Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  Sylvie looked puzzled. ‘A mile or two, I think,’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘A mile or three,’ said Bruno.

  ‘You shouldn’t say "a mile or three",’ Sylvie corrected him.

  The young lady nodded approval. ‘Sylvie’s quite right. It isn’t usual to say "a mile or three".’

  ‘It would be usual—if we said it often enough,’ said Bruno.

  It was the young lady’s turn to look puzzled now. ‘He’s very quick, for his age!’ she murmured. ‘You’re not more than seven, are you, dear?’ she added aloud.

  ‘I’m not so many as that,’ said Bruno. ‘I’m one. Sylvie’s one. Sylvie and me is two. Sylvie taught me to count.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t counting you, you know!’ the young lady laughingly replied.

  ‘Hasn’t oo learnt to count?’ said Bruno.

  The young lady bit her lip. ‘Dear! What embarrassing questions he does ask!’ she said in a half-audible ‘aside’.

  ‘Bruno, you shouldn’t!’ Sylvie said reprovingly.

  ‘Shouldn’t what?’ said Bruno.

  ‘You shouldn’t ask—that sort of questions.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’ Bruno mischievously persisted.

  ‘What she told you not,’ Sylvie replied, with a shy glance at the young lady, and losing all sense of grammar in her confusion.

  ‘Oo ca’n’t pronounce it!’ Bruno triumphantly cried. And he turned to the young lady, for sympathy in his victory. ‘I knewed she couldn’t pronounce "umbrellasting"!’

  The young lady thought it best to return to the arithmetical problem. ‘When I asked if you were seven, you know, I didn’t mean "how many children?" I meant "how many years—" ‘

  ‘Only got two ears,’ said Bruno. ‘Nobody’s got seven ears.’

  ‘And you belong to this little girl?’ the young lady continued, skilfully evading the anatomical problem.

  ‘No I doosn’t belong to her!’ said Bruno. ‘Sylvie belongs to me!’ And he clasped his arms round her as he added ‘She are my very mine!’

  ‘And, do you know,’ said the young lady, ‘I’ve a little sister at home, exactly like your sister? I’m sure they’d love each other.’

  ‘They’d be very extremely useful to each other,’ Bruno said, thoughtfully. ‘And they wouldn’t want no looking-glasses to brush their hair wiz.’

  ‘Why not, my child?’

  ‘Why, each one would do for the other one’s looking-glass a-course!’ cried Bruno.

  But here Lady Muriel, who had been standing by, listening to this bewildering dialogue, interrupted it to ask if the young lady would favour us with some music; and the children followed their new friend to the piano.

  Arthur came and sat down by me. ‘If rumour speaks truly,’ he whispered, ‘we are to have a real treat!’ And then, amid a breathless silence, the performance began.

  She was one of those players whom Society talks of as ‘brilliant’, and she dashed into the loveliest of Haydn’s Symphonies in a style that was clearly the outcome of years of patient study under the best masters. At first it seemed to be the perfection of piano-forte-playing; but in a few minutes I began to ask myself, wearily, ‘What is it that is wanting? Why does one get no pleasure from it?’

  Then I set myself to listen intently to every note; and the mystery explained itself. There was an almost perfect mechanical correctness— and there was nothing else! False notes, of course, did not occur: she knew the piece too well for that; but there was just enough irregularity of time to betray that the player had no real ‘ear’ for music—just enough inarticulateness in the more elaborate passages to show that she did not think her audience worth taking real pains for—just enough mechanical monotony of accent to take all soul out of the heavenly modulations she was profaning—in short, it was simply irritating; and, when she had rattled off the finale and had struck the final chord as if, the instrument, being now done with, it didn’t matter how many wires she broke, I could not even affect to join in the stereotyped ‘Oh, thank you!’ which was chorused around me.

  Lady Muriel joined us for a moment. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ she whispered to Arthur, with a mischievous smile.

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ said Arthur. But the gentle sweetness of his face quite neutralized the apparent rudeness of the reply.

  ‘Such execution, you know!’ she persisted.

  ‘That’s what she deserves,’ Arthur doggedly replied: ‘but people are so prejudiced against capital—’

  ‘Now you’re beginning to talk nonsense!’ Lady Muriel cried. ‘But you do like Music, don’t you? You said so just now.’

  ‘Do I like Music?’ the Doctor repeated softy to himself. ‘My dear Lady Muriel, there is Music and Music. Your question is painfully vague. You might as well ask "Do you like People?"‘

  Lady Muriel bit her lip, frowned, and stamped with one tiny foot. As a dramatic representation of ill-temper, it was distinctly not a success. However, it took in one of her audience, and Bruno hastened to interpose, as peace-maker in a rising quarrel, with the remark ‘I likes Peoples!’

  Arthur laid a loving hand on the little curly head. ‘What? All Peoples?’ he enquired.

  ‘Not all Peoples,’ Bruno explained. ‘Only but Sylvie—and Lady Muriel—and him—’ (pointing to the Earl) ‘and oo—and oo!’

  ‘You shouldn’t point at people,’ said Sylvie. ‘It’s very rude.’

  ‘In Bruno’s World,’ I said, ‘there are only four People—worth mentioning!’

  ‘In Bruno’s World!’ Lady Muriel repeated thoughtfully. ‘A bright and flowery world. Where the grass is always green, where the breezes always blow softly, and the rain-clouds never gather; where there are no wild beasts, and no deserts—’

  ‘There must be deserts,’ Arthur decisively remarked. ‘At least if it was my ideal world.’

  ‘But what possible use is there in a desert?’ said Lady Muriel. ‘Surely you would have no wilderness in your ideal world?’

  Arthur smiled. ‘But indeed I would!’ he said. ‘A wilderness would be more necessary than a railway; and far more conducive to general happiness than church-bells!’

  ‘But what would you use it for?’

  ‘To practise music in,’ he replied. ‘All the young ladies, that have no ear for music, but insist on learning it, should be conveyed, every morning, two or three miles into the wilderness. There each would find a comfortable room provided for her, and also a cheap second-hand piano-forte, on which she might play for hours, without adding one needless pang to the sum of human misery!’

  Lady Muriel glanced round in alarm, lest these barbarous sentiments should be overheard. But the fair musician was at a safe distance. ‘At any rate you must allow that she’s a sweet girl?’ she resumed.

  ‘Oh, certainly. As sweet as eau sucrée, if you choose—and nearly as interesting!’

  ‘You are incorrigible!’ said Lady Muriel, and turned to me. ‘I hope you found Mrs. Mills an interesting companion?’

  ‘Oh, that’s her name, is it?’ I said. ‘I fancied there was more of it.’

  ‘So there is: and it will be "at your proper peril" (whatever that may mean) if you ever presume to address her as "Mrs. Mills".

  She is "Mrs. Ernest—Atkinson—Mills"!’

  ‘She is one of those would-be grandees,’ said Arthur, ‘who think that, by tacking on to their surname all their spare Christian-names, with hyphens between, they can give it an aristocratic flavour. As if it wasn’t trouble enough to remember one surname!’

  By this time the room was getting crowded, as the guests, invited for the evening-party, were beginning to arrive, and Lady Muriel had to devote herself to the task of welcoming them, which she did with the sweetest grace imaginable. Sylvie and Bruno stood by her, deeply interested in the process.

  ‘I hope you like my friends?’ she said to them. ‘Specially my dear old friend, Mein Herr (What’s become of him, I wonder?

  Oh, there he is!), that old gentleman in spectacles, with a
long beard!’

  ‘He’s a grand old gentleman!’ Sylvie said, gazing admiringly at ‘Mein Herr’, who had settled down in a corner, from which his mild eyes beamed on us through a gigantic pair of spectacles. ‘And what a lovely beard!’

  ‘What does he call his-self?’ Bruno whispered.

  ‘He calls himself "Mein Herr",’ Sylvie whispered in reply.

  Bruno shook his head impatiently. ‘That’s what he calls his hair, not his self, oo silly!’ He appealed to me. ‘What doos he call his self, Mister Sir?’

  ‘That’s the only name I know of,’ I said. ‘But he looks very lonely. Don’t you pity his grey hairs?’

  ‘I pities his self,’ said Bruno, still harping on the misnomer; ‘but I doosn’t pity his hair, one bit. His hair ca’n’t feel!’

  ‘We met him this afternoon,’ said Sylvie. ‘We’d been to see Nero, and we’d had such fun with him, making him invisible again!

  And we saw that nice old gentleman as we came back.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and talk to him, and cheer him up a little,’ I said: ‘and perhaps we shall find out what he calls himself.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE MAN IN THE MOON

  THE children came willingly. With one of them on each side of me, I approached the corner occupied by ‘Mein Herr’. ‘You don’t object to children, I hope?’ I began.

  ‘Crabbed age and youth cannot live together!’ the old man cheerfully replied, with a most genial smile. ‘Now take a good look at me, my children! You would guess me to be an old man, wouldn’t you?’

  At first sight, though his face had reminded me so mysteriously of ‘the Professor’, he had seemed to be decidedly a younger man: but, when I came to look into the wonderful depth of those large dreamy eyes, I felt, with a strange sense of awe, that he was incalculably older: he seemed to gaze at us out of some by-gone age, centuries away.

  ‘I don’t know if oo’re an old man,’ Bruno answered, as the children, won over by the gentle voice, crept a little closer to him. ‘I thinks oo’re eighty-three.’

  ‘He is very exact!’ said Mein Herr.

  ‘Is he anything like right?’ I said.

  ‘There are reasons,’ Mein Herr gently replied, ‘reasons which I am not at liberty to explain, for not mentioning definitely any Persons, Places, or Dates. One remark only I will permit myself to make—that the period of life, between the ages of a hundred-and-sixty-five and a hundred-and-seventy-five, is a specially safe one.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ I said.

  ‘Thus. You would consider swimming to be a very safe amusement, if you scarcely ever heard of any one dying of it. Am I not right in thinking that you never heard of any one dying between those two ages?’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ I said: ‘but I’m afraid you ca’n’t prove swimming to be safe, on the same principle. It is no uncommon thing to hear of some one being drowned.’

  ‘In my country,’ said Mein Herr, ‘no one is ever drowned.’

  ‘Is there no water deep enough?’

  ‘Plenty! But we ca’n’t sink. We are all lighter than water. Let me explain,’ he added, seeing my look of surprise. ‘Suppose you desire a race of pigeons of a particular shape or colour, do you not select, from year to year, those that are nearest to the shape or colour you want, and keep those, and part with the others?’

  ‘We do,’ I replied. ‘We call it "Artificial Selection."‘

  ‘Exactly so,’ said Mein Herr. ‘Well, we have practised that for some centuries—constantly selecting the lightest people: so that, now, everybody is lighter than water.’

  ‘Then you never can be drowned at sea?’

  ‘Never! It is only on the land—for instance, when attending a play in a theatre—that we are in such a danger.’

  ‘How can that happen at a theatre?’

  ‘Our theatres are all underground. Large tanks of water are placed above. If a fire breaks out, the taps are turned, and in one minute the theatre is flooded, up to the very roof! Thus the fire is extinguished.’

  ‘And the audience, I presume?’

  ‘That is a minor matter,’ Mein Herr carelessly replied. ‘But they have the comfort of knowing that, whether drowned or not, they are all lighter than water. We have not yet reached the standard of making people lighter than air: but we are aiming at it; and, in another thousand years or so—’

  ‘What doos oo do wiz the peoples that’s too heavy?’ Bruno solemnly enquired.

  ‘We have applied the same process,’ Mein Herr continued, not noticing Bruno’s question, ‘to many other purposes. We have gone on selecting walking-sticks—always keeping those that walked best—till we have obtained some, that can walk by themselves! We have gone on selecting cotton-wool, till we have got some lighter than air! You’ve no idea what a useful material it is! We call it "Imponderal".’

  ‘What do you use it for?’

  ‘Well, chiefly for packing articles, to go by Parcel-Post. It makes them weigh less than nothing, you know.’

  ‘And how do the Post Office people know what you have to pay?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of the new system!’ Mein Herr cried exultingly. ‘They pay us: we don’t pay them! I’ve often got as much as five shillings for sending a parcel.’

  ‘But doesn’t your Government object?’

  ‘Well, they do object a little. They say it comes so expensive, in the long run. But the thing’s as clear as daylight, by their own rules. If I send a parcel, that weighs a pound more than nothing, I pay three-pence: so, of course, if it weighs a pound less than nothing, I ought to receive three-pence.’

  ‘It is indeed a useful article!’ I said.

  ‘Yet even "Imponderal" has its disadvantages,’ he resumed. ‘I bought some, a few days ago, and put it into my hat, to carry it home, and the hat simply floated away!’

  ‘Had oo some of that funny stuff in oor hat to-day?’ Bruno enquired. ‘Sylvie and me saw oo in the road, and oor hat were ever so high up! Weren’t it, Sylvie?’

  ‘No, that was quite another thing,’ said Mein Herr. ‘There was a drop or two of rain falling: so I put my hat on the top of my stick—as an umbrella, you know. As I came along the road,’ he continued, turning to me, ‘I was overtaken by—’

  ‘—a shower of rain?’ said Bruno.

  ‘Well, it looked more like the tail of a dog,’ Mein Herr replied. ‘It was the most curious thing! Something rubbed affectionately against my knee. And I looked down. And I could see nothing! Only, about a yard off, there was a dog’s tail, wagging, all by itself!’

  ‘Oh, Sylvie!’ Bruno murmured reproachfully. ‘Oo didn’t finish making him visible!’

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ Sylvie said, looking very penitent. ‘I meant to rub it along his back, but we were in such a hurry. We’ll go and finish him to-morrow. Poor thing! Perhaps he’ll get no supper to-night!’

  ‘Course he won’t!’ said Bruno. ‘Nobody never gives bones to a dog’s tail!’

  Mein Herr looked from one to the other in blank astonishment. ‘I do not understand you,’ he said. ‘I had lost my way, and I was consulting a pocketmap, and somehow I had dropped one of my gloves, and this invisible Something, that had rubbed against my knee, actually brought it back to me!’

  ‘Course he did!’ said Bruno. ‘He’s welly fond of fetching things.’

  Mein Herr looked so thoroughly bewildered that I thought it best to change the subject. ‘What a useful thing a pocket-map is!’

  I remarked.

  ‘That’s another thing we’ve learned from your Nation,’ said Mein Herr, ‘map-making. But we’ve carried it much further than you. What do you consider the largest map that would be really useful?’

  ‘About six inches to the mile.’

  ‘Only six inches!’ exclaimed Mein Herr. ‘We very soon got to six yards to the mile. Then we tried a hundred yards to the mile. And then came the grandest idea of all! We actually made a map of the country, on the scale of a mile to the mile!’
>
  ‘Have you used it much?’ I enquired.

  ‘It has never been spread out, yet,’ said Mein Herr: ‘the farmers objected: they said it would cover the whole country, and shut out the sunlight! So we now use the country itself, as its own map, and I assure you it does nearly as well. Now let me ask you another question. What is the smallest world you would care to inhabit?’

  ‘I know!’ cried Bruno, who was listening intently. ‘I’d like a little teenytiny world, just big enough for Sylvie and me!’

  ‘Then you would have to stand on opposite sides of it,’ said Mein Herr. ‘And so you would never see your sister at all!’

  ‘And I’d have no lessons,’ said Bruno.

  ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve been trying experiments in that direction!’ I said.

  ‘Well, not experiments exactly. We do not profess to construct planets. But a scientific friend of mine, who has made several balloon-voyages, assures me he has visited a planet so small that he could walk right round it in twenty minutes! There had been a great battle, just before his visit, which had ended rather oddly: the vanquished army ran away at full speed, and in a very few minutes found themselves face-to-face with the victorious army, who were marching home again, and who were so frightened at finding themselves between two armies, that they surrendered at once! Of course that lost them the battle, though, as a matter of fact, they had killed all the soldiers on the other side.’

  ‘Killed soldiers ca’n’t run away,’ Bruno thoughtfully remarked.

  ‘"Killed" is a technical word,’ replied Mein Herr. ‘In the little planet I speak of, the bullets were made of soft black stuff, which marked everything it touched. So, after a battle, all you had to do was to count how many soldiers on each side were "killed" —

  that means "marked on the back", for marks in front didn’t count.’

  ‘Then you couldn’t "kill" any, unless they ran away?’ I said.

  ‘My scientific friend found out a better plan than that. He pointed out that, if only the bullets were sent the other way round the world, they would hit the enemy in the back. After that, the worst marksmen were considered the best soldiers; and the very worst of all always got First Prize.’