Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  The bouquet vanished, as Sylvie had predicted; and when, a day or two afterwards, Arthur and I once more visited the Hall, we found the Earl and his daughter, with the old housekeeper, out in the garden, examining the fastenings of the drawing-room window.

  "We are holding an Inquest," Lady Muriel said, advancing to meet us: "and we admit you, as Accessories before the Fact, to tell us all you know about those flowers."

  "The Accessories before the Fact decline to answer any questions,"

  I gravely replied. "And they reserve their defence."

  "Well then, turn Queen's Evidence, please! The flowers have disappeared in the night," she went on, turning to Arthur, "and we are quite sure no one in the house has meddled with them. Somebody must have entered by the window—"

  "But the fastenings have not been tampered with," said the Earl.

  "It must have been while you were dining, my Lady," said the housekeeper.

  "That was it, said the Earl. "The thief must have seen you bring the flowers," turning to me, "and have noticed that you did not take them away. And he must have known their great value—they are simply priceless!" he exclaimed, in sudden excitement.

  "And you never told us how you got them!" said Lady Muriel.

  "Some day," I stammered, "I may be free to tell you. Just now, would you excuse me?"

  The Earl looked disappointed, but kindly said "Very well, we will ask no questions."

  "But we consider you a very bad Queen's Evidence," Lady Muriel added playfully, as we entered the arbour. "We pronounce you to be an accomplice: and we sentence you to solitary confinement, and to be fed on bread and butter. Do you take sugar?"

  "It is disquieting, certainly," she resumed, when all 'creature-comforts' had been duly supplied, "to find that the house has been entered by a thief in this out-of-the-way place. If only the flowers had been eatables, one might have suspected a thief of quite another shape—"

  "You mean that universal explanation for all mysterious disappearances, 'the cat did it'?" said Arthur.

  "Yes," she replied. "What a convenient thing it would be if all thieves had the same shape! It's so confusing to have some of them quadrupeds and others bipeds!"

  "It has occurred to me," said Arthur, "as a curious problem in Teleology— the Science of Final Causes," he added, in answer to an enquiring look from Lady Muriel.

  "And a Final Cause is—?"

  "Well, suppose we say—the last of a series of connected events—each of the series being the cause of the next—for whose sake the first event takes place."

  "But the last event is practically an effect of the first, isn't it?

  And yet you call it a cause of it!"

  Arthur pondered a moment. "The words are rather confusing, I grant you," he said. "Will this do? The last event is an effect of the first: but the necessity for that event is a cause of the necessity for the first."

  "That seems clear enough," said Lady Muriel. "Now let us have the problem."

  "It's merely this. What object can we imagine in the arrangement by which each different size (roughly speaking) of living creatures has its special shape? For instance, the human race has one kind of shape—bipeds. Another set, ranging from the lion to the mouse, are quadrupeds. Go down a step or two further, and you come to insects with six legs—hexapods—a beautiful name, is it not? But beauty, in our sense of the word, seems to diminish as we go down: the creature becomes more—I won't say 'ugly' of any of God's creatures—more uncouth. And, when we take the microscope, and go a few steps lower still, we come upon animalculae, terribly uncouth, and with a terrible number of legs!"

  "The other alternative," said the Earl, "would be a diminuendo series of repetitions of the same type. Never mind the monotony of it: let's see how it would work in other ways. Begin with the race of men, and the creatures they require: let us say horses, cattle, sheep, and dogs we don't exactly require frogs and spiders, do we, Muriel?"

  Lady Muriel shuddered perceptibly: it was evidently a painful subject.

  "We can dispense with them," she said gravely.

  "Well, then we'll have a second race of men, half-a-yard high—"

  "—who would have one source of exquisite enjoyment, not possessed by ordinary men!" Arthur interrupted.

  "What source?" said the Earl.

  "Why, the grandeur of scenery! Surely the grandeur of a mountain, to me, depends on its size, relative to me? Double the height of the mountain, and of course it's twice as grand. Halve my height, and you produce the same effect."

  "Happy, happy, happy Small!" Lady Muriel murmured rapturously.

  "None but the Short, none but the Short, none but the Short enjoy the Tall!"

  "But let me go on," said the Earl. "We'll have a third race of men, five inches high; a fourth race, an inch high—"

  "They couldn't eat common beef and mutton, I'm sure!" Lady Muriel interrupted.

  "True, my child, I was forgetting. Each set must have its own cattle and sheep."

  "And its own vegetation," I added. "What could a cow, an inch high, do with grass that waved far above its head?"

  "That is true. We must have a pasture within a pasture, so to speak. The common grass would serve our inch-high cows as a green forest of palms, while round the root of each tall stem would stretch a tiny carpet of microscopic grass. Yes, I think our scheme will work fairly well. And it would be very interesting, coming into contact with the races below us. What sweet little things the inch-high bull-dogs would be! I doubt if even Muriel would run away from one of them!"

  "Don't you think we ought to have a crescendo series, as well?" said

  Lady Muriel. "Only fancy being a hundred yards high!

  One could use an elephant as a paper-weight, and a crocodile as a pair of scissors!"

  "And would you have races of different sizes communicate with one another?" I enquired. "Would they make war on one another, for instance, or enter into treaties?"

  "War we must exclude, I think. When you could crush a whole nation with one blow of your fist, you couldn't conduct war on equal terms. But anything, involving a collision of minds only, would be possible in our ideal world—for of course we must allow mental powers to all, irrespective of size. "Perhaps the fairest rule would be that, the smaller the race, the greater should be its intellectual development!"

  "Do you mean to say," said Lady Muriel, "that these manikins of an inch high are to argue with me?"

  "Surely, surely!" said the Earl. "An argument doesn't depend for its logical force on the size of the creature that utters it!"

  She tossed her head indignantly. "I would not argue with any man less than six inches high!" she cried. "I'd make him work!"

  "What at?" said Arthur, listening to all this nonsense with an amused smile.

  "Embroidery!" she readily replied. "What lovely embroidery they would do!"

  "Yet, if they did it wrong," I said, "you couldn't argue the question.

  I don't know why: but I agree that it couldn't be done."

  "The reason is," said Lady Muriel, "one couldn't sacrifice one's dignity so far."

  "Of course one couldn't!" echoed Arthur. "Any more than one could argue with a potato. It would be altogether—excuse the ancient pun—infra dig.!"

  "I doubt it," said I. "Even a pun doesn't quite convince me."

  "Well, if that is not the reason," said Lady Muriel, "what reason would you give?"

  I tried hard to understand the meaning of this question: but the persistent humming of the bees confused me, and there was a drowsiness in the air that made every thought stop and go to sleep before it had got well thought out: so all I could say was "That must depend on the weight of the potato."

  I felt the remark was not so sensible as I should have liked it to be. But Lady Muriel seemed to take it quite as a matter of course. "In that case—" she began, but suddenly started, and turned away to listen. "Don't you hear him?" she said. "He's crying. We must go to him, somehow."

  And I said to myself
"That's very strange.

  I quite thought it was Lady Muriel talking to me. Why, it's Sylvie all the while!" And I made another great effort to say something that should have some meaning in it. "Is it about the potato?"

  CHAPTER 21.

  THROUGH THE IVORY DOOR.

  "I don't know," said Sylvie. "Hush! I must think. I could go to him, by myself, well enough. But I want you to come too."

  "Let me go with you," I pleaded. "I can walk as fast as you can,

  I'm sure."

  Sylvie laughed merrily. "What nonsense!" she cried.

  "Why, you ca'n't walk a bit! You're lying quite flat on your back!

  You don't understand these things."

  "I can walk as well as you can," I repeated. And I tried my best to walk a few steps: but the ground slipped away backwards, quite as fast as I could walk, so that I made no progress at all. Sylvie laughed again.

  "There, I told you so! You've no idea how funny you look, moving your feet about in the air, as if you were walking! Wait a bit. I'll ask the Professor what we'd better do." And she knocked at his study-door.

  The door opened, and the Professor looked out. "What's that crying I heard just now?" he asked. "Is it a human animal?"

  "It's a boy," Sylvie said.

  "I'm afraid you've been teasing him?"

  "No, indeed I haven't!" Sylvie said, very earnestly. "I never tease him!" "Well, I must ask the Other Professor about it." He went back into the study, and we heard him whispering "small human animal—says she hasn't been teasing him—the kind that's called Boy—"

  "Ask her which Boy," said a new voice. The Professor came out again.

  "Which Boy is it that you haven't been teasing?"

  Sylvie looked at me with twinkling eyes. "You dear old thing!" she exclaimed, standing on tiptoe to kiss him, while he gravely stooped to receive the salute. "How you do puzzle me! Why, there are several boys I haven't been teasing!"

  The Professor returned to his friend: and this time the voice said

  "Tell her to bring them here—all of them!"

  "I ca'n't, and I won't! "Sylvie exclaimed, the moment he reappeared. "It's Bruno that's crying: and he's my brother: and, please, we both want to go: he ca'n't walk, you know: he's—he's dreaming, you know" (this in a whisper, for fear of hurting my feelings). "Do let's go through the Ivory Door!"

  "I'll ask him," said the Professor, disappearing again. He returned directly. "He says you may. Follow me, and walk on tip-toe."

  The difficulty with me would have been, just then, not to walk on tip-toe. It seemed very hard to reach down far enough to just touch the floor, as Sylvie led me through the study.

  The Professor went before us to unlock the Ivory Door. I had just time to glance at the Other Professor, who was sitting reading, with his back to us, before the Professor showed us out through the door, and locked it behind us. Bruno was standing with his hands over his face, crying bitterly.

  "What's the matter, darling?" said Sylvie, with her arms round his neck.

  "Hurted mine self welly much!" sobbed the poor little fellow.

  "I'm so sorry, darling! How ever did you manage to hurt yourself so?"

  "Course I managed it!" said Bruno, laughing through his tears.

  "Doos oo think nobody else but oo ca'n't manage things?"

  Matters were looking distinctly brighter, now Bruno had begun to argue.

  "Come, let's hear all about it!" I said.

  "My foot took it into its head to slip—" Bruno began.

  "A foot hasn't got a head!" Sylvie put in, but all in vain.

  "I slipted down the bank. And I tripted over a stone. And the stone hurted my foot! And I trod on a Bee. And the Bee stinged my finger!" Poor Bruno sobbed again. The complete list of woes was too much for his feelings. "And it knewed I didn't mean to trod on it!" he added, as the climax.

  "That Bee should be ashamed of itself!" I said severely, and Sylvie hugged and kissed the wounded hero till all tears were dried.

  "My finger's quite unstung now!" said Bruno. "Why doos there be stones?

  Mister Sir, doos oo know?"

  "They're good for something," I said: "even if we don't know what.

  What's the good of dandelions, now?"

  "Dindledums?" said Bruno. "Oh, they're ever so pretty! And stones aren't pretty, one bit. Would oo like some dindledums, Mister Sir?"

  "Bruno!" Sylvie murmured reproachfully. "You mustn't say 'Mister' and

  'Sir,' both at once! Remember what I told you!"

  "You telled me I were to say Mister' when I spoked about him, and I were to say 'Sir' when I spoked to him!"

  "Well, you're not doing both, you know."

  "Ah, but I is doing bofe, Miss Praticular!" Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. "I wishted to speak about the Gemplun—and I wishted to speak to the Gemplun. So a course I said 'Mister Sir'!"

  "That's all right, Bruno," I said.

  "Course it's all right!" said Bruno. "Sylvie just knows nuffin at all!"

  "There never was an impertinenter boy!" said Sylvie, frowning till her bright eyes were nearly invisible.

  "And there never was an ignoranter girl!" retorted Bruno. "Come along and pick some dindledums. That's all she's fit for!" he added in a very loud whisper to me.

  "But why do you say 'Dindledums,' Bruno? Dandelions is the right word."

  "It's because he jumps about so," Sylvie said, laughing.

  "Yes, that's it," Bruno assented. "Sylvie tells me the words, and then, when I jump about, they get shooken up in my head— till they're all froth!"

  I expressed myself as perfectly satisfied with this explanation.

  "But aren't you going to pick me any dindledums, after all?"

  "Course we will!" cried Bruno. "Come along, Sylvie!" And the happy children raced away, bounding over the turf with the fleetness and grace of young antelopes.

  "Then you didn't find your way back to Outland?" I said to the Professor.

  "Oh yes, I did!" he replied, "We never got to Queer Street; but I found another way. I've been backwards and forwards several times since then. I had to be present at the Election, you know, as the author of the new Money-act. The Emperor was so kind as to wish that I should have the credit of it. 'Let come what come may,' (I remember the very words of the Imperial Speech) 'if it should turn out that the Warden is alive, you will bear witness that the change in the coinage is the Professor's doing, not mine!' I never was so glorified in my life, before!" Tears trickled down his cheeks at the recollection, which apparently was not wholly a pleasant one.

  "Is the Warden supposed to be dead?"

  "Well, it's supposed so: but, mind you, I don't believe it! The evidence is very weak—mere hear-say. A wandering Jester, with a Dancing-Bear (they found their way into the Palace, one day) has been telling people he comes from Fairyland, and that the Warden died there. I wanted the Vice-Warden to question him, but, most unluckily, he and my Lady were always out walking when the Jester came round. Yes, the Warden's supposed to be dead!" And more tears trickled down the old man's cheeks.

  "But what is the new Money-Act?"

  The Professor brightened up again. "The Emperor started the thing," he said. "He wanted to make everybody in Outland twice as rich as he was before just to make the new Government popular. Only there wasn't nearly enough money in the Treasury to do it. So I suggested that he might do it by doubling the value of every coin and bank-note in Outland. It's the simplest thing possible. I wonder nobody ever thought of it before! And you never saw such universal joy. The shops are full from morning to night. Everybody's buying everything!"

  "And how was the glorifying done?"

  A sudden gloom overcast the Professor's jolly face. "They did it as I went home after the Election," he mournfully replied. "It was kindly meant but I didn't like it! They waved flags all round me till I was nearly blind: and they rang bells till I was nearly deaf: and they strewed the road so thick with flowers that I lost my way!" And the poor old man sighed deeply.


  "How far is it to Outland?" I asked, to change the subject.

  "About five days' march. But one must go back—occasionally. You see, as Court-Professor, I have to be always in attendance on Prince Uggug. The Empress would be very angry if I left him, even for an hour."

  "But surely, every time you come here, you are absent ten days, at least?"

  "Oh, more than that!" the Professor exclaimed. "A fortnight, sometimes.

  But of course I keep a memorandum of the exact time when I started,

  so that I can put the Court-time back to the very moment!"

  "Excuse me," I said. "I don't understand."

  Silently the Professor drew front his pocket a square gold watch, with six or eight hands, and held it out for my inspection. "This," he began, "is an Outlandish Watch—"

  "So I should have thought."

  "—which has the peculiar property that, instead of its going with the time, the time goes with it. I trust you understand me now?"

  "Hardly," I said.

  "Permit me to explain. So long as it is let alone, it takes its own course. Time has no effect upon it."

  "I have known such watches," I remarked.

  "It goes, of course, at the usual rate. Only the time has to go with it. Hence, if I move the hands, I change the time. To move them forwards, in advance of the true time, is impossible: but I can move them as much as a month backwards—-that is the limit. And then you have the events all over again—with any alterations experience may suggest."

  "What a blessing such a watch would be," I thought, "in real life!

  To be able to unsay some heedless word—to undo some reckless deed!

  Might I see the thing done?"

  "With pleasure!" said the good natured Professor. "When I move this hand back to here," pointing out the place, "History goes back fifteen minutes!"

  Trembling with excitement, I watched him push the hand round as he described.

  "Hurted mine self welly much!"

  Shrilly and suddenly the words rang in my ears, and, more startled than