Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (77 page)

‘"Eldest little Fox,"‘ Sylvie said, dropping the narrative-form in her eagerness, ‘"you’ve been so good that I can hardly believe you’ve been disobedient: but I’m afraid you’ve been eating your little sister?"
And the eldest little Fox said "Whihuauch!

Whihuauch!"
and then it choked.
And Bruno looked into its mouth, and it was full!’
(Sylvie paused to take breath, and Bruno lay back among the daisies, and looked at me triumphantly.
‘Isn’t it grand, Mister Sir?’
said he.
I tried hard to assume a critical tone.
‘It’s grand,’ I said: ‘but it frightens one so!’
‘Oo may sit a little closer to me, if oo like,’ said Bruno.)

‘And so Bruno went home: and took the hamper into the kitchen, and opened it.
And he saw—’ Sylvie looked at me, this time, as if she thought I had been rather neglected and ought to be allowed one guess, at any rate.

‘He ca’n’t guess!’
Bruno cried eagerly.
‘I ‘fraid I must tell him!
There weren’t—nuffin in the hamper!’
I shivered in terror, and Bruno clapped his hands with delight.
‘He is flightened, Sylvie!
Tell the rest!’

‘So Bruno said "Eldest little Fox, have you been eating yourself, you wicked little Fox?"
And the eldest little Fox said "Whihuauch!"
And then Bruno saw there was only its mouth in the hamper!
So he took the mouth, and he opened it, and shook, and shook!
And at last he shook the little Fox out of its own mouth!
And then he said "Open your mouth again, you wicked little thing!"
And he shook, and shook!
And he shook out the second little Fox!
And he said "Now open your mouth!"

And he shook, and shook!
And he shook out the youngest little Fox, and all the Apples, and all the Bread!

‘And then Bruno stood the little Foxes up against the wall: and he made them a little speech.
"Now, little Foxes, you’ve begun very wickedly—and you’ll have to be punished.
First you’ll go up to the nursery, and wash your faces, and put on clean pinafores.
Then you’ll hear the bell ring for supper.
Then you’ll come down: and you wo’n’t have any supper: but you’ll have a good whipping!
Then you’ll go to bed.
Then in the morning you’ll hear the bell ring for breakfast.
But you wo’n’t have any breakfast!
You’ll have a good whipping!
Then you’ll have your lessons.
And, perhaps, if you’re very good, when dinner-time comes, you’ll have a little dinner, and no more whipping!"‘ (‘How very kind he was!’
I whispered to Bruno.
‘Middling kind,’

Bruno corrected me gravely.)

‘So the little Foxes ran up to the nursery.
And soon Bruno went into the hall, and rang the big bell.
"Tingle, tingle, tingle!

Supper, supper, supper!"
Down came the little Foxes, in such a hurry for their supper!
Clean pinafores!
Spoons in their hands!

And, when they got into the dining-room, there was ever such a white table-cloth on the table!
But there was nothing on it but a big whip.
And they had such a whipping!’
(I put my handkerchief to my eyes, and Bruno hastily climbed upon my knee and stroked my face.
‘Only one more whipping, Mister Sir!’
he whispered.
‘Don’t cry more than oo ca’n’t help!’)

‘And the next morning early, Bruno rang the big bell again.
"Tingle, tingle, tingle!
Breakfast, breakfast, breakfast!"
Down came the little Foxes!
Clean pinafores!
Spoons in their hands!
No breakfast!
Only the big whip!
Then came lessons,’ Sylvie hurried on, for I still had my handkerchief to my eyes.
‘And the little Foxes were ever so good!
And they learned their lessons backwards, and forwards, and upside-down.
And at last Bruno rang the big bell again.
"Tingle, tingle, tingle!
Dinner, dinner, dinner!"
And when the little Foxes came down—’ (‘Had they clean pinafores on?’
Bruno enquired.
‘Of course!’
said Sylvie.

‘And spoons?’
‘Why, you know they had!’
‘Couldn’t be certain,’ said Bruno.) ‘—they came as slow as slow!
And they said "Oh!
There’ll be no dinner!
There’ll only be the big whip!"
But, when they got into the room, they saw the most lovely dinner!’

(‘Buns?’
cried Bruno, clapping his hands.) ‘Buns, and cake, and—’ (‘—and jam?’
said Bruno.) ‘Yes, jam—and soup—and—’

(‘—and sugar plums!’
Bruno put in once more; and Sylvie seemed satisfied.)

‘And ever after that, they were such good little Foxes!
They did their lessons as good as gold—and they never did what Bruno told them not to—and they never ate each other any more—and they never ate themselves!’

The story came to an end so suddenly, it almost took my breath away; however I did my best to make a pretty speech of thanks.
‘I’m sure it’s very—very—very much so, I’m sure!’
I seemed to hear myself say.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BEYOND THESE VOICES

‘I DIDN’T quite catch what you said!’
were the next words that reached my ear, but certainly not in the voice either of Sylvie or of Bruno, whom I could just see, through the crowd of guests, standing by the piano, and listening to the Count’s song.
Mein Herr was the speaker.
‘I didn’t quite catch what you said!’
he repeated.
‘But I’ve no doubt you take my view of it.
Thank you very much for your kind attention.
There is only but one verse left to be sung!’
These last words were not in the gentle voice of Mein Herr, but in the deep bass of the French Count.
And, in the silence that followed, the final stanza of ‘Tottles’ rang through the room.

See now this couple settled down In quiet lodgings, out of town:

Submissively the tearful wife Accepts a plain and humble life:

Yet begs one boon on bended knee:

‘My ducky-darling, don’t resent it!

Mamma might come for two or three—’

‘NEVER!’
yelled Tottles.
And he meant it.

The conclusion of the song was followed by quite a chorus of thanks and compliments from all parts of the room, which the gratified signer responded to by bowing low in all directions.
‘It is to me a great privilege,’ he said to Lady Muriel, ‘to have met with this so marvellous a song.
The accompaniment to him is so strange, so mysterious: it is as if a new music were to be invented!
I will play him once again so as that to show you what I mean.’
He returned to the piano, but the song had vanished.

The bewildered singer searched through the heap of music lying on an adjoining table, but it was not there, either.
Lady Muriel helped in the search: others soon joined: the excitement grew.
‘What can have become of it?’
exclaimed Lady Muriel.
Nobody knew: one thing only was certain, that no one had been near the piano since the Count had sung the last verse of the song.

‘Nevare mind him!’
he said, most good-naturedly.
‘I shall give it you with memory alone!’
He sat down, and began vaguely fingering the notes; but nothing resembling the tune came out.
Then he, too, grew excited.
‘But what oddness!
How much of singularity!
That I might lose, not the words alone, but the tune also—that is quite curious, I suppose?’

We all supposed it, heartily.

‘It was that sweet little boy, who found it for me,’ the Count suggested.
‘Quite perhaps he is the thief?’

‘Of course he is!’
cried Lady Muriel.
‘Bruno!
Where are you, my darling?’

But no Bruno replied: it seemed that the two children had vanished as suddenly, and as mysteriously, as the song.

‘They are playing us a trick!’
Lady Muriel gaily exclaimed.
‘This is only an ex tempore game of Hide-and-Seek!
That little Bruno is an embodied Mischief!’

The suggestion was a welcome one to most of us, for some of the guests were beginning to look decidedly uneasy.
A general search was set on foot with much enthusiasm: curtains were thrown back and shaken, cupboards opened, and ottomans turned over; but the number of possible hiding-places proved to be strictly limited; and the search came to an end almost as soon as it had begun.

‘They must have run out, while we were wrapped up in the song,’ Lady Muriel said, addressing herself to the Count, who seemed more agitated than the others; ‘and no doubt they’ve found their way back to the housekeeper’s room.’

‘Not by this door!’
was the earnest protest of a knot of two or three gentlemen, who had been grouped round the door (one of them actually leaning against it) for the last half-hour, as they declared.
‘This door has not been opened since the song began!’

An uncomfortable silence followed this announcement.
Lady Muriel ventured no further conjectures, but quietly examined the fastenings of the windows, which opened as doors.
They all proved to be well fastened, inside.

Not yet at the end of her resources, Lady Muriel rang the bell.
‘Ask the housekeeper to step here,’ she said, ‘and to bring the children’s walking-things with her.’

‘I’ve brought them, my Lady,’ said the obsequious housekeeper, entering after another minute of silence.
‘I thought the young lady would have come to my room to put on her boots.
Here’s your boots, my love!’
she added cheerfully, looking in all directions for the children.
There was no answer, and she turned to Lady Muriel with a puzzled smile.
‘Have the little darlings hid themselves?’

‘I don’t see them, just now,’ Lady Muriel replied, rather evasively.
‘You can leave their things here, Wilson.
I’ll dress them, when they’re ready to go.’

The two little hats, and Sylvie’s walking-jacket, were handed round among the ladies, with many exclamations of delight.
There certainly was a sort of witchery of beauty about them.
Even the little boots did not miss their share of favourable criticism.

‘Such natty little things!’
the musical young lady exclaimed, almost fondling them as she spoke.
‘And what tiny tiny feet they must have!’

Finally, the things were piled together on the centre-ottoman, and the guests, despairing of seeing the children again, began to wish good-night and leave the house.

There were only some eight or nine left—to whom the Count was explaining, for the twentieth time, how he had had his eye on the children during the last verse of the song; how he had then glanced round the room, to see what effect ‘de great chest-note’

had had upon his audience; and how, when he looked back again, they had both disappeared—when exclamations of dismay began to be heard on all sides, the Count hastily bringing his story to an end to join in the outcry.

The walking-things had all disappeared!

After the utter failure of the search for the children, there was a very halfhearted search made for their apparel.
The remaining guests seemed only too glad to get away, leaving only the Count and our four selves.

The Count sank into an easy-chair, and panted a little.

‘Who then are these dear children, I pray you?’
he said.
‘Why come they, why go they, in this so little ordinary a fashion?
That the music should make itself vanish—that the hats, the boots, should make themselves to vanish—how is it, I pray you?’

‘I’ve no idea where they are!’
was all I could say, on finding myself appealed to, by general consent, for an explanation.

The Count seemed about to ask further questions, but checked himself.

‘The hour makes himself to become late," he said.
‘I wish to you a very good night, my Lady.
I betake myself to my bed—to dream—if that indeed I be not dreaming now!’
And he hastily left the room.

‘Stay awhile, stay awhile!’
said the Earl, as I was about to follow the Count.
‘You are not a guest, you know!
Arthur’s friend is at home here!’

‘Thanks!’
I said, as with true English instincts, we drew our chairs together round the fire-place, though no fire was burning—Lady Muriel having taken the heap of music on her knee, to have one more search for the strangely-vanished song.

‘Don’t you sometimes feel a wild longing,’ she said, addressing herself to me, ‘to have something more to do with your hands, while you talk, than just holding a cigar, and now and then knocking off the ash?
Oh, I know all that you’re going to say!’
(This was to Arthur, who appeared about to interrupt her.) ‘The Majesty of Thought supersedes the work of the fingers.
A Man’s severe thinking, plus the shaking-off a cigar-ash, comes to the same total as a Woman’s trivial fancies, plus the most elaborate embroidery.
That’s your sentiment, isn’t it, only better expressed?’

Arthur looked into the radiant, mischievous face, with a grave and very tender smile.
‘Yes,’ he said resignedly: ‘that is my sentiment, exactly.’

‘Rest of body, and activity of mind,’ I put in.
‘Some writer tells us that is the acme of human happiness.’

‘Plenty of bodily rest, at any rate!’
Lady Muriel replied, glancing at the three recumbent figures around her.
‘But what you call activity of mind—’

‘—is the privilege of young Physicians only,’ said the Earl.
‘We old men have no claim to be active.
What can an old man do but die?’

‘A good many other things, I should hope,’ Arthur said earnestly.

‘Well, maybe.
Still you have the advantage of me in many ways, dear boy!
Not only that your day is dawning while mine is setting, but your interest in Life—somehow I ca’n’t help envying you that.
It will be many a year before you lose your hold of that.’

‘Yet surely many human interests survive human Life?’
I said.

‘Many do, no doubt.
And some forms of Science; but only some, I think.
Mathematics, for instance: that seems to possess an endless interest: one ca’n’t imagine any form of Life, or any race of intelligent beings, where Mathematical truth would lose its meaning.
But I fear Medicine stands on a different footing.
Suppose you discover a remedy for some disease hitherto supposed to be incurable.
Well, it is delightful for the moment, no doubt—full of interest—perhaps it brings you fame and fortune.
But what then?
Look on, a few years, into a life where disease has no existence.
What is your discovery worth, then?
Milton makes Jove promise too much.
"Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
Poor comfort when one’s "fame" concerns matters that will have ceased to have a meaning!’

‘At any rate one wouldn’t care to make any fresh medical discoveries,’ said Arthur.
‘I see no help for that—though I shall be sorry to give up my favourite studies.
Still, medicine, disease, pain, sorrow, sin—I fear they’re all linked together.
Banish sin, and you banish them all!’

‘Military science is a yet stronger instance,’ said the Earl.
‘Without sin, war would surely be impossible.
Still any mind, that has had in this life any keen interest, not in itself sinful, will surely find itself some congenial line of work hereafter.
Wellington may have no more battles to fight—and yet—

"We doubt not that, for one so true, There must be other, nobler work to do, Than when he fought at Waterloo,  And Victor he must ever be!"‘

He lingered over the beautiful words, as if he loved them: and his voice, like distant music, died away into silence.

After a minute or two he began again.
‘If I’m not wearying you, I would like to tell you an idea of the future Life which has haunted me for years, like a sort of waking nightmare—I ca’n’t reason myself out of it.’

‘Pray do,’ Arthur and I replied, almost in a breath.
Lady Muriel put aside the heap of music, and folded her hands together.

‘The one idea,’ the Earl resumed, ‘that has seemed to me to overshadow all the rest, is that of Eternity—involving, as it seems to do, the necessary exhaustion of all subjects of human interest.
Take Pure Mathematics, for instance—a Science independent of our present surroundings.
I have studied it, myself, a little.
Take the subject of circles and ellipses—what we call "curves of the second degree".
In a future Life, it would only be a question of so many years (or hundreds of years, if you like), for a man to work out all their properties.
Then he might go to curves of the third degree.
Say that took ten times as long (you see we have unlimited time to deal with).
I can hardly imagine his interest in the subject holding out even for those; and, though there is no limit to the degree of the curves he might study, yet surely the time, needed to exhaust all the novelty and interest of the subject, would be absolutely finite?
And so of all other branches of Science.
And, when I transport myself, in thought, through some thousands or millions of years, and fancy myself possessed of as much Science as one created reason can carry, I ask myself "What then?
With nothing more to learn, can one rest content on knowledge, for the eternity yet to be lived through?"
It has been a very wearying thought to me.
I have sometimes fancied one might, in that event, say "It is better not to be", and pray for personal annihilation—the Nirvana of the Buddhists.’