Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  The solution sent in by C. R. is, like that of Simple Susan, partly tentative, and so does not rise higher than being Clumsily Right.

  Among those who have earned the highest honours, Algernon Bray solves the problem quite correctly, but adds that there is nothing to exclude the supposition that all the ages were fractional. This would make the number of answers infinite. Let me meekly protest that I never intended my readers to devote the rest of their lives to writing out answers! E. M. Rix points out that, if fractional ages be admissible, any one of the three sons might be the one "come of age"; but she rightly rejects this supposition on the ground that it would make the problem indeterminate. White Sugar is the only one who has detected an oversight of mine: I had forgotten the possibility (which of course ought to be allowed for) that the son, who came of age that year, need not have done so by that day, so that he might be only 20. This gives a second solution, viz., 20, 24, 28. Well said, pure Crystal! Verily, thy "fair discourse hath been as sugar"!

  CLASS LIST.

  I.

  Algernon Bray.

  An Old Fogey.

  E. M. Rix.

  G. S. C.

  S. S. G.

  Tokio.

  T. R.

  White Sugar.

  II.

  C. R.

  Delta.

  Magpie.

  Simple Susan.

  III.

  Dinah Mite.

  M. F. C.

  I have received more than one remonstrance on my assertion, in the Chelsea Pensioners' problem, that it was illogical to assume, from the datum "70 p. c. have lost an eye," that 30 p. c. have not. Algernon Bray states, as a parallel case, "suppose Tommy's father gives him 4 apples, and he eats one of them, how many has he left?" and says "I think we are justified in answering, 3." I think so too. There is no "must" here, and the data are evidently meant to fix the answer exactly: but, if the question were set me "how many must he have left?", I should understand the data to be that his father gave him 4 at least, but may have given him more.

  I take this opportunity of thanking those who have sent, along with their answers to the Tenth Knot, regrets that there are no more Knots to come, or petitions that I should recall my resolution to bring them to an end. I am most grateful for their kind words; but I think it wisest to end what, at best, was but a lame attempt. "The stretched metre of an antique song" is beyond my compass; and my puppets were neither distinctly in my life (like those I now address), nor yet (like Alice and the Mock Turtle) distinctly out of it. Yet let me at least fancy, as I lay down the pen, that I carry with me into my silent life, dear reader, a farewell smile from your unseen face, and a kindly farewell pressure from your unfelt hand! And so, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say "good night!" till it be morrow.

  THE END

  BRUNO'S REVENGE AND OTHER STORIES

  This collection of short stories was first published in 1867. The title story influenced Carroll over twenty years later to write the Sylvie and Bruno novels.

  CONTENTS

  BRUNO'S REVENGE

  CRUNDLE CASTLE

  THE LEGEND OF SCOTLAND

  NOVELTY AND ROMANCEMENT

  A PHOTOGRAPHER'S DAY OUT

  PHOTOGRAPHY EXTRAORDINARY

  THE WALKING STICK OF DESTINY

  WILHELM VON SCHMITZ

  BRUNO'S REVENGE

  IT was a very hot afternoon—too hot to go for a walk or do anything—or else it wouldn't have happened, I believe.

  In the first place, I want to know why fairies should always be teaching us to do our duty, and lecturing us when we go wrong, and we should never teach them anything? You can't mean to say that fairies are never greedy, or selfish, or cross, or deceitful, because that would be nonsense, you know. Well then, don't you agree with me that they might be all the better for a little scolding and punishing now and then?

  I really don't see why it shouldn't be tried, and I'm almost sure (only please don't repeat this loud in the woods) that if you could only catch a fairy, and put it in the corner, and give it nothing but bread and water for a day or two, you'd find it quite an improved character—it would take down its conceit a little, at all events.

  The next question is, what is the best time for seeing fairies? I believe I can tell you all about that.

  The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be just a little sleepy—but not too sleepy to keep your eyes open, mind. Well, and you ought to feel a little—what one may call `fairyish'—the Scotch call it `eerie', and perhaps that's a prettier word; if you don't know what it means, I'm afraid I can hardly explain it; you must wait till you meet a fairy, and then you'll know.

  And the last rule is, that the crickets shouldn't be chirping. I can't stop to explain that rule just now—you must take it on trust for the present.

  So, if all these things happen together, you've a good chance of seeing a fairy—or at least a much better chance than if they didn't.

  The one I'm going to tell you about was a real, naughty little fairy. Properly speaking, there were two of them, and one was naughty and one was good; but perhaps you would have found that out for yourself.

  Now we really are going to begin the story.

  It was Tuesday afternoon, about half past three—it's always best to be particular as to dates—and I had wandered down into the wood by the lake, partly because I had nothing to do, and that seemed to be a good place to do it in, and partly (as I said at first) because it was too hot to be comfortable anywhere, except under trees.

  The first thing I noticed, as I went lazily along through an open place in the woods, was a large beetle lying struggling on its back, and I went down directly on one knee to help the poor thing on its feet again. In some things, you know, you can't be quite sure what an insect would like: for instance, I never could quite settle, supposing I were a moth, whether I would rather be kept out of the candle, or be allowed to fly straight in and get burnt—or again, supposing I were a spider, I'm not sure if I should be quite pleased to have my web torn down, and the fly let loose—but I felt quite certain that, if I were a beetle and had rolled over on my back, I should always be glad to be helped up again.

  So, as I was saying, I had gone down on one knee, and was just reaching out a little stick to turn the beetle over, when I saw a sight that made me draw back hastily and hold my breath, for fear of making any noise and frightening the little creature away.

  Not that she looked as if she would be easily frightened: she seemed so good and gentle that I'm sure she would never expect that anyone could wish to hurt her. She was only a few inches high, and was dressed in green, so that you really would hardly have noticed her among the long grass; and she was so delicate and graceful that she quite seemed to belong to the place, almost as if she were one of the flowers. I may tell you, besides, that she had no wings (I don't believe in fairies with wings), and that she had quantities of long brown hair and large, earnest brown eyes, and then I shall have done all I can to give you an idea of what she was like.

  Sylvie (I found out her name afterwards) had knelt down just as I was doing, to help the beetle; but it needed more than a little stick for her to get it on its legs again; it was as much as she could do, with both arms, to roll the heavy thing over; and all the while she was talking to it, half scolding and half comforting, as a nurse might do with a child that had fallen down.

  `There, there! You needn't cry so much about it; you're not killed yet—though if you were, you couldn't cry, you know, and so it's a general rule against crying, my dear! And how did you come to tumble over? But I can see well enough how it was—I needn't ask you that—walking over sand-pits with your chin in the air, as usual. Of course if you go among sand-pits like that, you must expect to tumble; you should look.'

  The beetle murmured something that sounded like `I did look,' and Sylvie went on again:

  `But I know you didn't! You never do! You always walk with your chin u
p—you're so dreadfully conceited. Well, let's see how many legs are broken this time. Why, none of them, I declare! though that's certainly more than you deserve. And what's the good of having six legs, my dear, if you can only kick them all about in the air when you tumble? Legs are meant to walk with, you know. Now don't be cross about it, and don't begin putting out your wings yet; I've some more to say. Go down to the frog that lives behind that buttercup—give him my compliments—Sylvie's compliments—can you say "compliments"?'

  The beetle tried and, I suppose, succeeded.

  `Yes, that's right. And tell him he's to give you some of that salve I left with him yesterday. And you'd better get him to rub it in for you; he's got rather cold hands, but you mustn't mind that.'

  I think the beetle must have shuddered at this idea, for Sylvie went on in a graver tone: `Now you needn't pretend to be so particular as all that, as if you were too grand to be rubbed by a frog. The fact is, you ought to be very much obliged to him. Suppose you could get nobody but a toad to do it, how would you like that?'

  There was a little pause, and then Sylvie added: `now you may go. Be a good beetle, and don't keep your chin in the air.' And then began one of those performances of humming and whizzing and restless banging about, such as a beetle indulges in when it has decided on flying, but hasn't quite made up its mind which way to go. At last, in one of its awkward zigzags, it managed to fly right into my face, and by the time I had recovered from the shock, the little fairy had gone.

  I looked about in all directions for the little creature, but there was no trace of her—and my `eerie' feeling was quite gone off, and the crickets were chirping again merrily—so I knew she was really gone.

  And now I've got time to tell you the rule about the crickets. They always leave off chirping when a fairy goes by—because a fairy's a kind of queen over them, I suppose—at all events it's a much grander thing than a cricket—so whenever you're walking out, and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping, you may be sure that either they see a fairy, or else they're frightened at your coming so near.

  I walked on sadly enough, you may be sure. However, I comforted myself with thinking: `It's been a very wonderful afternoon, so far—I'll just go quietly on and look about me, and I shouldn't wonder if I come across another fairy somewhere.'

  Peering about in this way, I happened to notice a plant with rounded leaves, and with queer little holes cut out in the middle of several of them. `Ah! The leaf-cutter bee,' I carelessly remarked—you know I am very learned in natural history (for instance, I can always tell kittens from chickens at one glance)—and I was passing on, when a sudden thought made me stoop down and examine the leaves more carefully.

  Then a little thrill of delight ran through me—for I noticed that the holes were all arranged so as to form letters; there were three leaves side by side, with B, R, and U marked on them, and after some search I found two more, which contained an N and an O.

  By this time the `eerie' feeling had all come back again, and I suddenly observed that no crickets were chirping; so I felt quite sure that `Bruno' was a fairy, and that he was somewhere very near.

  And so indeed he was—so near that I had very nearly walked over him without seeing him; which would have been dreadful, always supposing that fairies can be walked over—my own belief is that they are something of the nature of will-o'-the-wisps, and there's no walking over them.

  Think of any pretty little boy you know, rather fat, with rosy cheeks, large dark eyes, and tangled brown hair, and then fancy him made small enough to go comfortably into a coffee-cup, and you'll have a very fair idea of what the little creature was like.

  `What's your name, little fellow?' I began, in as soft a voice as I could manage. And, by the way, that's another of the curious things in life that I never could quite understand—why we always begin by asking little children their names; is it because we fancy there isn't quite enough of them, and a name will help to make them a little bigger? You never thought of asking a real large man his name, now, did you? But, however that may be, I felt it quite necessary to know his name; so, as he didn't answer my question, I asked it again a little louder. `What's your name, my little man?'

  `What's yours?' he said, without looking up.

  `My name's Lewis Carroll,' I said, quite gently, for he was much too small to be angry with for answering so uncivilly.

  `Duke of Anything?' he asked, just looking at me for a moment and then going on with his work.

  `Not Duke at all,' I said, a little ashamed of having to confess it.

  `You're big enough to be two Dukes,' said the little creature; `I suppose you're Sir Something, then?'

  `No,' I said, feeling more and more ashamed. `I haven't got any title.'

  The fairy seemed to think that in that case I really wasn't worth the trouble of talking to, for he quietly went on digging, and tearing the flowers to pieces as fast as he got them out of the ground.

  After a few minutes I tried again. `Please tell me what your name is.'

  `B'uno,' the little fellow answered, very readily; `why didn't you say "please" before?'

  `That's something like what we used to be taught in the nursery,' I thought to myself, looking back through the long years (about a hundred and fifty of them) to the time when I used to be a little child myself. And here an idea came into my head, and I asked him: `Aren't you one of the fairies that teach children to be good?'

  `Well, we have to do that sometimes,' said Bruno. `and a d'eadful bother it is.' As he said this he savagely tore a heartsease in two, and trampled on the pieces.

  `What are you doing there, Bruno?' I said.

  `Spoiling Sylvie's garden,' was all the answer Bruno would give at first. But, as he went on tearing up the flowers, he muttered to himself: `The nasty c'oss thing—wouldn't let me go and play this morning, though I wanted to ever so much—said I must finish my lessons first—lessons, indeed!—I'll vex her finely, though!'

  `Oh, Bruno, you shouldn't do that,' I cried. `Don't you know that's revenge? And revenge is a wicked, cruel, dangerous thing!'

  `River-edge?' said Bruno. `What a funny word! I suppose you call it c'ooel and dangerous because if you went too far and tumbled in, you'd get d'owned.'

  `No, not river-edge,' I explained; `rev-enge' (saying the word very slowly and distinctly). But I couldn't help thinking that Bruno's explanation did very well for either word.

  `Oh!' said Bruno, opening his eyes very wide, but without attempting to repeat the word.

  `Come! Try and pronounce it, Bruno!' I said cheerfully. `Rev-enge, rev-enge.'

  But Bruno only tossed his little head, and said he couldn't; that his mouth wasn't the right shape for words of that kind. And the more I laughed the more sulky the little fellow got about it.

  `Well, never mind, little man!' I said. `Shall I help you with the job you've got there?'

  `Yes, please,' Bruno said, quite pacified. `Only I wish I could think of something to vex her more than this. You don't know how hard it is to make her ang'y!'

  `Now listen to me, Bruno, and I'll teach you quite a splendid kind of revenge!'

  `Something that'll vex her finely?' Bruno asked with gleaming eyes.

  `Something that'll vex her finely. First, we'll get up all the weeds in her garden. See, there are a good many at this end—quite hiding the flowers.'

  `But that won't vex her,' said Bruno, looking rather puzzled.

  `After that,' I said, without noticing the remark, `we'll water this highest bed—up here. You see, it's getting quite dry and dusty.'

  Bruno looked at me inquisitively, but he said nothing this time.

  `Then after that,' I went on, `the walks want sweeping a bit; and I think you might cut down that tall nettle—it's so close to the garden that it's quite in the way —'

  `What are you talking about?' Bruno impatiently interrupted me. `All that won't vex her a bit!'

  `Won't it?' I said innocently. `Then, after that, suppose we put in some of these coloure
d pebbles—just to mark the divisions between the different kinds of flowers, you know. That'll have a very pretty effect.'

  Bruno turned round and had another good stare at me. At last there came an odd little twinkle in his eye, and he said, with quite a new meaning in his voice, `Very well—let's put 'em in rows—all the 'ed together, and all the blue together.'

  `That'll do capitally,' I said; `and then—what kind of flowers does Sylvie like best in her garden?'

  Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and consider a little before he could answer. `Violets,' he said, at last.

  `There's a beautiful bed of violets down by the lake —'

  `Oh, let's fetch `em!' cried Bruno, giving a little skip into the air. `Here! Catch hold of my hand and I'll help you along. The g'ass is rather thick down that way.'

  I couldn't help laughing at his having so entierly forgotten what a big creature he was talking to. `No, not yet, Bruno,' I said; `we must consider what's the right thing to do first. You see, we've got quite a business before us.'

  `Yes, let's consider,' said Bruno, putting his thumb into his mouth again, and sitting down upon a dead mouse.

  `What do you keep that mouse for?' I said. `You should bury it, or throw it into the lake.'