Льюис Кэрролл
Sylvie and Bruno
“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!”
“But what’s the use of wearing umbrellas round one’s knees?”
“In ordinary rain,” the Professor admitted, “they would not be of much use. But if ever it rained horizontally, you know, they would be invaluable — simply invaluable!”
“Take the Professor to the breakfast-saloon, children,” said the Warden. “And tell them not to wait for me. I had breakfast early, as I’ve some business to attend to.” The children seized the Professor’s hands, as familiarly as if they had known him for years, and hurried him away. I followed respectfully behind.
CHAPTER 2. L’AMIE INCONNUE
As we entered the breakfast-saloon, the Professor was saying “ — and he had breakfast by himself, early: so he begged you wouldn’t wait for him, my Lady. This way, my Lady,” he added, “this way!” And then, with (as it seemed to me) most superfluous politeness, he flung open the door of my compartment, and ushered in “ — a young and lovely lady!” I muttered to myself with some bitterness. “And this is, of course, the opening scene of Vol. I. She is the Heroine. And I am one of those subordinate characters that only turn up when needed for the development of her destiny, and whose final appearance is outside the church, waiting to greet the Happy Pair!”
“Yes, my Lady, change at Fayfield,” were the next words I heard (oh that too obsequious Guard!), “next station but one.” And the door closed, and the lady settled down into her corner, and the monotonous throb of the engine (making one feel as if the train were some gigantic monster, whose very circulation we could feel) proclaimed that we were once more speeding on our way. “The lady had a perfectly formed nose,” I caught myself saying to myself, “hazel eyes, and lips — ” and here it occurred to me that to see, for myself, what “the lady” was really like, would be more satisfactory than much speculation.
I looked round cautiously, and — was entirely disappointed of my hope. The veil, which shrouded her whole face, was too thick for me to see more than the glitter of bright eyes and the hazy outline of what might be a lovely oval face, but might also, unfortunately, be an equally unlovely one. I closed my eyes again, saying to myself “ — couldn’t have a better chance for an experiment in Telepathy! I’ll think out her face, and afterwards test the portrait with the original.”
At first, no result at all crowned my efforts, though I ‘divided my swift mind,’ now hither, now thither, in a way that I felt sure would have made AEneas green with envy: but the dimly-seen oval remained as provokingly blank as ever — a mere Ellipse, as if in some mathematical diagram, without even the Foci that might be made to do duty as a nose and a mouth. Gradually, however, the conviction came upon me that I could, by a certain concentration of thought, think the veil away, and so get a glimpse of the mysterious face — as to which the two questions, “is she pretty?” and “is she plain?”, still hung suspended, in my mind, in beautiful equipoise.
Success was partial — and fitful — still there was a result: ever and anon, the veil seemed to vanish, in a sudden flash of light: but, before I could fully realise the face, all was dark again. In each such glimpse, the face seemed to grow more childish and more innocent: and, when I had at last thought the veil entirely away, it was, unmistakeably, the sweet face of little Sylvie!
“So, either I’ve been dreaming about Sylvie,” I said to myself, “and this is the reality. Or else I’ve really been with Sylvie, and this is a dream! Is Life itself a dream, I wonder?”
To occupy the time, I got out the letter, which had caused me to take this sudden railway-journey from my London home down to a strange fishing-town on the North coast, and read it over again:-
“DEAR OLD FRIEND,
“I’m sure it will be as great a pleasure to me, as it can possibly be to you, to meet once more after so many years: and of course
I shall be ready to give you all the benefit of such medical skill as I have: only, you know, one mustn’t violate professional etiquette! And you are already in the hands of a first-rate London doctor, with whom it would be utter affectation for me to pretend to compete. (I make no doubt he is right in saying the heart is affected: all your symptoms point that way.) One thing, at any rate, I have already done in my doctorial capacity — secured you a bedroom on the ground-floor, so that you will not need to ascend the stairs at all.
“I shalt expect you by last train on Friday, in accordance with your letter: and, till then, I shalt say, in the words of the old song, ‘Oh for Friday nicht! Friday’s lang a-coming!’
Yours always,
ARTHUR FORESTER.
“P.S. Do you believe in Fate?”
This Postscript puzzled me sorely. “He is far too sensible a man,” I thought, “to have become a Fatalist. And yet what else can he mean by it?” And, as I folded up the letter and put it away, I inadvertently repeated the words aloud. “Do you believe in Fate?”
The fair ‘Incognita’ turned her head quickly at the sudden question.
“No, I don’t!” she said with a smile. “Do you?”
“I — I didn’t mean to ask the question!” I stammered, a little taken aback at having begun a conversation in so unconventional a fashion.
The lady’s smile became a laugh — not a mocking laugh, but the laugh of a happy child who is perfectly at her ease. “Didn’t you?” she said. “Then it was a case of what you Doctors call ‘unconscious cerebration’?”
“I am no Doctor,” I replied. “Do I look so like one? Or what makes you think it?”
She pointed to the book I had been reading, which was so lying that its title, “Diseases of the Heart,” was plainly visible.
“One needn’t be a Doctor,” I said, “to take an interest in medical books. There’s another class of readers, who are yet more deeply interested — ”
“You mean the Patients?” she interrupted, while a look of tender pity gave new sweetness to her face. “But,” with an evident wish to avoid a possibly painful topic, “one needn’t be either, to take an interest in books of Science. Which contain the greatest amount of Science, do you think, the books, or the minds?”
“Rather a profound question for a lady!” I said to myself, holding, with the conceit so natural to Man, that Woman’s intellect is essentially shallow. And I considered a minute before replying. “If you mean living minds, I don’t think it’s possible to decide. There is so much written Science that no living person has ever read: and there is so much thought-out Science that hasn’t yet been written. But, if you mean the whole human race, then I think the minds have it: everything, recorded in books, must have once been in some mind, you know.”
“Isn’t that rather like one of the Rules in Algebra?” my Lady enquired. (“Algebra too!” I thought with increasing wonder.) “I mean, if we consider thoughts as factors, may we not say that the Least Common Multiple of all the minds contains that of all the books; but not the other way?”
“Certainly we may!” I replied, delighted with the illustration. “And what a grand thing it would be,” I went on dreamily, thinking aloud rather than talking, “if we could only apply that Rule to books! You know, in finding the Least Common Multiple, we strike out a quantity wherever it occurs, except in the term where it is raised to its highest power. So we should have to erase every recorded thought, except in the sentence where it is expressed with the greatest intensity.”
My Lady laughed merrily. “Some books would be reduced to blank paper,
I’m afraid!” she said.
“They would. Most libraries would be terribly diminished in bulk.
But just think what they would gain in quality!”
“When will it be done?” she eagerly asked. “If there’s any chance of it in my time, I think I’ll leave off reading, and wait for it!”
“Well, perhaps in another thousand years or so — ”
“Then there’s no use waiting!”, said my Lady. “Let’s sit down.
Uggug, my pet, come and sit by me!”
“Anywhere but by me!” growled the Sub-warden. “The little wretch always manages to upset his coffee!”
I guessed at once (as perhaps the reader will also have guessed, if, like myself, he is very clever at drawing conclusions) that my Lady was the Sub-Warden’s wife, and that Uggug (a hideous fat boy, about the same age as Sylvie, with the expression of a prize-pig) was their son. Sylvie and Bruno, with the Lord Chancellor, made up a party of seven.
“And you actually got a plunge-bath every morning?” said the Sub-Warden, seemingly in continuation of a conversation with the Professor. “Even at the little roadside-inns?”
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” the Professor replied with a smile on his jolly face. “Allow me to explain. It is, in fact, a very simple problem in Hydrodynamics. (That means a combination of Water and Strength.) If we take a plunge-bath, and a man of great strength (such as myself) about to plunge into it, we have a perfect example of this science. I am bound to admit,” the Professor continued, in a lower tone and with downcast eyes, “that we need a man of remarkable strength. He must be able to spring from the floor to about twice his own height, gradually turning over as he rises, so as to come down again head first.”
“Why, you need a flea, not a man!” exclaimed the Sub-Warden.
“Pardon me,” said the Professor. “This particular kind of bath is not adapted for a flea. Let us suppose,” he continued, folding his table-napkin into a graceful festoon, “that this represents what is perhaps the necessity of this Age — the Active Tourist’s Portable Bath. You may describe it briefly, if you like,” looking at the Chancellor, “by the letters A.T.P.B.”
The Chancellor, much disconcerted at finding everybody looking at him, could only murmur, in a shy whisper, “Precisely so!”
“One great advantage of this plunge-bath,” continued the Professor, “is that it requires only half-a-gallon of water — ”
“I don’t call it a plunge-bath,” His Sub-Excellency remarked, “unless your Active Tourist goes right under!”
“But he does go right under,” the old man gently replied. “The A.T. hangs up the P. B. on a nail — thus. He then empties the water-jug into it — places the empty jug below the bag — leaps into the air — descends head-first into the bag — the water rises round him to the top of the bag — and there you are!” he triumphantly concluded. “The A.T. is as much under water as if he’d gone a mile or two down into the Atlantic!”
“And he’s drowned, let us say, in about four minutes — ”
“By no means!” the Professor answered with a proud smile. “After about a minute, he quietly turns a tap at the lower end of the P. B. — all the water runs back into the jug and there you are again!”
“But how in the world is he to get out of the bag again?”
“That, I take it,” said the Professor, “is the most beautiful part of the whole invention. All the way up the P.B., inside, are loops for the thumbs; so it’s something like going up-stairs, only perhaps less comfortable; and, by the time the A. T. has risen out of the bag, all but his head, he’s sure to topple over, one way or the other — the Law of Gravity secures that. And there he is on the floor again!”
“A little bruised, perhaps?”
“Well, yes, a little bruised; but having had his plunge-bath: that’s the great thing.”
“Wonderful! It’s almost beyond belief!” murmured the Sub-Warden.
The Professor took it as a compliment, and bowed with a gratified smile.
“Quite beyond belief!” my Lady added — meaning, no doubt, to be more complimentary still. The Professor bowed, but he didn’t smile this time. “I can assure you,” he said earnestly, “that, provided the bath was made, I used it every morning. I certainly ordered it — that I am clear about — my only doubt is, whether the man ever finished making it. It’s difficult to remember, after so many years — ”
At this moment the door, very slowly and creakingly, began to open, and Sylvie and Bruno jumped up, and ran to meet the well-known footstep.
CHAPTER 3. BIRTHDAY-PRESENTS
“It’s my brother!” the Sub-warden exclaimed, in a warning whisper.
“Speak out, and be quick about it!”
The appeal was evidently addressed to the Lord Chancellor, who instantly replied, in a shrill monotone, like a little boy repeating the alphabet, “As I was remarking, your Sub-Excellency, this portentous movement — ”
“You began too soon!” the other interrupted, scarcely able to restrain himself to a whisper, so great was his excitement. “He couldn’t have heard you. Begin again!” “As I was remarking,” chanted the obedient Lord Chancellor, “this portentous movement has already assumed the dimensions of a Revolution!”
“And what are the dimensions of a Revolution?” The voice was genial and mellow, and the face of the tall dignified old man, who had just entered the room, leading Sylvie by the hand, and with Bruno riding triumphantly on his shoulder, was too noble and gentle to have scared a less guilty man: but the Lord Chancellor turned pale instantly, and could hardly articulate the words “The dimensions your — your High Excellency? I — I — scarcely comprehend!”
“Well, the length, breadth, and thickness, if you like it better!”
And the old man smiled, half-contemptuously.
The Lord Chancellor recovered himself with a great effort, and pointed to the open window. “If your High Excellency will listen for a moment to the shouts of the exasperated populace — ” (“of the exasperated populace!” the Sub-Warden repeated in a louder tone, as the Lord Chancellor, being in a state of abject terror, had dropped almost into a whisper) “ — you will understand what it is they want. “
And at that moment there surged into the room a hoarse confused cry, in which the only clearly audible words were “Less — bread — More — taxes!” The old man laughed heartily. “What in the world — ” he was beginning: but the Chancellor heard him not. “Some mistake!” he muttered, hurrying to the window, from which he shortly returned with an air of relief. “Now listen!” he exclaimed, holding up his hand impressively. And now the words came quite distinctly, and with the regularity of the ticking of a clock, “More — bread — Less taxes!’”
“More bread!” the Warden repeated in astonishment. “Why, the new Government Bakery was opened only last week, and I gave orders to sell the bread at cost-price during the present scarcity! What can they expect more?”
“The Bakery’s closed, y’reince!” the Chancellor said, more loudly and clearly than he had spoken yet. He was emboldened by the consciousness that here, at least, he had evidence to produce: and he placed in the Warden’s hands a few printed notices, that were lying ready, with some open ledgers, on a side-table.
“Yes, yes, I see!” the Warden muttered, glancing carelessly through them. “Order countermanded by my brother, and supposed to be my doing! Rather sharp practice! It’s all right!” he added in a louder tone. “My name is signed to it: so I take it on myself. But what do they mean by ‘Less Taxes’? How can they be less? I abolished the last of them a month ago!”
“It’s been put on again, y’reince, and by y’reince’s own orders!”, and other printed notices were submitted for inspection.
The Warden, whilst looking them over, glanced once or twice at the Sub-Warden, who had seated himself before one of the open ledgers, and was quite absorbed in adding it up; but he merely repeated “It’s all right. I accept it as my doing.”
“And they do say,” the Chancellor went on sheepishly — looking much more like a convicted thief than an Officer of State, “that a change of Government, by the abolition of the Sub-Warden — I mean,” he hastily added, on seeing the Warden’s look of astonishment, “the abolition of the office of Sub-Warden, and giving the present holder the right to act as Vice-Warden whenever the Warden is absent — would appease all this seedling discontent I mean,” he added, glancing at a paper he held in his hand, “all this seething discontent!”
“For fifteen years,” put in a deep but very harsh voice, “my husband has been acting as Sub-Warden. It is too long! It is much too long!” My Lady was a vast creature at all times: but, when she frowned and folded her arms, as now, she looked more gigantic than ever, and made one try to fancy what a haystack would look like, if out of temper.
“He would distinguish himself as a Vice!” my Lady proceeded, being far too stupid to see the double meaning of her words. “There has been no such Vice in Outland for many a long year, as he would be!”
“What course would you suggest, Sister?” the Warden mildly enquired.
My Lady stamped, which was undignified: and snorted, which was ungraceful. “This is no jesting matter!” she bellowed.
“I will consult my brother, said the Warden. “Brother!”
“ — and seven makes a hundred and ninety-four, which is sixteen and two-pence,” the Sub-Warden replied. “Put down two and carry sixteen.”
The Chancellor raised his hands and eyebrows, lost in admiration.
“Such a man of business!” he murmured.
“Brother, could I have a word with you in my Study?” the Warden said in a louder tone. The Sub-Warden rose with alacrity, and the two left the room together.
My Lady turned to the Professor, who had uncovered the urn, and was taking its temperature with his pocket-thermometer. “Professor!” she began, so loudly and suddenly that even Uggug, who had gone to sleep in his chair, left off snoring and opened one eye. The Professor pocketed his thermometer in a moment, clasped his hands, and put his head on one side with a meek smile
“You were teaching my son before breakfast, I believe?” my Lady loftily remarked. “I hope he strikes you as having talent?”
“Oh, very much so indeed, my Lady!” the Professor hastily replied, unconsciously rubbing his ear, while some painful recollection seemed to cross his mind. “I was very forcibly struck by His Magnificence, I assure you!”
“He is a charming boy!” my Lady exclaimed. “Even his snores are more musical than those of other boys!”
If that were so, the Professor seemed to think, the snores of other boys must be something too awful to be endured: but he was a cautious man, and he said nothing.
“And he’s so clever!” my Lady continued. “No one will enjoy your Lecture more by the way, have you fixed the time for it yet?
You’ve never given one, you know: and it was promised years ago, before you — “Yes, yes, my Lady, I know! Perhaps next Tuesday or Tuesday week — ”
“That will do very well,” said my Lady, graciously. “Of course you will let the Other Professor lecture as well?”
“I think not, my Lady? the Professor said with some hesitation.
“You see, he always stands with his back to the audience.
It does very well for reciting; but for lecturing — ”
“You are quite right,” said my Lady. “And, now I come to think of it, there would hardly be time for more than one Lecture. And it will go off all the better, if we begin with a Banquet, and a Fancy-dress Ball — ”
“It will indeed!” the Professor cried, with enthusiasm.
“I shall come as a Grass-hopper,” my Lady calmly proceeded.
“What shall you come as, Professor?”
The Professor smiled feebly. “I shall come as — as early as I can, my Lady!”
“You mustn’t come in before the doors are opened,” said my Lady.
“I ca’n’t,” said the Professor. “Excuse me a moment. As this is Lady Sylvie’s birthday, I would like to — ” and he rushed away.
Bruno began feeling in his pockets, looking more and more melancholy as he did so: then he put his thumb in his mouth, and considered for a minute: then he quietly left the room.
He had hardly done so before the Professor was back again, quite out of breath. “Wishing you many happy returns of the day, my dear child!” he went on, addressing the smiling little girl, who had run to meet him. “Allow me to give you a birthday-present. It’s a second-hand pincushion, my dear. And it only cost fourpence-halfpenny!”
“Thank you, it’s very pretty!” And Sylvie rewarded the old man with a hearty kiss.
“And the pins they gave me for nothing!” the Professor added in high glee. “Fifteen of ‘em, and only one bent!”
“I’ll make the bent one into a hook!” said Sylvie. “To catch Bruno with, when he runs away from his lessons!”
“You ca’n’t guess what my present is!” said Uggug, who had taken the butter-dish from the table, and was standing behind her, with a wicked leer on his face.
“No, I ca’n’t guess,” Sylvie said without looking up. She was still examining the Professor’s pincushion.
“It’s this!” cried the bad boy, exultingly, as he emptied the dish over her, and then, with a grin of delight at his own cleverness, looked round for applause.
Sylvie coloured crimson, as she shook off the butter from her frock: but she kept her lips tight shut, and walked away to the window, where she stood looking out and trying to recover her temper.
Uggug’s triumph was a very short one: the Sub-Warden had returned, just in time to be a witness of his dear child’s playfulness, and in another moment a skilfully-applied box on the ear had changed the grin of delight into a howl of pain.
“My darling!” cried his mother, enfolding him in her fat arms.
“Did they box his ears for nothing? A precious pet!”
“It’s not for nothing!” growled the angry father. “Are you aware,
Madam, that I pay the house-bills, out of a fixed annual sum?
The loss of all that wasted butter falls on me! Do you hear, Madam!”
“Hold your tongue, Sir!” My Lady spoke very quietly — almost in a whisper. But there was something in her look which silenced him. “Don’t you see it was only a joke? And a very clever one, too! He only meant that he loved nobody but her! And, instead of being pleased with the compliment, the spiteful little thing has gone away in a huff!”
The Sub-Warden was a very good hand at changing a subject. He walked across to the window. “My dear,” he said, “is that a pig that I see down below, rooting about among your flower-beds?”
“A pig!” shrieked my Lady, rushing madly to the window, and almost pushing her husband out, in her anxiety to see for herself. “Whose pig is it? How did it get in? Where’s that crazy Gardener gone?”
At this moment Bruno re-entered the room, and passing Uggug (who was blubbering his loudest, in the hope of attracting notice) as if he was quite used to that sort of thing, he ran up to Sylvie and threw his arms round her. “I went to my toy-cupboard,” he said with a very sorrowful face, “to see if there were somefin fit for a present for oo! And there isn’t nuffin! They’s all broken, every one! And I haven’t got no money left, to buy oo a birthday-present! And I ca’n’t give oo nuffin but this!” (“This” was a very earnest hug and a kiss.)
“Oh, thank you, darling!” cried Sylvie. “I like your present best of all!” (But if so, why did she give it back so quickly?)
His Sub-Excellency turned and patted the two children on the head with his long lean hands. “Go away, dears!” he said. “There’s business to talk over. “
Sylvie and Bruno went away hand in hand: but, on reaching the door, Sylvie came back again and went up to Uggug timidly. “I don’t mind about the butter,” she said, “and I — I’m sorry he hurt you!” And she tried to shake hands with the little ruffian: but Uggug only blubbered louder, and wouldn’t make friends. Sylvie left the room with a sigh.
The Sub-Warden glared angrily at his weeping son. “Leave the room, Sirrah!” he said, as loud as he dared. His wife was still leaning out of the window, and kept repeating “I ca’n’t see that pig! Where is it?”
“It’s moved to the right now it’s gone a little to the left,” said the Sub-Warden: but he had his back to the window, and was making signals to the Lord Chancellor, pointing to Uggug and the door, with many a cunning nod and wink.
The Chancellor caught his meaning at last, and, crossing the room, took that interesting child by the ear the next moment he and Uggug were out of the room, and the door shut behind them: but not before one piercing yell had rung through the room, and reached the ears of the fond mother.
“What is that hideous noise?” she fiercely asked, turning upon her startled husband.
“It’s some hyaena — or other,” replied the Sub-Warden, looking vaguely up to the ceiling, as if that was where they usually were to be found. “Let us to business, my dear. Here comes the Warden.” And he picked up from the floor a wandering scrap of manuscript, on which I just caught the words ‘after which Election duly holden the said Sibimet and Tabikat his wife may at their pleasure assume Imperial — ’ before, with a guilty look, he crumpled it up in his hand.
