College Days

Part 1: A Friend

Dodgson loved college intensely. He took his classes seriously—perhaps too much so, to the point where it became frustrating and rather earthshattering when he began to realize that even the black-robed, long-faced professors did not have all the answers. The disillusionment, though off-putting and worrisome at first, did not rattle him for long. In fact, he grew rather fond of the notion that some things had to be figured out for oneself, and that answers would perhaps differ from mind to mind. The questions that contained no answers, however, lingered to trouble him with more than a few sleepless nights.

Oxford was enchanting. The streets were not the cleanest, it was true, but the medieval spires piercing the ever-looming gray-violet clouds above, the crenelated towers cutting sharp lines against the sky, the rush and clatter of movement in the unpaved streets, the quiet hush of the river Isis winding through it all, romanced him and stirred awake an intense desire to explore. Each weekend, if his workload (which was not light, by any means) allowed him, he made it his mission to explore some new part of the city. The colleges themselves were magnificent, and their sweeping architectural beauty wooed him into a state not unlike euphoria. As he wandered through the castle-like institutions, the tunneling streets, the marshy meadows, the bustling markets, he felt himself detach from his body and drift above it all. His spirit seemed to watch, shocked out of his body for fear of feeling everything at once, and watch calmly as this willowy young man in a student's gown strode through the city. It was imperative that he see his being from above like this— separate from himself— for the beauty was too much for him. That fragile frame was a laughable vessel for the emotional intensity this city inspired. He could not handle these weekend adventures without some degree of numbness.

He made friends at Christ Church, though they were few and far between. His relationship with his roommate was one of polite distance, and they mostly kept to themselves. A young man named Reginald Southey, who sat at his mess in Hall, took a liking to him.

One night, after a weekend of wandering, Dodgson took his place across from Southey, who lifted a skinny eyebrow to remark, "You know, if you keep missing dinner in Hall, they will call the proctor on you."

Dodgson hadn't realized he'd missed dinner. Stammering, he sputtered out something like words in the form of a confused question.

"You missed dinner two nights in a row," Southey said, providing him with the reality he needed. "What were you up to? Reveling with women and wine?"

Dodgson's expression must have been one of complete horror, for it inspired hilarity in Southey, who threw back his head, revealing the scraggly beginnings of a beard on the underside of his chin.

Mortified, Dodgson felt himself shrinking inside, and leaned over the shiny surface of his dinner plate to stare blearily at his distorted face reflected back. He hadn't slept in two days. His internal clock no longer coincided with the grand clockface of Tom Tower. He had gone to the meadows and Magdalen College over the weekend, and had been so enchanted with the deer park that he'd stayed up all night sketching them, trying without success to recreate the absurd degree of elegance God had bestowed in the limbs and necks of the beasts. He'd wandered the meadows and spent the next night scribbling out sappy poems about birdsong and the smell of damp lily pads. Sleep and food alluded him.

"I've offended you, haven't I?"

Dodgson glanced up.

Southey had stopped laughing, and was looking at him rather intensely.

"N-no, I was merely..." He swallowed. "You won't tell, will you?"

Southey smiled. "Not if you take me with you."