If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seeëst - if indeed I go -
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long
Had wink’d and threaten’d darkness, flared and fell:
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,
And waked with silence, grunted “Good!” but we
Sat rapt: it was the tone with which he read -
Perhaps some modern touches here and there
Redeem’d it from the charge of nothingness -
Or else we loved the man and prized his work;
I know not: but we sitting, as I said,
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,
“There now - that’s nothing!” drew a little back,
And drove his heel into the smoulder’d log,
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue:
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem’d
To sail with Arthur under looming shores,
Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
“Arthur is come again: he cannot die.”
Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated - “Come again, and thrice as fair;”
And, further inland, voices echoed - “Come
With all good things, and war shall be no more.”
At this a hundred bells began to peal,
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.
LEWIS CARROLL was the pseudonym used by the Reverend Charles Lutwidge Dodgson (1832-1898) on Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and its sequel Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There (1872), the two classic works of Victorian children’s fantasy. Dodgson used his expertise in logical sophistry and his fondness for tricky wordplay to devastating effect in these two stories, whose adult readers cannot have realised how deftly they mocked and subverted the rigidities of the Victorian world-view in producing a phantasmagorically-disguised account of its follies.
The Hunting of the Snark (1876) is equally fine, but perhaps even Dodgson did not know quite what he had accomplished or how, because he seemed to lose the knack entirely afterwards. The overlong and unutterably tedious fairy romance contained in Sylvie and Bruno (1889) and Sylvie and Bruno Concluded (1893) tries to be constructive instead of anarchic, and the abysmal magnitude of its failure is startling.
“The Walking Stick of Destiny” is one of the earliest stories that Dodgson wrote, but it already demonstrates his predilection for linguistic and logical tomfoolery; it was rescued from a manuscript version penned in 1850 or thereabouts for posthumous publication in 1932.
THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY
By Lewis Carroll
Chapter I
The Baron was pacing his tapestried chamber two mortal hours ere sunrise. Ever and anon he would pause at the open casement, and gaze from its giddy height on the ground beneath. Then a stern smile would light up his gloomy brow and muttering to himself in smothered accents, “’twill do” he would again resume his lonely march.
Uprose the glorious sun, and illumined the darkened world with the light of day: still was the haughty Baron pacing his chamber, albeit his step was hastier and more impatient than before, and more than once he stood motionless, listening anxiously and eagerly, then turned with a disappointed air upon his heel, while a darker shade passed over his brow. Suddenly the trumpet which hung at the castle gate gave forth a shrill blast: the Baron heard it, and savagely beating his breast with both his clenched fists, he murmured in bitter tone “the time draws nigh, I must nerve myself for action.” Then, throwing himself into an easy chair, he hastily drank off the contents of a large goblet of wine which stood on the table, and in vain attempted to assume an air of indifference. The door was suddenly thrown open and in a loud voice an attendant announced “Signor Blowski!”
“Be seated! Signor! you are early this morn, and Alonzo! ho! fetch a cup of wine for the Signor! spice it well, boy! ha! ha! ha!” and the Baron laughed loud and boisterously, but the laugh was forced and hollow, and died quickly away. Meanwhile the stranger, who had not uttered a syllable, carefully divested himself of his hat and gloves, and seated himself opposite to the Baron, then having quietly waited till the Baron’s laughter had subsided, he commenced in a harsh grating tone, “The Baron Muggzwig greets you, and sends you this”; why did a sudden paleness overspread the Baron Slogdod’s features? why did his fingers tremble, so that he could scarcely open the letter? for one moment he glanced at it, and then raising his head, “Taste the wine, Signor,” he said in strangely altered tone, “regale yourself, I pray,” handing him one of the goblets which had just been brought in.
The Signor received it with a smile, put his lips to it, and then quietly changing goblets with the Baron without his perceiving it, swallowed half the contents at a draught. At that moment Baron Slogdod looked up, watched him for a moment as he drank, and smiled the smile of a wolf.
For full ten minutes there was a dead silence through the apartment, and then the Baron closed the letter, and raised his face: their eyes met: the Signor had many a time faced a savage tiger at bay without flinching, but now he involuntarily turned away his eyes. Then did the Baron speak in calm and measured tone: “You know, I presume, the contents of this letter?” the Signor bowed, “and you await an answer?” “I do”. “This, then, is my answer,” shouted the Baron, rushing upon him, and in another moment he had precipitated him from the open window. He gazed after him for a few seconds as he fell, and then tearing up the letter which lay on the table into innumerable pieces, he scattered them to the wind.
Chapter II
“One! two! three!” The magician set down the bottle, and sank exhausted into a seat: “Nine weary hours,” he sighed, as he wiped his smoking brow, “nine weary hours have I been toiling, and only got to the eight-hundred and thirty-second ingredient! a-well! I verily believe Martin Wagner hath ordered three drops of everything on the face of this earth in his prescription. However, there are only a hundred and sixty-eight ingredients more to put in - ’twill soon be done - then comes the seething - and then - “He was checked in his soliloquy by a low timid rap outside: “’Tis Blowski’s knock,” muttered the old man, as he slowly undid the bars and fastenings of the door, “I marvel what brings him here at this late hour. He is a bird of evil omen: I do mistrust his vulture face. - Why! how now, Signor?” he cried, starting back in surprise as his visitor entered, “where got you that black eye? and verily
your face is bruised like any rainbow! who has insulted you? or rather,” he muttered in an undertone, “whom have you been insulting, for that were the more likely of the two.”
“Never mind my face, good father,” hastily answered Blowski, “I only tripped up, coming home last night in the dark, that’s all, I do assure you. But I am now come on other business - I want advice - or rather I should say I want your opinion - on a difficult question - suppose a man was to - suppose two men - suppose there were two men, A and B -” “suppose! suppose!” contemptuously muttered the magician, “and suppose these men, good father, that is A, was to bring B a letter, then we’ll suppose A read the letter, that is B, and then B tried - I mean A tried - to poison B - I mean A - and then suppose” - “My son,” here interposed the old man, “is this a general case you are putting? Methinks you state it in a marvellously confused manner.” “Of course it’s a general case,” savagely answered Blowski, “and if you’d just listen instead of interrupting, methinks you’d understand it better!” “Proceed, my son,” mildly replied the other.
“And then suppose A - that is B - threw A out of the window - or rather,” he added in conclusion, being himself by this time a little confused, “or rather I should have said the other way.” The old man rubbed his beard, and mused for some time: “Aye, aye,” he said at length, “I see, A - B - so so - B poisons A -” “No! no!” cried the signor, “B tries to poison A, he didn’t really do it, I changed the - I mean,” he hastily added, turning crimson as he spoke, “you’re to suppose that he doesn’t really do it.” “Aye!” continued the magician, “it’s all clear now - B - A - to be sure - but what has all this to do with your cut face?” he suddenly asked. “Nothing whatever,” stammered Blowski, “I’ve told you once that I cut my face by a fall from my horse -” “Ah! well! let’s see,” repeated the other in a low voice, “tripped up in the dark - fell from his horse - hm! hm! - yes, my lad, you’re in for it - I should say,” he continued in a louder voice, “it were better - but troth I know not yet what the question is.” “Why, what had B better do,” said the signor. “But who is B?” inquired the magician, “standeth B for Blowski?” “No,” was the reply, “I meant A.” “Oh!” returned he, “now I perceive - but verily I must have time to consider it, so adieu, fair sir,” and, opening the door he abruptly showed his visitor out: “And now,” said he to himself, “for the mixture - let me see - three drops of - yes, yes, my lad, you’re in for it.”
Chapter III
It had struck twelve o’clock two minutes and a quarter. The Baron’s footman hastily seized a large goblet, and gasped with terror as he filled it with hot, spiced wine. ”’Tis past the hour, ’tis past,” he groaned in anguish, “and surely I shall now get the red hot poker the Baron hath so often promised me, oh! woe is me! would that I had prepared the Baron’s lunch before!” and, without pausing a second he grasped in one hand the steaming goblet and flew along the lofty passages with the speed of a race horse. In less time than we take to relate it he reached the Baron’s apartment, opened the door, and - remained standing on tiptoe, not daring to move one way or the other, petrified with utter astonishment. “Now then! donkey!” roared the Baron, “why stand you there staring your eyes out like a great toad in a fit of apoplexy?” (the Baron was remarkably choice in his similes:) “what’s the matter with you? speak out! can’t you?”
The unfortunate domestic made a desperate effort to speak, and managed at length to get out the words “Noble Sir!” “Very good! that’s a very good beginning!” said the Baron in a rather pacified tone for he liked being called ’noble’, “go ahead! don’t be all day about it!” “Noble Sir!” stammered the alarmed man, “where - where - ever - is - the stranger?” “Gone!” said the Baron sternly and emphatically, pointing unconsciously his thumb over his right shoulder, “gone! he had other visits to pay, so he condescended to go and pay them - but where’s my wine?” he abruptly asked, and his attendant was only too glad to place the goblet in his hands, and get out of the room.
The Baron drained the goblet at a draught, and then walked to the window: his late victim was no longer to be seen, but the Baron, gazing on the spot where he had fallen muttered to himself with a stern smile, “Methinks I see a dint in the ground.” At that moment a mysterious looking figure passed by, and the Baron, as he looked after him, could not help thinking, “I wonder who that is!” Long time he gazed after his retreating footsteps, and still the only thought which rose to his mind was “I do wonder who that is!”
Chapter IV
Down went the western sun, and darkness was already stealing over the earth when for the second time that day the trumpet which hung at the Baron’s gate was blown. Once more did the weary domestic ascend to his master’s apartment, but this time it was a stranger whom he ushered in, “Mr Milton Smith!” The Baron hastily rose from his seat at the unwonted name, and advanced to meet his visitor.
“Greetings fair, noble sir,” commenced the illustrious visitor, in a pompous tone and with a toss of the head, “it betided me to hear of your name and abode, and I made high resolve to visit and behold you ere night!” “Well, fair sir, I hope you are satisfied with the sight,” interrupted the Baron, wishing to cut short a conversation he neither understood nor liked. “It rejoiceth me,” was the reply, “nay, so much so that I could wish to prolong the pleasure, for there is a Life and Truth in those tones which recall to me scenes of earlier days -” “Does it indeed?” said the Baron, considerably puzzled. “Ay soothly,” returned the other; “and now I bethink me,” walking to the window, “it was the country likewise I did desire to look upon; ’tis fine, is’t not?” “It’s a very fine country,” replied the Baron, adding internally, “and I wish you were well out of it!”
The stranger stood some minutes gazing out of the window, and then said, suddenly turning to the Baron, “You must know, fair sir, that I am a poet!” “Really?” replied he, “and pray what’s that?” Mr Milton Smith made no reply, but continued his observations, “Perceive you, mine host, the enthusiastic halo which encircles yon tranquil mead?” “The quickset hedge, you mean,” remarked the Baron rather contemptuously, as he walked up to the window. “My mind,” continued his guest, “feels alway a bounding - and a longing - for - what is True and Fair in Nature, and - and - see you not the gorgeous rusticity - I mean sublimity, which is wafted over, and as it were intermingled with the verdure - that is, you know, the grass?” “Intermingled with the grass? oh! you mean the buttercups?” said the other, “yes, they’ve a very pretty effect.” “Pardon me,” replied Mr Milton Smith, “I meant not that, but-but I could almost poetise thereon!
‘Lovely meadow, thou whose fragrance
Beams beneath the azure sky,
“Where repose the lowly -” “Vagrants,” suggested the Baron: “Vagrants!” repeated the poet, staring with astonishment, “Yes, vagrants, gipsies you know,” coolly replied his host, “there are very often some sleeping down in the meadow.” The inspired one shrugged his shoulders, and went on.
“Where repose the lowly violets,” “Violets doesn’t rhyme half as well as vagrants,” argued the Baron. “Can’t help that,” was the reply:
“Murmuring gently” - “oh my eye!” said the Baron, finishing the line for him, “so there’s one stanza done, and now I must wish you good night; you’re welcome to a bed, so, when you’ve done poetising, ring the bell, and the servant will show you where to sleep.” “Thanks,” replied the poet, as the Baron left the room.
“Murmuring gently with a sigh - Ah! that’s all right,” he continued when the door was shut, and leaning out of the window he gave a low whistle. The mysterious figure in a cloak immediately emerged from the bushes and said in a whisper, “All right?” “All right,” returned the poet, “I’ve sent the old covey to sleep with some poetry, by the bye I nearly forgot that stanza you taught me, I got into such a fix! However the coast is clear now, so look sharp.” The figure then produced a rope ladder from under his cloak, which the
poet proceeded to draw up.
Chapter V
READER! dare you enter once more the cave of the great Magician? If your heart be not bold, abstain: close these pages: read no more. High in air suspended hung the withered forms of two black cats; between was an owl, resting on a self-supported hideous viper.
The spiders were crawling on the long grey hair of the great Astrologer, as he wrote with letters of gold an awful spell on the magic scroll which hung from the deadly viper’s mouth. A strange figure like an animated potatoe with arms and legs hovered over the mystic scroll, and appeared to be reading the words upside down. Hark!
A shrill scream rolled round the cave, echoing from side to side till it died in the massive roof. Horror! yet did not the Magician’s heart quail, albeit his little finger shook slightly thrice, and one of his grey hairs stood out straight from his head, erect with terror: there was one other that would have followed its example, but a spider was hanging on it, and it could not.
A flash of mystic light, black as the darkest ebony, now pervades the place, and in its momentary gleam the owl is seen to wink once. Dread omen! Did its supporting viper hiss? Ah no! that would be too terrible! In the deep dead silence which followed this thrilling event, a solitary sneeze was distinctly heard from the left-hand cat. Distinct, and now the Magician did tremble. “Gloomy spirits of the vasty deep!” he murmured in faltering tone, as his aged limbs seemed about to sink beneath him, “I did not call for ye: why come ye?” He spoke, and the potatoe answered, in hollow tone: “Thou didst!” then all was silence.
The magician recoiled in terror. What! bearded by a potatoe! never! He smote his aged breast in anguish, and then collecting strength to speak, he shouted, “Speak but the word again, and on the spot I’ll boil thee!” There was an ominous pause, long, vague, and mysterious. What is about to happen? The potatoe sobbed audibly, and its thick showering tears were heard falling heavily down on the rocky floor. Then slow, clear, and terrible came the awful words: “Gobno strodgol slok slabolgo!” and then in a low hissing whisper “’tis time!”
The Dedalus Book of British Fantasy Page 21