Tennyson’s Gift

‘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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