Chapter 2: In the Garden
It was bright afternoon when Ophelia woke on a velvety lawn and sat up to look about her. He clothes had changed from her normal attire; they were now shocking and indecent in both color and style. Her legs, clad in striped stockings, lay otherwise bare to the knee, and outside her ridiculously full skirt, around her waist, was tied an entirely useless scrap of white cloth with two pockets.
She picked herself up carefully, wondering not only where she was, but also who she was, for she could not seem to remember her proper name. For some reason, it seemed that she should be called Alice, which sounded rather ridiculous, but it was, after all, the only name she could think of, so she decided to keep it for the time being.
Alice walked down a pleasant-looking path until she came upon a small garden, where she decided to stop and rest for a moment under the shade of a large tree. "Oh, Tiger-Lily," she sighed, "I wish you could talk! You could tell me what place this is!"
"We can talk," said the Tiger-Lily, looking her critically up and down. "When there's anybody worth talking to." Much surprised, Alice approached nearer to the flower, who continued her chatter in a rather silly voice.
"We talk all the time, about parties and petals, and about young men who might come to pick us!" the Tiger-Lily said. "My two sister Lilies have had men buzzing around them all summer, and they expect to be picked any day now, or at least my mother says so, and she is right ever so much of the time! But even though I am the youngest, I am still the tallest, and my leaves are rounded beautifully! I just can't wait until the next picnic in the garden, when all the eligible gentlemen come around. I've got the prettiest petals of all, you know, and everyone says I am so friendly and talkative! You should have seen me last week—I had seven boys come over to smell my fragrance! And my older sisters had only two each, and Rose here hadn't any at all!"
She stopped to giggle, and her burbling stream of language was cut off (quite fortunately, as Alice thought) by an indignant exclamation by the Rose. "Well you can say what you like," she said, bristling, "but you are not the one who is the most learned. I have been called a flower of deep deflection, and authors most often use me in works of great literature. I am mentioned, quite favorably, I might add, in such literary masterpieces as A Rose For Emily, A Tea Rose in Brooklyn, and The Sun Also Rose I have read all of those books, of course, and countless others as well, and each spends much time louding my beauty. If I may quote from a work by the great..." but here she was interrupted by the earnest but often overlooked Daisy.
"Have you ever really thought," the Daisy began eagerly, "about the meanings of those books on mankind as a whole? I mean, so much is done these days in Art and Literature, but it is still seldom that we find any works that contain goblin footfalls—instances of overarching significance, and sometimes even menace, that portend something very great about humanity. You know what I mean, don't you, dear?"
This last remark was directed toward Alice, who very awkwardly replied that she did not, entirely understand the Daisy's meaning.
"Have you never heard Beethoven, then?" enquired the flower, "Tell me, what painters are your favourites? The neoclassicists? Impressionists? And what do you think about women's suffrage and the movement to help stamp out poverty in London?" She stopped and sighed, seeing the look of complete bewilderment on Alice's face, and pointed to a pair of flowers at the edge of the bed.
A vibrant Larkspur bent over a dark-tinted Violet, and the two in what appeared to be a heated conversation. "They were planted near each other, but they certainly do not get along," the Daisy informed Alice cheerfully. "Ever since spring, those two have been at it over the question of the woman's place in society or literature. I keep trying to join in, for I do love a good debate, but they never seem to hear me."
Alice thanked her and went over to the arguing pair, where the Violet was protesting dully, "I just keep telling you, women are never strong enough characters to drive a plot. Set them up as love interests, yes, or maybe as the victims of violent crimes or as the falsely-accused-innocent to add to the guilt of the main male character, but never would I give a female any deep personality or striking features. As my husband says..."
"Oh, stop bringing your husband into this!" exclaimed the Larkspur. "I've not been married in all my life and still I write happier books than you! Women can be strong and smart, even more so than most men! I do admit that some girls are unbearably silly (take the Tiger-Lily and that Rose, for instance) but no book is complete without a female protagonist who stands up for herself and makes the female sex look good!"
"I most ardently disagree with that viewpoint," began the Violet, "women are feeble, both mentally and physically, and depend on men for all the support in their lives. Why, if it weren't for my brilliant husband, I would never have been able to start a family and write a classic novel at the age of eighteen!"
"Well then it sounds like you managed to find the ideal husband," commented the Tree, but the rest of his remark was cut off by a gruff voice from one of his branches.
"Both of you are shamelessly prejudiced!"
"Ah! Just the word I was looking for!" screamed the Larkspur in surprised delight.
"As I was saying," continued the Crow, for it was he who had spoken, "Your views on the sexes are discriminatory, biased, and narrow-minded, and I take personal offense to them, even though they have little, if anything, to do with me. In my country, we have a saying about people like you."
"Oh, not with the sayings again," said the Tree with a resigned sigh.
"We say that the people who will only eat the red yams will most likely miss out on eating the brown yams. Which reminds me of a fable that, while entertaining, has almost no bearing on my original point. There once was a very clever turtle..."
"Bough! Bough-wough!" Shouted the Tree, and the crow flew up into the sky in a panic. Alice, suddenly interested again, tilted her head up to the tree and said curiously, "Now that's strange...I didn't think trees could talk!"
"Of course we can," the Tree replied. "I usually speak in normal tones, but I had to use my bark to scare away the Crow. Now you look like a woman of some importance—what is your name?"
Alice thought hard, trying to remember what she was called before she arrived in the garden. "I...am not really sure." she finally admitted. "But I think it is Alice."
"Alice," the Tree repeated, "yes, I think the name does fit you. You do know the importance of having a name that fits you, now don't you? Now take myself, for instance: I am a Wild Oak, and that name fits me just splendidly. Why, if they gave me anyone else's name, I would have their head on a platter! There, there, don't be alarmed, I was just making a joke," he added hastily, as Alice had just become rather pale and looked a bit out of breath.
The Tree beckoned to a pompous-looking woman in red robes, saying as he did so, "you look winded, my dear. Here, let me fan you." Alice tried to duck his sweeping branches, and protested that she was not breathless, just a little hungry. The woman, whom the Larkspur identified with a small snigger as the Red Queen, walked right up to Alice and stared at her disapprovingly.
"Haven't been fed enough?" she asked, looking quite cross-eyed as she tried to gaze down her sharp nose. "Well I call that shocking, that a family cannot properly nourish its daughter, nor," here she took out a monocle to inspect Alice's clothes, "nor can it dress her decently. Stand up straighter, girl, and curtsey while you're thinking what to say. It saves time."
Alice stood still with her mouth hanging open a bit, wondering who this woman thought she was, to take the liberty to criticize everything about a girl she had hardly met. "I don't suppose," continued the Queen, "that you have ever heard of Rosings, my estate?"
"Ah! Another celebrated use of my beauteous name!" chimed the Rose, looking quite smug.
"Who said that?" asked the Queen in distaste. "What I was starting to say, before I was so rudely interrupted"—here she sent a steely glare in the direction of the rosebush—"was that Rosings, my delightful estate, has a garden much more beautiful than this, and, of course, much bigger as well."
Alice curtseyed again, for she feared from the Queen's tone that she was a little offended. Trying to stay as quiet as possible, Alice backed slowly away from the edge of the garden, where the Queen stood in animated conversation with the Larkspur, who had turned her sharp wit momentarily away from the sullen Violet.
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