Complete Works of Lewis Carroll

by Lewis Carroll

  “Christ Church, May 16, ’90.

  “Dearest Isa:—I had this bound for you when the book first came out, and it’s been waiting here ever since Dec. 17, for I really didn’t dare to send it across the Atlantic—the whales are so inconsiderate. They’d have been sure to want to borrow it to show to the little whales, quite forgetting that the salt water would be sure to spoil it.

  “Also I’ve been waiting for you to get back to send Emsie the ‘Nursery Alice.’ I give it to the youngest in a family generally, but I’ve given one to Maggie as well, because she travels about so much, and I thought she would like to have one to take with her. I hope Nellie’s eyes won’t get quite green with jealousy at two (indeed three) of her sisters getting presents, and nothing for her! I’ve nothing but my love to send her to-day, but she shall have something some day.—Ever your loving

  “Uncle Charles.”

  The “Nursery Alice” he refers to was arranged by himself for children “from naught to five” as he quaintly puts it. It contained twenty beautiful coloured drawings from the Tenniel illustrations, with a cover designed by E. Gertrude Thomson, of whose work he was very fond. The words were simplified for nursery readers.

  In another letter to Isa he talks very seriously about “social position.”

  “Ladies,” he writes, “have to be much more particular in observing the distinctions of what is called ‘social position,’ and the lower their own position is (in the scale of ‘lady’ ship) the more jealous they seem to be in guarding it.... Not long ago I was staying in a house with a young lady (about twenty years old I should think) with a title of her own, as she was an earl’s daughter. I happened to sit next to her at dinner, and every time I spoke to her she looked at me more as if she was looking down on me from about a mile up in the air, and as if she was saying to herself, ‘How dare you speak to me! Why you’re not good enough to black my shoes!’ It was so unpleasant that next day at luncheon I got as far from her as I could.

  “Of course we are all quite equal in God’s sight, but we do make a lot of distinctions (some of them quite unmeaning) among ourselves!”

  However, he was not always so unfortunate among great people, the “truly great” that is. In Lord Salisbury’s house he was always a welcome and honored guest, for in a letter to “his little girl” from Hatfield House he tells her of the Duchess of Albany and her two children.

  “She is the widow of Prince Leopold (the Queen’s youngest son), so her children are a Prince and a Princess; the girl is Alice, but I don’t know the boy’s Christian name; they call him ‘Albany’ because he is the Duke of Albany.

  “Now that I have made friends with a real live little Princess, I don’t intend ever to speak to children who haven’t any titles. In fact, I’m so proud, and I hold my chin so high, that I shouldn’t even see you if we met! No, darlings, you mustn’t believe that. If I made friends with a dozen Princesses, I would love you better than all of them together, even if I had them all rolled up into a sort of child-roly-poly.

  “Love to Nellie and Emsie.—Your loving Uncle,

  “C.L.D.

  “XXXXXXX

  “[kisses].”

  Nothing could give us a better glimpse of the wholesome nature of this quiet “don” of ours than these letters to a little child; a wholesome child like himself, whose every emotion was to him like the page of some fairy book, to be read and read again. Isa Bowman could not know, child as she was, what she was to this man, who with all his busy life, and all his gifts and talents, and all his many friendships, was so curiously lonely. But later, when she was grown, and wrote the little book of memories from which we have drawn so many sweet lessons, she doubtless realized, as she rolled back the years, what they had been to her—and what to Lewis Carroll.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  A TRIP WITH SYLVIE AND BRUNO.

  Is all our life, then, but a dream,

  Seen faintly in the golden gleam

  Athwart Time’s dark resistless stream?

  Bowed to the earth with bitter woe,

  Or laughing at some raree-show,

  We flitter idly to and fro.

  Man’s little day in haste we spend,

  And from its merry noontide send

  No glance to meet the silent end.

  This beautiful dedication to little Isa Bowman, on the front page of “Sylvie and Bruno,” was much prized by her on account of the double acrostic cleverly woven in the lines. The first letter of each line read downward was one way she could see her name, and the first three letters in the first line of each verse was another, but naturally the light-hearted child missed the note of deep sadness underlying the tuneful words. Lewis Carroll had reached that milestone in a man’s life, not when he pauses to look backward, but when his one desire is to press forward to the heights—to the goal. His thoughts were not so much coloured by memories of earlier years as by anticipation, even dreams of what the future might hold. Therefore, in our trip with Sylvie and Bruno into the realms of dreamland, we must bear in mind in reading the story that the man is the dreamer, and not the children, nor does he see quite through their eyes in his views of men and things. Children, as a rule, live in the present; neither the past nor the future perplexes them, and “Mister Sir,” as little Bruno called their friend, the Dreamer, looked on these fairy children, dainty Sylvie and graceful Bruno, as gleams of light in his shadowy way, little passing gleams, as elusive as they were brilliant.

  The day of the irresponsible, bubbling nonsense is over; we catch flashes of it now and then, but the fun is forced, and however much of a dear Sylvie may be, and however much of a darling Bruno may be, they are not quite natural.

  In a very long and very serious preface, wholly unlike his usual style, the author tells us something of the history of the book. As early as 1867 the idea of “Sylvie and Bruno” first came to him in the shape of a little fairy tale which he wrote for Aunt Judy’s Magazine, but it was not until long after the publication of “Alice Through the Looking-Glass” that he determined to turn the adventures of these fairy children into something more than stray stories. The public, at least, the insatiable children, wanted something more from him, and as the second “Alice” had been so satisfactory, he decided to venture again into the dream-world; he would not hurry about it; he would take his time; he would pluck a flower here and there as the years passed, and press it for safe-keeping; he would create something poetic and beautiful in the way of children, culled from the best of all the children he ever knew. This work should be a gem, cut and polished until its luster eclipsed all other work of his.

  And so from 1874 to 1889, a period of fifteen years, he jotted down quaint fancies and bits of dialogue which he thought would work well into the story. During this interval he passed from the prime of life into serious middle age, though there was so little change in his outward living and in his general appearance (he was always very boyish-looking) that even he himself failed to recognize the gulf of time between forty-two and fifty-seven.

  In this interval he had become deeply interested in the study of logic and when he began to gather together the mass of material he had collected for his book, he found so much matter which stepped outside of childish realms that he decided to please both the “grown-ups” and the youngsters by weaving it all into a story, which he accordingly did, with the result that he pleased no one. The children would not take the trouble to wade through the interwoven love story, while their elders, who from experience had expected something fresh and breezy from the pen of Lewis Carroll, who longed to get away from the world of facts and logic and deep discussions which buzzed about them, were even more sorely disappointed.

  All flights of genius are short and quick. Had our author sat down when the idea of a long story first came to him, and written it off in his natural style, “Sylvie and Bruno” might have been another of the world’s classics; but he put too much thought upon it, and the chapters show most plainly where the pen was laid down and where taken
up again.

  But for all that the book sold well, chiefly, indeed, because it was Lewis Carroll who wrote it; though its popularity died down in a short time. About six years ago, however (1904), the enterprising publishers brought forth a new edition of the book, leaving out all the grown-up part, and bringing the fairy children right before us in all their simple loveliness. The experiment, so far as the story went, was most successful, and to those who have not a previous acquaintance with “Sylvie and Bruno” this little volume would give much more pleasure than the big two-volume original.

  One of Lewis Carroll’s special objects in writing this story was a sort of tardy appreciation of the much-despised boy. In the character of Bruno he has given us a sweet little fellow, but we cannot get over the feeling that he is a girl in boy’s clothes, his bits of mischief are all so dainty and alluring; but we would like to beat him with, say, a spray of goldenrod for such a fairy child, every time he says politely and priggishly “Mister Sir” to his invisible companion. What boy was ever guilty of using such a term! The street urchin would naturally say “Mister,” but the well-bred home boy would say “Sir,” so the combination sounds absurd.

  Sylvie and Bruno were supposed to be the fairies that teach children to be good, and to do this they wandered pretty well over the earth in their fairy way. Somehow we miss the real children through all their dainty play and laughter, but the pictures of the two children, by Harry Furniss, are beautiful enough to make us really believe in fairies. There is a question Lewis Carroll asks quite gravely in his book—“What is the best time for seeing Fairies?” And he answers it in truly Lewis Carroll style:

  “The first rule is, that it must be a very hot day—that we may consider as settled: and you must be 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 should not be chirping. I can’t stop to explain that; you must take it on trust for the present.

  “So, if all these things happen together, you have a good chance of seeing a Fairy, or at least a much better chance than if they didn’t.”

  Later on he tells us the rule about the crickets. “They always leave off chirping when a Fairy goes by, ... so whenever you’re walking out and the crickets suddenly leave off chirping you may be sure that they see a Fairy.”

  Another dainty description is Bruno’s singing to the accompaniment of tuneful harebells, and the song was a regular serenade:

  Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies,

  The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!

  Wake, oh, wake! Beside the lake

  The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!

  Welcoming our Fairy King,

  We sing, sing, sing.

  Hear, oh, hear! From far and near

  The music stealing, ting, ting, ting!

  Fairy bells adorn the dells

  Are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting!

  Welcoming our Fairy King,

  We ring, ring, ring.

  See, oh, see! On every tree

  What lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting!

  They are eyes of fiery flies

  To light our dining, ting, ting, ting!

  Welcoming our Fairy King,

  They swing, swing, swing.

  Haste, oh, haste, to take and taste

  The dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting!

  Honey-dew is stored——

  But here Bruno’s song came to a sudden end and was never finished. Fairies have the oddest ways of doing things, but then Sylvie was coming through the long grass, that charming woodland child that little Bruno loved and teased.

  The artist put all his skill into the drawing of this tiny maiden, skill assisted by Lewis Carroll’s own ideas of what a fairy-girl should look like, and the fact that Mr. Furniss took seven years to illustrate this book to the author’s satisfaction and his own, shows how very particular both were to get at the spirit of the story.

  Indeed, the great trouble with the story is that it is all spirit; there is no real story to it, and this the keen scent of everyday children soon discovered.

  But in one thing it excels: the verses are every bit as charming as either the Wonderland or Looking-Glass verses, with all the old-time delicious nonsense. Take, for instance—

  THE GARDENER’S SONG.

  He thought he saw an Albatross

  That fluttered round the lamp;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Penny-Postage-Stamp.

  “You’d best be getting home,” he said:

  “The nights are very damp!”

  He thought he saw an Argument

  That proved he was the Pope;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Bar-of-Mottled-Soap.

  “A fact so dread,” he faintly said,

  “Extinguishes all hope!”

  He thought he saw a Banker’s-Clerk

  Descending from the Bus;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Hippopotamus.

  “If this should stay to dine,” he said,

  “There won’t be much for us!”

  He thought he saw a Buffalo

  Upon the chimney-piece;

  He looked again, and found it was

  His Sister’s-Husband’s-Niece.

  “Unless you leave this house,” he said,

  “I’ll send for the police!”

  He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four

  That stood beside his bed;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Bear without a head.

  “Poor thing!” he said, “poor, silly thing!

  It’s waiting to be fed!”

  He thought he saw a Garden-Door

  That opened with a key;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Double-Rule-of-Three.

  “And all its mystery,” he said,

  “Is clear as day to me!”

  He thought he saw a Kangaroo

  That worked a coffee-mill;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Vegetable-Pill.

  “Were I to swallow this,” he said,

  “I should be very ill!”

  He thought he saw a Rattlesnake

  That questioned him in Greek;

  He looked again, and found it was

  The Middle-of-Next-Week.

  “The one thing I regret,” he said,

  “Is that it cannot speak!”

  The gardener was a very remarkable person, whose time was spent raking the beds and making up extra verses to this beautiful poem; the last one ran:

  He thought he saw an Elephant

  That practiced on a fife;

  He looked again, and found it was

  A letter from his wife.

  “At length I realize,” he said,

  “The bitterness of Life!”

  “What a wild being it was who sung these wild words! A gardener he seemed to be, yet surely a mad one by the way he brandished his rake, madder by the way he broke ever and anon into a frantic jig, maddest of all by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza.

  “It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an elephant, but the rest of him was skin and bone; and the wisps of loose straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it, and that nearly all the stuffing had come out.”

  In “Sylvie and Bruno,” probably to a greater extent than in all his other books, are some clever caricatures of well-known people. The two professors are certainly taken from life, probably from Oxford. One is called “The Professor” and one “The Other Professor.” The Baron, the Vice-Warden and my Lady were all too real, and as for the fat Prince Uggug, well,
any kind feeling Lewis Carroll may have had toward boys when he fashioned Bruno had entirely vanished when Prince Uggug came upon the scene. All the ugly, rough, ill-mannered, bad boys Lewis Carroll had ever heard of were rolled into this wretched, fat, pig of a prince; but the story of this prince proved fascinating to the real little royalties to whom he told it during one Christmas week at Lord Salisbury’s. Most likely he selected this story with an object, in order to show how necessary it was that those of royal blood should behave like true princes and princesses if they would be truly loved. Our good “don” was fond of pointing a moral now and then. Uggug, with all his badness, somehow appeals to the human child, far more than Bruno, with his baby talk and his old-man wisdom and his odd little “fay” ways. Sylvie was much more natural. Bruno, however, was a sweet little songster; it needed no urging to set him to music, and he always sang quite plainly when he had real rhymes to tackle. One of his favorites was called:

  THE BADGERS AND THE HERRINGS.

  There be three Badgers on a mossy stone,

  Beside a dark and covered way.

  Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne,

  And so they stay and stay—

  Though their old Father languishes alone,

  They stay, and stay, and stay.

  There be three Herrings loitering around,

  Longing to share that mossy seat.

  Each Herring tries to sing what she has found

  That makes life seem so sweet

  Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound,

  They bleat, and bleat, and bleat.

  The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave,

  Sought vainly for her absent ones;

  The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave,

  Shrieked out, “Return, my sons!

  You shall have buns,” he shrieked, “if you’ll behave!

  Yea buns, and buns, and buns!”

  “I fear,” said she, “your sons have gone astray.