Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (36 page)

And many in this day, I fear, even though believing in an existence beyond the grave far more real than Horace ever dreamed of, yet regard it as a sort of 'exile' from all the joys of life, and so adopt Horace's theory, and say 'let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.'

We go to entertainments, such as the theatre—I say 'we', for I also go to the play, whenever I get a chance of seeing a really good one and keep at arm's length, if possible, the thought that we may not return alive.
Yet how do you know—dear friend, whose patience has carried you through this garrulous preface that it may not be your lot, when mirth is fastest and most furious, to feel the sharp pang, or the deadly faintness, which heralds the final crisis—to see, with vague wonder, anxious friends bending over you to hear their troubled whispers perhaps yourself to shape the question, with trembling lips, "Is it serious?", and to be told "Yes: the end is near" (and oh, how different all Life will look when those words are said!)—how do you know, I say, that all this may not happen to you, this night?

And dare you, knowing this, say to yourself "Well, perhaps it is an immoral play: perhaps the situations are a little too 'risky', the dialogue a little too strong, the 'business' a little too suggestive.
I don't say that conscience is quite easy: but the piece is so clever, I must see it this once!
I'll begin a stricter life to-morrow."
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and tomorrow!

"Who sins in hope, who, sinning, says,
'Sorrow for sin God's judgement stays!'
Against God's Spirit he lies; quite stops
Mercy with insult; dares, and drops,
Like a scorch'd fly, that spins in vain
Upon the axis of its pain,
Then takes its doom, to limp and crawl,
Blind and forgot, from fall to fall."

Let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought, of the possibility of death—if calmly realised, and steadily faced would be one of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene of amusement being right or wrong.
If the thought of sudden death acquires, for you, a special horror when imagined as happening in a theatre, then be very sure the theatre is harmful for you, however harmless it may be for others; and that you are incurring a deadly peril in going.
Be sure the safest rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we dare not die.

But, once realise what the true object is in life—that it is not pleasure, not knowledge, not even fame itself, 'that last infirmity of noble minds'—but that it is the development of character, the rising to a higher, nobler, purer standard, the building-up of the perfect Man—and then, so long as we feel that this is going on, and will (we trust) go on for evermore, death has for us no terror; it is not a shadow, but a light; not an end, but a beginning!

One other matter may perhaps seem to call for apology—that I should have treated with such entire want of sympathy the British passion for 'Sport', which no doubt has been in by-gone days, and is still, in some forms of it, an excellent school for hardihood and for coolness in moments of danger.
But I am not entirely without sympathy for genuine 'Sport': I can heartily admire the courage of the man who, with severe bodily toil, and at the risk of his life, hunts down some 'man-eating' tiger: and I can heartily sympathize with him when he exults in the glorious excitement of the chase and the hand-to-hand struggle with the monster brought to bay.
But I can but look with deep wonder and sorrow on the hunter who, at his ease and in safety, can find pleasure in what involves, for some defenceless creature, wild terror and a death of agony: deeper, if the hunter be one who has pledged himself to preach to men the Religion of universal Love: deepest of all, if it be one of those 'tender and delicate' beings, whose very name serves as a symbol of Love—'thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women'— whose mission here is surely to help and comfort all that are in pain or sorrow!

'Farewell, farewell!
but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'

CHAPTER 1.

LESS BREAD!
MORE TAXES!

—and then all the people cheered again, and one man, who was more excited than the rest, flung his hat high into the air, and shouted (as well as I could make out) "Who roar for the Sub-Warden?"
Everybody roared, but whether it was for the Sub-Warden, or not, did not clearly appear: some were shouting "Bread!"
and some "Taxes!", but no one seemed to know what it was they really wanted.

All this I saw from the open window of the Warden's breakfast-saloon, looking across the shoulder of the Lord Chancellor, who had sprung to his feet the moment the shouting began, almost as if he had been expecting it, and had rushed to the window which commanded the best view of the market-place.

"What can it all mean?"
he kept repeating to himself, as, with his hands clasped behind him, and his gown floating in the air, he paced rapidly up and down the room.
"I never heard such shouting before— and at this time of the morning, too!
And with such unanimity!
Doesn't it strike you as very remarkable?"

I represented, modestly, that to my ears it appeared that they were shouting for different things, but the Chancellor would not listen to my suggestion for a moment.
"They all shout the same words, I assure you!"
he said: then, leaning well out of the window, he whispered to a man who was standing close underneath, "Keep'em together, ca'n't you?
The Warden will be here directly.
Give'em the signal for the march up!"
All this was evidently not meant for my ears, but I could scarcely help hearing it, considering that my chin was almost on the Chancellor's shoulder.

The 'march up' was a very curious sight:

a straggling procession of men, marching two and two, began from the other side of the market-place, and advanced in an irregular zig-zag fashion towards the Palace, wildly tacking from side to side, like a sailing vessel making way against an unfavourable wind so that the head of the procession was often further from us at the end of one tack than it had been at the end of the previous one.

Yet it was evident that all was being done under orders, for I noticed that all eyes were fixed on the man who stood just under the window, and to whom the Chancellor was continually whispering.
This man held his hat in one hand and a little green flag in the other: whenever he waved the flag the procession advanced a little nearer, when he dipped it they sidled a little farther off, and whenever he waved his hat they all raised a hoarse cheer.
"Hoo-roah!"
they cried, carefully keeping time with the hat as it bobbed up and down.
"Hoo-roah!
Noo!
Consti!
Tooshun!
Less!
Bread!
More!
Taxes!"

"That'll do, that'll do!"
the Chancellor whispered.
"Let 'em rest a bit till I give you the word.
He's not here yet!"
But at this moment the great folding-doors of the saloon were flung open, and he turned with a guilty start to receive His High Excellency.
However it was only Bruno, and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety.

"Morning!"
said the little fellow, addressing the remark, in a general sort of way, to the Chancellor and the waiters.
"Doos oo know where Sylvie is?
I's looking for Sylvie!"

"She's with the Warden, I believe, y'reince!"
the Chancellor replied with a low bow.
There was, no doubt, a certain amount of absurdity in applying this title (which, as of course you see without my telling you, was nothing but 'your Royal Highness' condensed into one syllable) to a small creature whose father was merely the Warden of Outland: still, large excuse must be made for a man who had passed several years at the Court of Fairyland, and had there acquired the almost impossible art of pronouncing five syllables as one.

But the bow was lost upon Bruno, who had run out of the room, even while the great feat of The Unpronounceable Monosyllable was being triumphantly performed.

Just then, a single voice in the distance was understood to shout "A speech from the Chancellor!"
"Certainly, my friends!"
the Chancellor replied with extraordinary promptitude.
"You shall have a speech!"
Here one of the waiters, who had been for some minutes busy making a queer-looking mixture of egg and sherry, respectfully presented it on a large silver salver.
The Chancellor took it haughtily, drank it off thoughtfully, smiled benevolently on the happy waiter as he set down the empty glass, and began.
To the best of my recollection this is what he said.

"Ahem!
Ahem!
Ahem!
Fellow-sufferers, or rather suffering fellows—" ("Don't call 'em names!"
muttered the man under the window.
"I didn't say felons!"
the Chancellor explained.) "You may be sure that I always sympa—" ("'Ear, 'ear!"
shouted the crowd, so loudly as quite to drown the orator's thin squeaky voice) "—that I always sympa—" he repeated.
("Don't simper quite so much!"
said the man under the window.
"It makes yer look a hidiot!"
And, all this time, "'Ear, 'ear!"
went rumbling round the market-place, like a peal of thunder.) "That I always sympathise!"
yelled the Chancellor, the first moment there was silence.
"But your true friend is the Sub-Warden!
Day and night he is brooding on your wrongs—I should say your rights— that is to say your wrongs—no, I mean your rights—" ("Don't talk no more!"
growled the man under the window.
"You're making a mess of it!") At this moment the Sub-Warden entered the saloon.
He was a thin man, with a mean and crafty face, and a greenish-yellow complexion; and he crossed the room very slowly, looking suspiciously about him as if be thought there might be a savage dog hidden somewhere.
"Bravo!"
he cried, patting the Chancellor on the back.
"You did that speech very well indeed.
Why, you're a born orator, man!"

"Oh, that's nothing!
the Chancellor replied, modestly, with downcast eyes.
"Most orators are born, you know."

The Sub-Warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin.
"Why, so they are!"
he admitted.
"I never considered it in that light.
Still, you did it very well.
A word in your ear!"

The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno.

I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed by one of the men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like the fins of a fish.
"His High Excellency," this respectful man was saying, "is in his Study, y'reince!"
(He didn't pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him.

The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face, was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it has ever been my lot to see.
She looked four or five years older than Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same wealth of curly brown hair.
Her eager smiling face was turned upwards towards her father's, and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love with which the two faces—one in the Spring of Life, the other in its late Autumn—were gazing on each other.

"No, you've never seen him," the old man was saying: "you couldn't, you know, he's been away so long—traveling from land to land, and seeking for health, more years than you've been alive, little Sylvie!"
Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing, on a rather complicated system, was the result.

"He only came back last night," said the Warden, when the kissing was over: "he's been traveling post-haste, for the last thousand miles or so, in order to be here on Sylvie's birthday.
But he's a very early riser, and I dare say he's in the Library already.
Come with me and see him.
He's always kind to children.
You'll be sure to like him."

"Has the Other Professor come too?"
Bruno asked in an awe-struck voice.

"Yes, they arrived together.
The Other Professor is—well, you won't like him quite so much, perhaps.
He's a little more dreamy, you know."

"I wiss Sylvie was a little more dreamy," said Bruno.

"What do you mean, Bruno?"
said Sylvie.

Bruno went on addressing his father.
"She says she ca'n't, oo know.
But I thinks it isn't ca'n't, it's wo'n't."

"Says she ca'n't dream!"
the puzzled Warden repeated.

"She do say it," Bruno persisted.
"When I says to her 'Let's stop lessons!', she says 'Oh, I ca'n't dream of letting oo stop yet!'"

"He always wants to stop lessons," Sylvie explained, "five minutes after we begin!"

"Five minutes' lessons a day!"
said the Warden.
"You won't learn much at that rate, little man!"

"That's just what Sylvie says," Bruno rejoined.
"She says I wo'n't learn my lessons.
And I tells her, over and over, I ca'n't learn 'em.
And what doos oo think she says?
She says 'It isn't ca'n't, it's wo'n't!'"

"Let's go and see the Professor," the Warden said, wisely avoiding further discussion.
The children got down off his knees, each secured a hand, and the happy trio set off for the Library—followed by me.
I had come to the conclusion by this time that none of the party (except, for a few moments, the Lord Chancellor) was in the least able to see me.

"What's the matter with him?"
Sylvie asked, walking with a little extra sedateness, by way of example to Bruno at the other side, who never ceased jumping up and down.

"What was the matter—but I hope he's all right now—was lumbago, and rheumatism, and that kind of thing.
He's been curing himself, you know: he's a very learned doctor.
Why, he's actually invented three new diseases, besides a new way of breaking your collar-bone!"

"Is it a nice way?"
said Bruno.

"Well, hum, not very," the Warden said, as we entered the Library.
"And here is the Professor.
Good morning, Professor!
Hope you're quite rested after your journey!"

A jolly-looking, fat little man, in a flowery dressing-gown, with a large book under each arm, came trotting in at the other end of the room, and was going straight across without taking any notice of the children.
"I'm looking for Vol.
Three," he said.
"Do you happen to have seen it?"

"You don't see my children, Professor!"
the Warden exclaimed, taking him by the shoulders and turning him round to face them.

The Professor laughed violently: then he gazed at them through his great spectacles, for a minute or two, without speaking.

At last he addressed Bruno.
"I hope you have had a good night, my child?"
Bruno looked puzzled.
"I's had the same night oo've had," he replied.
"There's only been one night since yesterday!"

It was the Professor's turn to look puzzled now.
He took off his spectacles, and rubbed them with his handkerchief.
Then he gazed at them again.
Then he turned to the Warden.
"Are they bound?"
he enquired.

"No, we aren't," said Bruno, who thought himself quite able to answer this question.

The Professor shook his head sadly.
"Not even half-bound?"

"Why would we be half-bound?"
said Bruno.

"We're not prisoners!"

But the Professor had forgotten all about them by this time, and was speaking to the Warden again.
"You'll be glad to hear," he was saying, "that the Barometer's beginning to move—"

"Well, which way?"
said the Warden—adding, to the children, "Not that I care, you know.
Only he thinks it affects the weather.
He's a wonderfully clever man, you know.
Sometimes he says things that only the Other Professor can understand.
Sometimes he says things that nobody can understand!
Which way is it, Professor?
Up or down?"

"Neither!"
said the Professor, gently clapping his hands.
"It's going sideways—if I may so express myself."

"And what kind of weather does that produce?"
said the Warden.
"Listen, children!
Now you'll hear something worth knowing!"

"Horizontal weather," said the Professor, and made straight for the door, very nearly trampling on Bruno, who had only just time to get out of his way.

"Isn't he learned?"
the Warden said, looking after him with admiring eyes.
"Positively he runs over with learning!"

"But he needn't run over me!"
said Bruno.

The Professor was back in a moment: he had changed his dressing-gown for a frock-coat, and had put on a pair of very strange-looking boots, the tops of which were open umbrellas.
"I thought you'd like to see them," he said.
"These are the boots for horizontal weather!"