should not have said I am not a great poet,’ he continued. ‘And I shall prove it to you. Listen to this:
With blackest moss the flower-plots
[note the way “moss” and “plots” suggest the rhyme; a lovely effect, do you think you could do it?]
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
[“crusted” is a fine word here]
The rusted nails fell from the knots
[“knots” rhymes with “plots”, you see; “crusted” with “rusted”]
That held the pear to the garden wall –
‘Peach,’ interjected Mrs Cameron, dreamily.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Did I speak? Yes, I do apologize, Alfred, I did speak without meaning to. It’s just that the line is, That held the peach to the garden wall.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I ought to know, Alfred! It’s your Mariana. I recite your Mariana to myself every day of my life! I make a point of it!’
‘You do?’ asked Emily, quickly. Julia gulped. She suddenly realized what she’d said.
‘Well, perhaps not every day,’ she laughed, hoping to make light of it. ‘And not because it means anything, of course.’
Tennyson huffed. He wanted to press on with the recital. But Emily was not to be put off.
‘But that’s very curious, Julia. Why do you recite Mariana? I can hardly think of anybody less like Alfred’s Mariana than yourself, my dear. She is all passivity and tranquillity. You do not die for love, surely, Julia? For whom do you wait, aweary, aweary, wishing you were dead? It is quite the antithesis of your lively character!’
Julia pulled a shawl tighter, and stirred a cup furiously, which was an odd thing to do, because there was nothing in it.
‘Well –’ she began, but Alfred huffed again. He had no idea what was going on.
‘She recites Mariana, my dear, because it’s a very fine poem, of course! What an absurdly simple question! I am surprised you could not guess it!’
And he flung himself back in his chair, quite satisfied. ‘Now, where was I?’ he said, and resumed his book. ‘At peach,’ insisted Julia, spiritedly. ‘Pear,’ he rejoined.
‘Peach.’
‘Pear.’
‘Peach.’
‘Stop!’ snapped Emily. ‘You must explain yourself, Alfred.’
Tennyson shut the book.
‘You are right, Julia. The word was “peach”. I changed it.’
‘You did? When?’
‘I don’t know. Recently. “Pear” sounds better, as I think you will agree.’
Emily silently practised peach-pear-peach-pear, and then pear-peach-pear-peach.
‘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”.’
‘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.
‘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.’
‘But you gave Mariana to the world –’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘You published it, Alfred.’
‘That’s quite different.’
Tennyson scowled, and changed the subject. He looked away from the table altogether.
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