've done."
If you enjoyed my little Hat History, please return soon for more posts about all things Alyss (and Alice) in Wonderland!
The Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, is Redd Hot!
Rose Heart (Redd), The Red Queen of Alice in Wonderland (Queen of Hearts), elder sister of Queen Genevieve the White Queen, and once heir to Wonderland’s throne, stood on the jagged promontory of Mount Isolation in The Chessboard Desert. Stretching in all directions, acres of icy snow alternated with acres of tar and black rock, forming what looked like a giant chessboard. Immediately below: a military pieced together out of deserters from Wonderland, mercenaries from neighboring Boarderland.
By the force of her vindictive will, as much as the training these soldiers had endured for ten hours of every lunar cycle, Redd’s army was at last ready. She had picked this day to attack— the seventh birthday of her niece, Princess Alyss Heart—for symbolic reasons. Wonderland would be celebrating its future queen. What better time to take revenge on Genevieve and wrench back her rightful crown?
Redd spread out her arms as if to embrace all that was bad, and threw her voice into the wind:
“Years ago, I was removed from the power to which I’d been born! All of you have had to leave your homes for one reason or another, and together we have suffered through our lives in this barren land! No more! Today, we return to our birthplace and remake it in my image! Today, I make history!”
Redd and her army fought their way into the capital city of Wondertropolis, trailing blood, and Redd entered Heart Palace for the first time since she was a teenager—the palace in which she’d been born and spent most of her young life. Her palace.
Her removal from succession to the throne and its immediate aftermath came back to her with heart-stopping gall...
“It’s your own fault, Rose,” her mother Queen Theodora said. “I can’t allow you to become queen. You won’t listen to anyone’s counsel, and you insist on being undisciplined and reckless, disregarding the most basic principles of Light Imagination.”
Light Imagination: guided by love, justice, a sense of duty to the well-being of others.
“Perhaps I have discipline in other things,” Rose fumed.
“The queendom needs stability,” Theodora said, “a monarch whose inclination is to calmly engage in statecraft and the administration of policy. Not one whose self-interests would—sooner rather than later, I’m sure—compromise the queendom politically, strategically; or perhaps worse, cause her to abandon her responsibilities altogether in favor of any momentary pleasure that came along.”
Genevieve was to be monarch. Rose’s features twisted and sharpened, so potent was the fury within her. Her younger sister, queen? Abandoning herself to wrath, Rose slipped late at night into her mother’s bedroom.
“Even you can’t take away what is mine by birthright,” she snarled and placed a deadly pink mushroom on her mother’s tongue. Fed by the queen’s saliva, the roots of the fungus worked their way down the sleeping sovereign’s throat and strangled her heart.
As for her father, a weak and useless man, Rose let him live. But then Genevieve actually seemed to believe that she should be queen!
The sisters each gathered their followers. The two sides clashed. Many Wonderlanders died. Homes were destroyed. Rose’s imaginative gifts were greater than Genevieve’s (to an Earthling, imaginative Wonderlanders would seem like superheroes, capable of extraordinary strength as well as feats of magic), but her forces were outnumbered. She was banished to Mount Isolation, where she dubbed herself Redd for the blood she would one day spill, gave herself over entirely to Dark Imagination, and nursed her outrage until . . .
Seething with anger, Redd strode toward Heart Palace’s South Dining Room, paying no attention to the explosions going off to the left and right of her, the palace guardsmen falling dead at the hands of her soldiers. Without slowing her pace, without a flinch, she walked through the smoke and flames, unharmed.
It gave her no small pride to see The Cat (Cheshire cat) performing so well in battle, spilling the innards of Genevieve’s soldiers with ease. She had dispatched her top assassin to the palace in advance of her attack. He’d infiltrated it as a cute kitten, but once inside, he had transformed himself (as he could do at will), his limbs stretching and expanding until he stood on two muscled legs, his forelegs becoming lean and powerful arms and his front paws thick, with claws as sharp and long and wide as butcher’s knives. His face had remained feline, with a flat pink nose, whiskers, slobbery fangs.
The Cat was standing over a dead palace guard and swatting away some kid in a pretend guardsman’s uniform when Redd passed him and bent down to look under a dining table. There, crying, huddled the birthday girl, Alyss Heart.
Redd lifted the princess out from under the table by her long black hair, the mayhem of battle intensifying around them.
“So you were to be queen, were you?” Redd snorted, unimpressed.
“Let her go.” It was Genevieve.
“The time for you giving orders is over, sister,” Redd sneered. “You must know that, for reasons of succession,” this last she said with particular venom, “I can’t afford to leave any Hearts alive—except myself, obviously. Which reminds me. If you’re still expecting your husband, King Nolan, to return from his recent negotiations with Boarderland, I have the privilege of informing you that he won’t. Ever.”
With her imagination, Redd conjured the scene for all to see: King Nolan and his men ambushed as they approached Heart Palace, Redd marching up to the king and killing him with her sharp, pointed scepter.
Oh, how it pleased Redd to hear Princess Alyss cry out as she saw her father die! How it amused Redd that a gasping, distraught Genevieve imagined forth a pitiful arsenal of missiles to bear down on her, which she sent clattering to the floor with a brief lowering of her eyelids.
Alyss stabbed Redd’s forearm with a jabberwock tooth that had been hanging on her necklace.
Redd dropped Alyss, who ran with her mother down a hall. The Cat bounded after them. Redd followed with haughty nonchalance, entering Genevieve’s private rooms to see her feline assassin limp on the floor with a fatal wound in his chest. Hatter Madigan (Mad Hatter), who’d taken the place of his older brother Dalton as royal bodyguard and held Princess Alyss in his arms, was stepping into a looking glass.
Genevieve smashed the glass and turned to face Redd. The Cat, still on the floor, opened his eyes. His wound healed and, with a hiss, he jumped at Genevieve, who conjured a white bolt of energy from her imagination and thrust it into him, killing him again.
Laughing, Redd yanked the jagged bolt out of The Cat and twirled it like a baton. It turned red in her hand. She slammed the bolt into the floor; dozens of black roses sprouted from the point of impact, their thorny stems wrapping themselves around Genevieve, pricking her skin and binding her fast. The rose petals opened and closed, toothy mouths eager for a bite of royal flesh.
“Off with your head,” Redd ordered, pulling the energy bolt out of the floor.
She swung the bolt like a sword. Genevieve’s head went one way, her body another, and her crown clattered to the stone tiles. Redd picked up the crown and put it on her own head, then kicked at The Cat where he lay, tongue lolling in his mouth, the picture of death.
“Get up! You still have seven more lives.”
The Cat’s eyes fluttered open.
“Find Alyss and kill her.”
Redd waved her hand; the looking glass that Hatter Madigan had entered was again whole. The Cat jumped through, in pursuit of the only living Heart besides Redd.
“Well?” Redd said when The Cat returned to Heart Palace. “Where is her head?”
One didn’t admit failure to Redd and get away with it without suffering pain or worse. The Cat held up the shred of Alyss’s dress. “This is all that’s left. I’m sorry, Your Highness. I couldn’t control myself.”
A scheming, dishonest mind such as Redd’s always suspected others of scheming and dishonesty. She tried to see Alyss in her imagination’s eye, to discover the truth for herself: nothing. Imagination couldn’t penetrate The Pool of Tears, which was lucky for The Cat.
Some Wonderlanders were born evil. Others were made evil, all goodness bludgeoned out of them by repeated misfortune. But Rose Heart? Although she wasn’t wired like most Wonderlanders, she hadn’t been born completely bad. Misfortunes, or what she perceived as misfortunes, buffeted her again and again until, as if to defend herself against a misunderstanding world, she let her less decent tendencies flower into much worse, and she became the personification of evil.
From an early age, Rose had never liked to be told what to do. She often disregarded her parents’ admonitions and the strictures of polite society. Not from a sense of entitlement so much as from an impulsive, easily bored nature. As she grew into a teen, she of course presumed to know more than everybody else, the natural arrogance of her youth exacerbated by the fact that she was gifted with superior imaginative powers and intellect.
She started experimenting with artificial crystal and imagination stimulants (the opioids of Wonderland), and when it came to sex, she was no prude. She wasn’t even modest. She would strut around the palace and courts in skin-tight dresses made of red jabberwock-hide, taking particular pleasure in teasing the royal bodyguard Dalton Madigan, who’d graduated as Top Cadet from the Millinery, where Wonderland’s elite military trained.
“Your Highness, my loyalty is to you and you alone,” Dalton swore, his eyes speaking his infatuation, his love.
As a Milliner, Rose knew, his loyalty should be to the queendom. But Dalton’s breach only made her happier: she privately reveled in the power she had over him. Was she in love? She never asked herself this question. Dalton was handsome, sure, but he was also highly placed and respected, supremely talented in combat, and so he might one day prove useful.
Rose liked Wonderlanders to be useful to her, even if she didn’t always know, when she collected them under her sway, what they might be useful for. Inevitably, once a person had served his or her purposes, she would toss them aside. But more than a few of those she’d so unceremoniously dropped cherished the whole thing—being used and tossed aside. It gave them bragging rights over those who had never interacted with Rose Heart, the flamboyant, charismatic heir to the throne.
In her late teens, Rose began to publicly challenge her mother’s political choices in front of others. She scoffed and complained. Her mother, she clearly thought, was a feckless queen, too easily manipulated by neighboring governments.
At one point, ignored and dismissed by her mother, Rose determined to reset Wonderland’s political machinations to her liking by subterfuge. The details of her scheme, what Rose specifically hoped to accomplish, aren’t important here, but it involved staging her own abduction from Wonderland, with help from King Arch, the nomadic overlord of neighboring Boarderland.
Arch epitomized Boarderland. Wild and rugged, he was a sovereign who, when not sating his addiction to pleasure (preferably laced with danger), was prone to impulsive violence. He and Rose Heart . . . well, if Dalton Madigan had known what the two of them were doing while she pretended to be a prisoner, he would not have been happy. But again, Rose did not ask herself if what she felt was love. Only later, once matters of state kept her and Arch apart for an extended period, did she occasionally feel stabs of . . . the most she would admit to herself was that she felt something lay unfinished between them.
From her earliest teen years, Rose had been a dabbler in the practices of Dark Imagination, using her creative gift for small deceptions, for illusions that fostered petty discord among those in her orbit. That Dark Imagination was outlawed in Wonderland didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, by the time of her faked abduction, Rose thought the outlawing of Dark Imagination misguided. She was convinced that a queen like her mother, who practiced Light Imagination alone, could not defend Wonderland from the unscrupulous maneuverings of other nations.
And so, while a “prisoner” of Arch’s in Boarderland, Rose worked to become a master of Dark Imagination.
It’s possible that Rose would have one day tried to convince her mother that a sovereign equally masterful in both Dark and Light Imagination was superior to a queen who’d only mastered Light. And maybe Theodora would have given her eldest daughter the benefit of the doubt and not punished her for breaking the law, and Rose Heart would have grown into a sober, thoughtful adult who, everyone agreed, would make a fabulous queen.
We’ll never know.
Because soon after Rose returned to Wonderland after being a “prisoner” (which Theodora never learned was faked, and which did not produce the political results Rose had hoped for), it was discovered that she was pregnant.
Theodora wept and railed. Genevieve sat quietly by, perhaps embarrassed for her sister.
“Who is the child’s father?” Theodora demanded.
Rose wouldn’t tell, but she also couldn’t: she didn’t know. It might have been Dalton Madigan or King Arch. Neither prospect would have calmed her mother. And anyway, Dalton was no longer at the palace. Rumor had it that he’d jumped into The Pool of Tears, and Rose could only guess at his reasons.
Not knowing of her relations with Arch, Dalton no doubt believed the child to be his. He’d broken the Millinery code in a big way, by letting himself get more than just emotionally entangled with one he had sworn to protect—and a royal, at that. He might have been ashamed, thought himself incapable of living in Wonderland, the one-time star of the Millinery now disgraced, demoted to an ordinary civilian.
Theodora, seemingly resigned to the unfortunate choices her eldest daughter had made, did what she could to keep the pregnancy a secret. But after Rose gave birth, while she was delirious and exhausted from pain, Theodora tricked her into believing that the child, a girl, had been stillborn. And as soon as Rose recovered, Theodora gave her the news: she would not be, could not ever be, queen of Wonderland.
Had Rose discovered that her mother lied to her and that her daughter was alive, who knows how bad things might have gotten. As it was, it seemed they could hardly have been worse— being removed from succession enough to spur her rage and vengeance. None was more selfish, more vindictive than Redd Heart. None more mercilessly violent, more dismissive of others’ suffering.
Which was why, when she at last took the place of honor in Heart Palace’s throne room and summoned the suit families into her presence, she found them admirably sycophantic. The Clubs, Spades, Diamonds. Along with the Hearts, they were Wonderland’s ranking families, serving as a kind of parliament or advisory to the sovereign.
Redd announced that she would have no need of their input. that she demanded absolute loyalty. And one by one, the lords and ladies of each suit family got down on their knees and swore undying fealty to Redd Heart.
It was good to be the queen.
Who is Alyss? Shatter the Myth, Discover the Real Alice In Wonderland
Meet Alyss Heart of Wonderland: a princess brought up with all the entitlement due an heir to the throne. On her seventh birthday, she was targeted in a bloody coup perpetrated by her aunt Redd, in which her father and mother, the king and queen, were killed. The royal bodyguard Hatter Madigan (the real Mad Hatter) whisked her to relative safety through The Pool of Tears, a portal to other worlds, but—
Swirling waters and a strong undercurrent wrenched Alyss out of Hatter’s grasp.
Alone, she shot out of a dirty street puddle in the middle of a soot-stained, rain-soaked city. She wiped the sopping sleeve of her birthday dress across her eyes, blinked. It was still there: the filthy, gray city.
London, England. 1859.
A shout. A great clatter of creaking wood and clomping hooves, and Alyss—feeling the fuming breath of the horses as they passed—was almost run over by an ornate carriage.
“God save the queen!” someone shouted.
Disoriented, Alyss raced after the carriage that she believed was carrying her mother, only to be stopped by guards outside Buckingham Palace. They weren’t about to let this wet, bedraggled urchin through the gates.
“Like as not, you intend the queen some harm,” one of them teased.
“The queen is my mother!” Alyss declared.
“You don’t say?” The soldier turned to the others. “You hear that? This little girl’s mother is the queen. We might have to die protecting her, I suppose.”
“All hail the royal lady,” another soldier said with a bow, causing his colleagues to laugh.
Hurt, indignant, increasingly afraid, Alyss tried to find her way back to the puddle that had landed her in this nightmare. But there were so many streets, so many puddles.
This is not real. It cannot be real, she repeated to herself.
In all her life, she had never been alone before. There had always been servants, tutors, palace guardsmen watching out for her, pampering her.
Nightmare, hallucination: whatever this was had to end.
I am at my birthday party. The flowers in the palace courtyard are singing to me. Courtiers are smiling, and—
She was soon in despair, jumping up and down in a single puddle, sobbing; it was impossible to determine whether the wetness on her cheeks was from tears or from the splash of water.
“Not the best means of bathing I’ve ever seen,” said Quigly Gaffer, watching from a safe distance.
Sniffling, as regally as she could given her sodden, confused state, Alyss explained to Quigly that she was Wonderland royalty. He didn’t believe her, but he was intrigued by this pretty, lost little girl and took to calling her princess. Five years her senior, he was the leader of a gang of street urchins—orphaned kids who fanned out through the city during the day, scamming and thieving, and met up in alleys at night, sharing what food scraps and money they had scrounged together.
Out of a necessity that came with a frequently empty belly, and with nights spent in trash-filled alleys, Alyss soon understood: this world was no dream; Queen Victoria was not her mother. She could either collapse in paralyzing sadness for everything she had lost, or she could do what she must to survive. And she had to survive. Hatter Madigan would not leave her here. He would find her and bring her back to her rightful place in Wonderland.
She vowed to stay alive until he came.
In Quigly’s company, Alyss was exposed to an underclass of society she otherwise could never have fathomed, as mollycoddled as her previous life had been. She learned—deep inside herself, where there were no words, her experiences shaping the woman she would become—that for most of the universe’s inhabitants, life wasn’t all tarty tarts and unconditional love; it was a struggle against hardship, unfairness, abuse and adversity, where even to survive—let alone survive with dignity—was heroic. For many, she learned (again, deep down, a knowledge beyond words) that survival sometimes meant fighting back against unjust societal conventions, such as criminalization of the poor. If she and Quigly and his gang didn’t scam and thieve, they wouldn’t eat: they could be petty criminals or starve.
Nights, Alyss regaled the youngest orphans with her memories of Wonderland and tales of the engendering power of Imagination. She was still impossibly young, of course, and yet the strife of the streets was hardening her, wising her up: Alyss understood that her parents were dead. Visions of the bloody coup perpetrated by her aunt Redd came to her on sleepless nights: her mother’s chessmen cut down by rogue card soldiers; the frightening creature with a feline head and claws, as fierce in combat as Hatter Madigan, that stormed about gutting innocent courtiers and civilians while she herself hid under a table. These visions were Alyss’s truth, her history. Yet she told the orphans, albeit in wistful tones, only of the good in Wonderland—the singing flowers, the radiant skies, the inventiveness of its citizenry, the seemingly magical things a strong imagination could do.
Quigly thought she was weaving otherworldly tales so that the youngsters could momentarily lose themselves and forget the squalor in which they lived. He didn’t like indulging them in make-believe when cruel reality was all around. No amount of imagination could rescue them, he complained.
“But what I’m telling them is real,” Alyss protested. “And the power of imagination, it’s all true . . . I can prove it.”
She used her own significant imaginative powers to make a dandelion flower sing.
“Nice trick,” Quigly sniffed. He’d heard about magicians who could “throw” their voices.
“It’s not a trick,” Alyss insisted.
But Quigly shrugged her off. As long as she could make a flower sing, she could earn money for them by performing on the street. The day came, however, when she was unable to rouse the dandelion to song. She could only guess at the reasons for this, which she tried to explain.
“Maybe the longer I’m away from Wonderland, the weaker my imagination becomes?”
She wasn’t wrong, though she didn’t know the more specific reason why her imagination was weakening—it had everything to do with her fading memories. Because it was getting harder for her to clearly recall Wonderland sights and sounds; and aside from the coup itself, the bloody event that had exiled her to Earth, doubts about what exactly she remembered were creeping in.
Quigly accused her of refusing to do the “flower trick,” believing she planned to perform without him and keep all the earnings for herself. The more she insisted that she was not refusing to do anything, that her imaginative power was real, the more resentful he became. Which was Alyss’s first hint that proclaiming the truth of Wonderland and her history might prevent her from getting along peaceably with people in this world.
Hoping to regain Quigly’s confidence, she volunteered to help him rob a butcher shop. She was caught during the robbery, and Quigly, a chicken under each arm, made his own escape instead of coming to her rescue.
At the center of a disorienting swirl of events, it was as if Alyss were in a new Pool of Tears. In the police station—raucous with unsavory characters—her instinct to claim her identity as a princess reasserted itself, and she balked at being rudely thrown in a cell with drunks and worse—men, women, children, murderers, petty thieves, and the insane all together. The bobbies were momentarily distracted from her complaints when a prostitute was brought in, loudly claiming to be a friend of some duke. They laughed, spat on the prostitute, and beat her up before throwing her into Alyss’s cell. Then—
“What was that you said?” a bobby asked Alyss. “Who’d you say you are?”
She lowered her face and stayed silent.
She was placed in the Charing Cross foundling hospital. It was no palace. Sure, she had a bed instead of an alley to sleep in, but she shared a room with twenty other would-be adoptees, none of whom wanted to hear anything about Wonderland. They assumed that Alyss, with her stories, was trying to prove that she was special, above them. Every day, she was teased and taunted; every day, lectured by the Charing Cross wardens that she couldn’t hide in a fantasy world, that misfortune abounded and she must face it with fortitude, not with escapist claptrap.
“Do you like it here?” one warden asked her.
Then she’d keep prattle of Wonderland to nil, the warden said, because if she didn’t, she’d never get adopted. At first it was a strategy of survival—for Alyss not to talk about Wonderland, to quit telling her “stories” instead of suffering the indignities that came from insisting on truths no one believed. Months passed, and she worked hard to fade into the background of things, to be just another orphan ever in hope of adoption.
Yet memories of Redd’s coup—and she did still consider them memories—haunted her. In her mind’s eye, she frequently saw Redd’s feline assassin swatting Sir Justice Anders, the leader of the palace guard, to the ground and raking a claw across his chest. She saw her friend Dodge, her best friend and Sir Justice’s son, bolt out from under the table where he’d been hiding to snatch up his father’s sword and attack the feline, only to be slapped across the dining room with four gashes of blood on his cheek.
It felt to Alyss as if all pleasantness associated with Wonderland had been painted completely over with violence.
And her imaginative powers? They alternated between weak and nonexistent. On occasion, in a rare private moment, she could get some small twig to give out a peep, but it exhausted her, and she no longer understood the point of trying. Hatter Madigan wouldn’t be coming for her, she was convinced. He was likely dead, along with her parents. Sleeping in a drafty room with twenty other girls at Charing Cross was her life now. This, and the days she and others were illegally hired out by a warden to work as “mule scavengers” and “piecers” in textile mills, where girls regularly had arms and hands torn off by the machines that spun cotton into thread (“mules”). Gruesome as these accidents were, Alyss would be particularly scarred by one she witnessed, in which a girl had her head crushed by a mule. Scarred and motivated, for though she had no way of knowing it at the time, her hours of child labor would drive her as an adult to fight against the morally dubious but widespread exploitation of children.
To survive then, Alyss imbibed deep draughts of conformity, but her beauty would always cause her to stand out—a beauty that seemed heightened on account of what people mistook as her passivity.
After she’d been a year at Charing Cross, Alyss understood that prospective parents came to the orphanage to, in essence, shop—choosing a child that they believed would suit their tastes and temperaments.
She decided to do some shopping of her own.
The longer she remained at the orphanage, she knew, the greater the odds she would succumb to a gruesome accident at a mill or factory. Yet if the couple that came browsing for a child seemed the type that would treat her as little more than a servant or pet, she subtly compromised her chances of being chosen—hiding, coughing as if she might have tuberculosis, or throwing enough of a fit to turn them off but not anger the Charing Cross wardens too much, because if she angered the wardens too much, they wouldn’t try to place her.
Then Dean Liddell and his wife, a gentle couple who sometimes visited the orphanage, smiled at her, though they first smiled at another girl, Lucy. Before they could get to know Lucy, however, Alyss took a chance, fearing she’d miss another opportunity as good as this one.
“You look like my mother,” she murmured of Mrs. Liddell. “She was a queen.”
Appreciating imagination and independent thought, the Liddells were taken with Alyss’s stories of a queendom where she was a princess. To Lucy’s misfortune, their smiles lingered on Alyss alone, and a door opened for her into another new world: that of quaint, staid Oxford.
Adopted by the Liddells, Alyss found herself surrounded by middle-class comforts, by music and literature and art. She had two younger sisters, Edith and Lorina, and she told them what she still definitely remembered about Wonderland. Some of this was innocent enough—her descriptions of her albino tutor, for example, and the general who could split himself into two identical Wonderlanders. But the rest? The murders of her parents, the deception and cruelty of Redd, a woman who wore a dress of flesh-eating roses? It wasn’t any sort of story the young girls wanted to hear.
One day, Alyss and her sisters were picnicking with Reverend Charles Dodgson, a family friend, and while Edith and Lorina went off to pick flowers, Alyss mentioned Wonderland to the reverend. He was intrigued and encouraged her to continue in a way that no one ever had. She believed that she had at last found, in this peculiar bachelor, an ear sympathetic to her history.
Dodgson took notes and doodled while Alyss unspooled her tale, which notes he later worked into a more complete form and presented to Alyss as a novel entitled Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. He had given himself the pseudonym Lewis Carroll.
“But this is full of nonsense!” Alyss said, her pulse quickening as she flipped through the book in which her dark truth had been transformed into lighthearted, romping characters.
Lewis Carroll gently explained that he believed Alyss had made up her horrific stories because of the traumas she’d experienced on the streets and in the orphanage. The characters she had told him about represented certain demons to her, he believed, and by turning them into the silly creatures of his book, he hoped she would learn that they were nothing to fear—that she could, in fact, dismiss them from her now pleasant existence.
Alyss felt as if her heart has been scraped raw. Reverend Dodgson didn’t believe her? He had never believed her? And now he’d written this stupid book that made fun of all she’d confessed to him?
“I never want to speak to you again!” she cried and ran home.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was, of course, a tremendous commercial success, which, especially the first couple of years after its publication, only deepened Alyss’s sense of Dodgson’s betrayal. The book turned her into a minor celebrity, a fact she resented and did her best to ignore. But as the years passed, and though she still kept Dodgson at a distance, resentment lessened amid the hubbub of her days as a middle-class Victorian young lady.
And with the years and the hubbub, Alyss Heart of Wonderland more and more lost herself to Alice Liddell of Oxford.
Her few remaining Wonderland memories grew increasingly unreal. At first she tried to convince herself that she still believed in them, but then she couldn’t be sure if something she “remembered”—Redd’s dress of flesh-eating roses, for instance— had actually existed or if perhaps she had made it up. For a while her fading memories persisted in her dreams, until finally, it happened:
Where Wonderland had once been only in her head, it was now not even there.
Lewis Carroll’s characters had completely usurped the real Wonderlanders of her past, and as her memories were erased, so too were her powerful imaginative abilities. Alice Liddell couldn’t have imagined the faintest peep from the smallest flower, no matter how hard she tried. Not that she did.
Alice has now grown into a thoroughly Victorian young lady, attending concerts and teas while her parents lobby for certain respectable gentlemen to become her husband. Rather, she has almost grown into a thoroughly Victorian young lady, since she does have modern ideas about how orphans and the poor should be treated (she revisits Charing Cross and learns that Lucy, her rival for the Liddells, had died there of tuberculosis), and about women being allowed to study at Oxford, to say nothing of having more control over their own lives.
And so here she is, Alice Liddell, a middle-class twenty-year old, busy with suitors and with passionate schemes for improving the lives of the unfortunate, for whom Wonderland—once a dream—is about to again become reality.