Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (81 page)

‘It is a bewildering thought,’ I said, ‘and needs a night’s rest to grasp it properly.
Reason and Instinct both tell me I ought to go home.
So, good-night!’

‘I’ll "set" you part of the way, said Lady Muriel.
‘I’ve had no walk to-day.
It will do me good, and I have more to say to you.

Shall we go through the wood?
It will be pleasanter than over the common, even though it is getting a little dark.’

We turned aside into the shade of interlacing boughs, which formed an architecture of almost perfect symmetry, grouped into lovely groined arches, or running out, far as the eye could follow, into endless aisles, and chancels, and naves, like some ghostly cathedral, fashioned out of the dream of a moon-struck poet.

‘Always, in this wood,’ she began after a pause (silence seemed natural in this dim solitude), ‘I begin thinking of Fairies!
May I ask you a question?’
she added hesitatingly.
‘Do you believe in Fairies?’

The momentary impulse was so strong to tell her of my experiences in this very wood, that I had to make a real effort to keep back the words that rushed to my lips.
If you mean, by "believe", "believe in their possible existence", I say "Yes".
For their actual existence, of course, one would need evidence.’

‘You were saying, the other day,’ she went on, ‘that you would accept anything, on good evidence, that was not a priori impossible.
And I think you named Ghosts as an instance of a provable phenomenon.
Would Fairies be another instance?’

‘Yes, I think so.’
And again it was hard to check the wish to say more: but I was not yet sure of a sympathetic listener.

‘And have you any theory as to what sort of place they would occupy in Creation?
Do tell me what you think about them!

Would they, for instance (supposing such beings to exist), would they have any moral responsibility?
I mean’ (and the light bantering tone suddenly changed to one of deep seriousness) ‘would they be capable of sin?’

‘They can reason—on a lower level, perhaps, than men and women—never rising, I think, above the faculties of a child; and they have a moral sense, most surely.
Such a being, without free will, would be an absurdity.
So I am driven to the conclusion that they are capable of sin.’

‘You believe in them?’
she cried delightedly, with a sudden motion as if about to clap her hands.
‘Now tell me, have you any reason for it?’

And still I strove to keep back the revelation I felt sure was coming.
‘I believe that there is life everywhere—not material only, not merely what is palpable to our senses—but immaterial and invisible as well.
We believe in our own immaterial essence—call it "soul", or "spirit", or what you will.
Why should not other similar essences exist around us, not linked on to a visible and material body?
Did not God make this swarm of happy insects, to dance in this sunbeam for one hour of bliss, for no other object, that we can imagine, than to swell the sum of conscious happiness?
And where shall we dare to draw the line, and say "He has made all these and no more"?’

‘Yes, yes!’
she assented, watching me with sparkling eyes.
‘But these are only reasons for not denying.
You have more reasons than this, have you not?’

‘Well, yes,’ I said, feeling I might safely tell all now.
‘And I could not find a fitter time or place to say it.
I have seen them—and in this very wood!’

Lady Muriel asked no more questions.
Silently she paced at my side, with head bowed down and hands clasped tightly together.
Only, as my tale went on, she drew a little short quick breath now and then, like a child panting with delight.
And I told her what I had never yet breathed to any other listener, of my double life, and, more than that (for mine might have been but a noonday-dream), of the double life of those two dear children.

And when I told her of Bruno’s wild gambols, she laughed merrily; and when I spoke of Sylvie’s sweetness and her utter unselfishness and trustful love, she drew a deep breath, like one who hears at last some precious tidings for which the heart has ached for a long while; and the happy tears chased one another down her cheeks.

‘I have often longed to meet an angel,’ she whispered, so low that I could hardly catch the words.
‘I’m so glad I’ve seen Sylvie!

My heart went out to the child the first moment that I saw her—Listen!’
she broke off suddenly.
‘That’s Sylvie singing!
I’m sure of it!
Don’t you know her voice?’

‘I have heard Bruno sing, more than once,’ I said: ‘but I never heard Sylvie.’

‘I have only heard her once,’ said Lady Muriel.
‘It was that day when you brought us those mysterious flowers.
The children had run out into the garden; and I saw Eric coming in that way, and went to the window to meet him: and Sylvie was singing, under the trees, a song I had never heard before.
The words were something like "I think it is Love, I feel it is Love".
Her voice sounded far away, like a dream, but it was beautiful beyond all words—as sweet as an infant’s first smile, or the first gleam of the white cliffs when one is coming home after weary years—a voice that seemed to fill one’s whole being with peace and heavenly thoughts—Listen!’
she cried, breaking off again in her excitement.
‘That is her voice, and that’s the very song!’

I could distinguish no words, but there was a dreamy sense of music in the air that seemed to grow ever louder and louder, as if coming nearer to us.
We stood quite silent, and in another minute the two children appeared, coming straight towards us through an arched opening among the trees.
Each had an arm round the other, and the setting sun shed a golden halo round their heads, like what one sees in pictures of saints.
They were looking in our direction, but evidently did not see us, and I soon made out that Lady Muriel had for once passed into a condition familiar to me, that we were both of us ‘eerie’, and that, though we could see the children so plainly, we were quite invisible to them.

The song ceased just as they came into sight: but, to my delight, Bruno instantly said ‘Let’s sing it all again, Sylvie!
It did sound so pretty!’
And Sylvie replied ‘Very well.
It’s you to begin, you know.’

So Bruno began, in the sweet childish treble I knew so well:

‘Say, what is the spell, when her fledgelings are cheeping,That lures the bird home to her nest?

Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,To cuddle and croon it to rest?

What’s the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,Till it cooes with the voice of the dove?’

And now ensued quite the strangest of all the strange experiences that marked the wonderful year whose history I am writing —

the experience of first hearing Sylvie’s voice in song.
Her part was a very short one—only a few words—and she sang it timidly, and very low indeed, scarcely audibly, but the sweetness of her voice was simply indescribable; I have never heard any earthly music like it.

‘‘Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low—

And the name of the secret is Love!’

On me the first effect of her voice was a sudden sharp pang that seemed to pierce through one’s very heart.
(I had felt such a pang only once before in my life, and it had been from seeing what, at the moment, realized one’s idea of perfect beauty—it was in a London exhibition, where, in making my way through a crowd, I suddenly met, face to face, a child of quite unearthly beauty.) Then came a rush of burning tears to the eyes, as though one could weep one’s soul away for pure delight.
And lastly there fell on me a sense of awe that was almost terror—some such feeling as Moses must have had when he heard the words ’Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground’.
The figures of the children became vague and shadowy, like glimmering meteors: while their voices rang together in exquisite harmony as they sang:

‘For I think it is Love,  For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!’

By this time I could see them clearly once more.
Bruno again sang by himself:

‘Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning,Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?

That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearningFor the brotherly hand-grip of peace?

Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrillsAround us, beneath, and above?’

Sylvie sang more courageously, this time: the words seemed to carry her away, out of herself:

‘‘Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes:

But the name of the secret is Love!’

And clear and strong the chorus rang out:

‘For I think it is Love,  For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!’

Once more we heard Bruno’s delicate little voice alone:

‘Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,Like a picture so fair to the sight?

That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,Till the little lambs leap with delight?’

And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:

‘‘Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,Though ‘tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear—

And the name of the secret is Love!’

And then Bruno joined in again with

‘For I think it is Love,  For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!’

‘That are pretty!’
the little fellow exclaimed, as the children passed us—so closely that we drew back a little to make room for them, and it seemed we had only to reach out a hand to touch them: but this we did not attempt.

‘No use to try and stop them!’
I said, as they passed away into the shadows.
‘Why, they could not even see us!’

‘No use at all,’ Lady Muriel echoed with a sigh.
‘One would like to meet them again, in living form!
But I feel, somehow, that can never be.
They have passed out of our lives!’
She sighed again; and no more was said, till we came out into the main road, at a point near my lodgings.

‘Well, I will leave you here,’ she said.
‘I want to get back before dark: and I have a cottage-friend to visit, first.
Good night, dear friend!
Let us see you soon—and often!’
she added, with an affectionate warmth that went to my very heart.
‘For those are few we hold as dear!’

‘Good night!’
I answered.
‘Tennyson said that of a worthier friend than me.’

‘Tennyson didn’t know what he was talking about!’
she saucily rejoined, with a touch of her old childish gaiety, and we parted.

CHAPTER TWENTY

GAMMON AND SPINACH

MY landlady’s welcome had an extra heartiness about it: and though, with a rare delicacy of feeling, she made no direct allusion to the friend whose companionship had done so much to brighten life for me, I felt sure that it was a kindly sympathy with my solitary state that made her so specially anxious to do all she could think of to ensure my comfort, and make me feel at home.

The lonely evening seemed long and tedious: yet I lingered on, watching the dying fire, and letting Fancy mould the red embers into the forms and faces belonging to bygone scenes.
Now it seemed to be Bruno’s roguish smile that sparkled for a moment, and died away: now it was Sylvie’s rosy cheek: and now the Professor’s jolly round face, beaming with delight.
‘You’re welcome, my little ones!’
he seemed to say.
And then the red coal, which for the moment embodied the dear old Professor, began to wax dim, and with its dying lustre the words seemed to die away into silence.
I seized the poker, and with an artful touch or two revived the waning glow, while Fancy—no coy minstrel she—sang me once again the magic strain I loved to hear.

‘You’re welcome, little ones!’
the cheery voice repeated.
‘I told them you were coming.
Your rooms are all ready for you.
And the Emperor and the Empress—well, I think they’re rather pleased than otherwise!
In fact, Her Highness said "I hope they’ll be in time for the Banquet!"
Those were her very words, I assure you!’

‘Will Uggug be at the Banquet?’
Bruno asked.
And both children looked uneasy at the dismal suggestion.

‘Why, of course he will!’
chuckled the Professor.
‘Why, it’s his birthday, don’t you know?
And his health will be drunk, and all that sort of thing.
What would the Banquet be without him?’

‘Ever so much nicer,’ said Bruno.
But he said it in a very low voice, and nobody but Sylvie heard him.

The Professor chuckled again.
‘It’ll be a jolly Banquet, now you’ve come, my little man!
I am so glad to see you again!’

‘I ‘fraid we’ve been very long in coming,’ Bruno politely remarked.

‘Well, yes,’ the Professor assented.
‘However, you’re very short, now you’re come: that’s some comfort.’
And he went on to enumerate the plans for the day.
‘The Lecture comes first,’ he said.
‘That the Empress insists on.
She says people will eat so much at the Banquet, they’ll be too sleepy to attend to the Lecture afterwards—and perhaps she’s right.
There’ll just be a little refreshment, when the people first arrive—as a kind of surprise for the Empress, you know.
Ever since she’s been—well, not quite so clever as she once was—we’ve found it desirable to concoct little surprises for her.
Then comes the Lecture—

‘What?
The Lecture you were getting ready—ever so long ago?’
Sylvie enquired.

‘Yes—that’s the one,’ the Professor rather reluctantly admitted.
‘It has taken a goodish time to prepare.
I’ve got so many other things to attend to.
For instance, I’m Court-Physician.
I have to keep all the Royal Servants in good health—and that reminds me!’
he cried, ringing the bell in a great hurry.
‘This is Medicine-Day!
We only give Medicine once a week.
If we were to begin giving it every day, the bottles would soon be empty!’

‘But if they were ill on the other days?’
Sylvie suggested.

‘What, ill on the wrong day!’
exclaimed the Professor.
‘Oh, that would never do!
A Servant would be dismissed at once, who was ill on the wrong day!
This is the Medicine for to-day,’ he went on, taking down a large jug from a shelf.
‘I mixed it, myself, first thing this morning.
Taste it!’
he said, holding out the jug to Bruno.
‘Dip in your finger, and taste it!’

Bruno did so, and made such an excruciatingly wry face that Sylvie exclaimed in alarm, ‘Oh, Bruno, you mustn’t!’

‘It’s welly extremely nasty!’
Bruno said, as his face resumed its natural shape.

‘Nasty?’
said the Professor.
‘Why, of course it is!
What would Medicine be, if it wasn’t nasty?’

‘Nice,’ said Bruno.

‘I was going to say—’ the Professor faltered, rather taken aback by the promptness of Bruno’s reply, ‘—that that would never do!
Medicine has to be nasty, you know.
Be good enough to take this jug, down into the Servants’ Hall,’ he said to the footman who answered the bell: ‘and tell them it’s their Medicine for to-day.’

‘Which of them is to drink it?’
the footman asked, as he carried off the jug.

‘Oh, I’ve not settled that yet!’
the Professor briskly replied.
‘I’ll come and settle that, soon.
Tell them not to begin, on any account, till I come!
It’s really wonderful,’ he said, turning to the children, ‘the success I’ve had in curing Diseases!
Here are some of my memoranda.’
He took down from the shelf a heap of little bits of paper, pinned together in twos and threes.
‘Just look at this set, now.
"Under-Cook Number Thirteen recovered from Common Fever—Febris Communis."
And now see what’s pinned to it.
"Gave Under-Cook Number Thirteen a Double Dose of Medicine."
That’s something to be proud of, isn’t it?’

‘But which happened first?’
said Sylvie, looking very much puzzled.

The Professor examined the papers carefully.
‘They are not dated, I find,’ he said with a slightly dejected air: ‘so I fear I ca’n’t tell you.
But they both happened: there’s no doubt of that.
The Medicine’s the great thing, you know.
The Diseases are much less important.
You can keep a Medicine, for years and years: but nobody ever wants to keep a Disease!
By the way, come and look at the platform.
The Gardener asked me to come and see if it would do.
We may as well go before it gets dark.’

‘We’d like to, very much!’
Sylvie replied.
‘Come, Bruno, put on your hat.
Don’t keep the dear Professor waiting!’

‘Ca’n’t find my hat!’
the little fellow sadly replied.
‘I were rolling it about.
And it’s rolled itself away!’

‘Maybe it’s rolled in there,’ Sylvie suggested, pointing to a dark recess, the door of which stood half open: and Bruno ran in to look.
After a minute he came slowly out again, looking very grave, and carefully shut the cupboard door after him.

‘It aren’t in there,’ he said, with such unusual solemnity, that Sylvie’s curiosity was aroused.

‘What is in there, Bruno?’

‘There’s cobwebs—and two spiders—’ Bruno thoughtfully replied, checking off the catalogue on his fingers, ‘—and the cover of a picture-book—and a tortoise—and a dish of nuts—and an old man.’

‘An old man!’
cried the Professor, trotting across the room in great excitement.
‘Why, it must be the Other Professor, that’s been lost for ever so long!’