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SYLVIE AND BRUNO
BY
LEWIS CARROLL
_WITH FORTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
HARRY FURNISS_
_London_
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND NEW YORK
1890
_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved_
Presswork by John Wilson and Son,
University Press.
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 flutter 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.
PREFACE.
One little picture in this book, the Magic Locket, at p. 77, was drawn
by 'Miss Alice Havers.' I did not state this on the title-page, since it
seemed only due, to the artist of all these (to my mind) _wonderful_
pictures, that his name should stand there alone.
The descriptions, at pp. 386, 387, of Sunday as spent by children of the
last generation, are quoted _verbatim_ from a speech made to me by a
child-friend and a letter written to me by a lady-friend.
The Chapters, headed 'Fairy Sylvie' and 'Bruno's Revenge,' are a
reprint, with a few alterations, of a little fairy-tale which I wrote in
the year 1867, at the request of the late Mrs. Gatty, for 'Aunt Judy's
Magazine,' which she was then editing.
It was in 1874, I believe, that the idea first occurred to me of making
it the nucleus of a longer story. As the years went on, I jotted down,
at odd moments, all sorts of odd ideas, and fragments of dialogue, that
occurred to me--who knows how?--with a transitory suddenness that left
me no choice but either to record them then and there, or to abandon
them to oblivion. Sometimes one could trace to their source these random
flashes of thought--as being suggested by the book one was reading, or
struck out from the 'flint' of one's own mind by the 'steel' of a
friend's chance remark--but they had also a way of their own, of
occurring, _à propos_ of nothing--specimens of that hopelessly illogical
phenomenon, 'an effect without a cause.' Such, for example, was the last
line of 'The Hunting of the Snark,' which came into my head (as I have
already related in 'The Theatre' for April, 1887) quite suddenly, during
a solitary walk: and such, again, have been passages which occurred in
_dreams_, and which I cannot trace to any antecedent cause whatever.
There are at least _two_ instances of such dream-suggestions in this
book--one, my Lady's remark, 'it often runs in families, just as a love
for pastry does', at p. 88; the other, Eric Lindon's _badinage_ about
having been in domestic service, at p. 332.
And thus it came to pass that I found myself at last in possession of a
huge unwieldy mass of litterature--if the reader will kindly excuse the
spelling--which only needed stringing together, upon the thread of a
consecutive story, to constitute the book I hoped to write. Only! The
task, at first, seemed absolutely hopeless, and gave me a far clearer
idea, than I ever had before, of the meaning of the word 'chaos': and I
think it must have been ten years, or more, before I had succeeded in
classifying these odds-and-ends sufficiently to see what sort of a story
they indicated: for the story had to grow out of the incidents, not the
incidents out of the story.
I am telling all this, in no spirit of egoism, but because I really
believe that some of my readers will be interested in these details of
the 'genesis' of a book, which looks so simple and straight-forward a
matter, when completed, that they might suppose it to have been written
straight off, page by page, as one would write a letter, beginning at
the beginning and ending at the end.
It is, no doubt, _possible_ to write a story in that way: and, if it be
not vanity to say so, I believe that I could, myself,--if I were in the
unfortunate position (for I do hold it to be a real misfortune) of being
obliged to produce a given amount of fiction in a given time,--that I
could 'fulfil my task,' and produce my 'tale of bricks,' as other slaves
have done. One thing, at any rate, I could guarantee as to the story so
produced--that it should be utterly commonplace, should contain no new
ideas whatever, and should be very very weary reading!
This species of literature has received the very appropriate name of
'padding'--which might fitly be defined as 'that which all can write and
none can read.' That the present volume contains _no_ such writing I
dare not avow: sometimes, in order to bring a picture into its proper
place, it has been necessary to eke out a page with two or three extra
lines: but I can honestly say I have put in no more than I was
absolutely compelled to do.
My readers may perhaps like to amuse themselves by trying to detect, in
a given passage, the one piece of 'padding' it contains. While arranging
the 'slips' into pages, I found that the passage, which now extends from
the top of p. 35 to the middle of p. 38, was 3 lines too short. I
supplied the deficiency, not by interpolating a word here and a word
there, but by writing in 3 consecutive lines. Now can my readers guess
_which_ they are?
A harder puzzle--if a harder be desired--would be to determine, as to
the Gardener's Song, in _which_ cases (if any) the stanza was adapted to
the surrounding text, and in _which_ (if any) the text was adapted to
the stanza.
Perhaps the hardest thing in all literature--at least _I_ have found it
so: by no voluntary effort can I accomplish it: I have to take it as it
comes--is to write anything _original_. And perhaps the easiest is, when
once an original line has been struck out, to follow it up, and to write
any amount more to the same tune. I do not know if 'Alice in Wonderland'
was an _original_ story--I was, at least, no _conscious_ imitator in
writing it--but I do know that, since it came out, something like a
dozen story-books have appeared, on identically the same pattern. The
path I timidly explored--believing myself to be 'the first that ever
burst into that silent sea'--is now a beaten high-road: all the way-side
flowers have long ago been trampled into the dust: and it would be
courting disaster for me to attempt that style again.
Hence it is that, in 'Sylvie and Bruno,' I have striven--with I know not
what success--to strike out yet another new path: be it bad or good, it
is the best I can do. It is written, not for money, and not for fame,
but in the hope of supplying, for the children whom I love, some
thoughts that may suit those hours of innocent merriment which are the
very life of Childhood; and also in the hope of suggesting, to them and
to others, some thoughts that may prove, I would fain hope, not wholly
out of harmony with the graver cadences of Life.
If I have not already exhausted the patience of my readers, I would like
to seize this opportunity--perhaps the last I shall have of addressing
so many friends at once--of putting on record some ideas that have
occurred to me, as to books desirable to be written--which I should much
like to _attempt_, but may not ever have the time or power to carry
through--in the hope that, if _I_ should fail (and the years are gliding
away _very_ fast) to finish the task I have set myself, other hands may
take it up.
First, a Child's Bible. The only real _essentials_ of this would be,
carefully selected passages, suitable for a child's reading, and
pictures. One principle of selection, which I would adopt, would be that
Religion should be put before a child as a revelation of _love_--no need
to pain and puzzle the young mind with the history of crime and
punishment. (On such a principle I should, for example, omit the history
of the Flood.) The supplying of the pictures would involve no great
difficulty: no new ones would be needed: hundreds of excellent pictures
already exist, the copyright of which has long ago expired, and which
simply need photo-zincography, or some similar process, for their
successful reproduction. The book should be handy in size--with a pretty
attractive-looking cover--in a clear legible type--and, above all, with
abundance of pictures, pictures, pictures!
Secondly, a book of pieces selected from the Bible--not single texts,
but passages of from 10 to 20 verses each--to be committed to memory.
Such passages would be found useful, to repeat to one's-self and to
ponder over, on many occasions when reading is difficult, if not
impossible: for instance, when lying awake at night--on a
railway-journey--when taking a solitary walk--in old age, when eye-sight
is failing or wholly lost--and, best of all, when illness, while
incapacitating us for reading or any other occupation, condemns us to
lie awake through many weary silent hours: at such a time how keenly one
may realise the truth of David's rapturous cry '_O how sweet are thy
words unto my throat: yea, sweeter than honey unto my mouth!_'
I have said 'passages,' rather than single texts, because we have no
means of _recalling_ single texts: memory needs _links_, and here are
none: one may have a hundred texts stored in the memory, and not be able
to recall, at will, more than half-a-dozen--and those by mere chance:
whereas, once get hold of any portion of a _chapter_ that has been
committed to memory, and the whole can be recovered: all hangs together.
Thirdly, a collection of passages, both prose and verse, from books
other than the Bible. There is not perhaps much, in what is called
'un-inspired' literature (a misnomer, I hold: if Shakespeare was not
inspired, one may well doubt if any man ever was), that will bear the
process of being pondered over, a hundred times: still there _are_ such
passages--enough, I think, to make a goodly store for the memory.
These two books--of sacred, and secular, passages for memory--will serve
other good purposes besides merely occupying vacant hours: they will
help to keep at bay many anxious thoughts, worrying thoughts,
uncharitable thoughts, unholy thoughts. Let me say this, in better words
than my own, by copying a passage from that most interesting book,
Robertson's Lectures on the Epistles to the Corinthians, Lecture XLIX.
"If a man finds himself haunted by evil desires and unholy images, which
will generally be at periodical hours, let him commit to memory passages
of Scripture, or passages from the best writers in verse or prose. Let
him store his mind with these, as safe-guards to repeat when he lies
awake in some restless night, or when despairing imaginations, or
gloomy, suicidal thoughts, beset him. Let these be to him the sword,
turning everywhere to keep the way of the Garden of Life from the
intrusion of profaner footsteps."
Fourthly, a "Shakespeare" for girls: that is, an edition in which
everything, not suitable for the perusal of girls of (say) from 10 to
17, should be omitted. Few children under 10 would be likely to
understand or enjoy the greatest of poets: and those, who have passed
out of girlhood, may safely be left to read Shakespeare, in any edition,
'expurgated' or not, that they may prefer: but it seems a pity that so
many children, in the intermediate stage, should be debarred from a
great pleasure for want of an edition suitable to them. Neither
Bowdler's, Chambers's, Brandram's, nor Cundell's 'Boudoir' Shakespeare,
seems to me to meet the want: they are not sufficiently 'expurgated.'
Bowdler's is the most extraordinary of all: looking through it, I am
filled with a deep sense of wonder, considering what he has left in,
that he should have cut _anything_ out! Besides relentlessly erasing all
that is unsuitable on the score of reverence or decency, I should be
inclined to omit also all that seems too difficult, or not likely to
interest young readers. The resulting book might be slightly
fragmentary: but it would be a real treasure to all British maidens who
have any taste for poetry.
If it be needful to apologize to any one for the new departure I have
taken in this story--by introducing, along with what will, I hope, prove
to be acceptable nonsense for children, some of the graver thoughts of
human life--it must be to one who has learned the Art of keeping such
thoughts wholly at a distance in hours of mirth and careless ease. To
him such a mixture will seem, no doubt, ill-judged and repulsive. And
that such an Art _exists_ I do not dispute: with youth, good health, and
sufficient money, it seems quite possible to lead, for years together, a
life of unmixed gaiety--with the exception of one solemn fact, with
which we are liable to be confronted at _any_ moment, even in the midst
of the most brilliant company or the most sparkling entertainment. A man
may fix his own times for admitting serious thought, for attending
public worship, for prayer, for reading the Bible: all such matters he
can defer to that 'convenient season', which is so apt never to occur at
all: but he cannot defer, for one single moment, the necessity of
attending to a message, which may come before he has finished reading
this page, '_this night shall thy soul be required of thee_.'
The ever-present sense of this grim possibility has been, in all
ages,[1] an incubus that men have striven to shake off. Few more
interesting subjects of enquiry could be found, by a student of history,
than the various weapons that have been used against this shadowy foe.
Saddest of all must have been the thoughts of those who saw indeed an
_existence_ beyond the grave, but an existence far more terrible than
annihilation--an existence as filmy, impalpable, all but invisible
spectres, drifting about, through endless ages, in a world of shadows,
with nothing to do, nothing to hope for, nothing to love! In the midst
of the gay verses of that genial 'bon vivant' Horace, there stands one
dreary word whose utter sadness goes to one's heart. It is the word
'_exilium_' in the well-known passage
Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium
Versatur urnâ serius ocius
Sors exitura et nos in æternum
Exilium impositura cymbæ.
Yes, to him this present life--spite of all its weariness and all its
sorrow--was the only life worth having: all else was 'exile'! Does it
not seem almost incredible that one, holding such a creed, should ever
have smiled?
And many in this day, I fear, even though believing in an existence
beyond the grave far more real than Horace ever dreamed of, yet regard
it as a sort of 'exile' from all the joys of life, and so adopt Horace's
theory, and say 'let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.'
We go to entertainments, such as the theatre--I say 'we', for _I_ also
go to the play, whenever I get a chance of seeing a really good one--and
keep at arm's length, if possible, the thought that we may not return
alive. Yet how do you know--dear friend, whose patience has carried you
through this garrulous preface--that it may not be _your_ lot, when
mirth is fastest and most furious, to feel the sharp pang, or the deadly
faintness, which heralds the final crisis--to see, with vague wonder,
anxious friends bending over you--to hear their troubled
whispers--perhaps yourself to shape the question, with trembling lips,
"Is it serious?", and to be told "Yes: the end is near" (and oh, how
different all Life will look when those words are said!)--how do you
know, I say, that all this may not happen to _you_, this night?
And _dare_ you, knowing this, say to yourself "Well, perhaps it _is_ an
immoral play: perhaps the situations _are_ a little too 'risky', the
dialogue a little too strong, the 'business' a little too suggestive. I
don't say that conscience is _quite_ easy: but the piece is so clever, I
must see it this once! I'll begin a stricter life to-morrow."
_To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!_
"Who sins in hope, who, sinning, says,
'Sorrow for sin God's judgement stays!'
Against God's Spirit he lies; quite stops
Mercy with insult; dares, and drops,
Like a scorch'd fly, that spins in vain
Upon the axis of its pain,
Then takes its doom, to limp and crawl,
Blind and forgot, from fall to fall."
Let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought, of the
possibility of death--if calmly realised, and steadily faced--would be
one of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene of amusement
being right or wrong. If the thought of sudden death acquires, for
_you_, a special horror when imagined as happening in a _theatre_, then
be very sure the theatre is harmful for _you_, however harmless it may
be for others; and that _you_ are incurring a deadly peril in going. Be
sure the safest rule is that we should not dare to _live_ in any scene
in which we dare not _die_.
But, once realise what the true object _is_ in life--that it is _not_
pleasure, _not_ knowledge, _not_ even fame itself, 'that last infirmity
of noble minds'--but that it _is_ the development of _character_, the
rising to a higher, nobler, purer standard, the building-up of the
perfect _Man_--and then, so long as we feel that this is going on, and
will (we trust) go on for evermore, death has for us no terror; it is
not a shadow, but a light; not an end, but a beginning!
One other matter may perhaps seem to call for apology--that I should
have treated with such entire want of sympathy the British passion for
'Sport', which no doubt has been in by-gone days, and is still, in some
forms of it, an excellent school for hardihood and for coolness in
moments of danger. But I am not entirely without sympathy for _genuine_
'Sport': I can heartily admire the courage of the man who, with severe
bodily toil, and at the risk of his life, hunts down some 'man-eating'
tiger: and I can heartily sympathize with him when he exults in the
glorious excitement of the chase and the hand-to-hand struggle with the
monster brought to bay. But I can but look with deep wonder and sorrow
on the hunter who, at his ease and in safety, can find pleasure in what
involves, for some defenceless creature, wild terror and a death of
agony: deeper, if the hunter be one who has pledged himself to preach to
men the Religion of universal Love: deepest of all, if it be one of
those '_tender and delicate_' beings, whose very name serves as a symbol
of Love--'_thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of
women_'--whose mission here is surely to help and comfort all that are
in pain or sorrow!
'Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.'
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LESS BREAD! MORE TAXES! 1
II. L'AMIE INCONNUE 16
III. BIRTHDAY-PRESENTS 29
IV. A CUNNING CONSPIRACY 43
V. A BEGGAR'S PALACE 56
VI. THE MAGIC LOCKET 73
VII. THE BARON'S EMBASSY 87
VIII. A RIDE ON A LION 100
IX. A JESTER AND A BEAR 113
X. THE OTHER PROFESSOR 129
XI. PETER AND PAUL 143
XII. A MUSICAL GARDENER 156
XIII. A VISIT TO DOGLAND 171
XIV. FAIRY-SYLVIE 187
XV. BRUNO'S REVENGE 207
XVI. A CHANGED CROCODILE 222
XVII. THE THREE BADGERS 234
XVIII. QUEER STREET, NUMBER FORTY 255
XIX. HOW TO MAKE A PHLIZZ 271
XX. LIGHT COME, LIGHT GO 287
XXI. THROUGH THE IVORY DOOR 304
XXII. CROSSING THE LINE 325
XXIII. AN OUTLANDISH WATCH 345
XXIV. THE FROGS' BIRTHDAY-TREAT 361
XXV. LOOKING EASTWARD 383
Index 396
SYLVIE AND BRUNO.
CHAPTER I.
LESS BREAD! MORE TAXES!
--and then all the people cheered again, and one man, who was more
excited than the rest, flung his hat high into the air, and shouted (as
well as I could make out) "Who roar for the Sub-Warden?" _Everybody_
roared, but whether it was for the Sub-Warden, or not, did not clearly
appear: some were shouting "Bread!" and some "Taxes!", but no one seemed
to know what it was they really wanted.
All this I saw from the open window of the Warden's breakfast-saloon,
looking across the shoulder of the Lord Chancellor, who had sprung to
his feet the moment the shouting began, almost as if he had been
expecting it, and had rushed to the window which commanded the best view
of the market-place.
"What _can_ it all mean?" he kept repeating to himself, as, with his
hands clasped behind him, and his gown floating in the air, he paced
rapidly up and down the room. "I never heard such shouting before--and
at this time of the morning, too! And with such unanimity! Doesn't it
strike _you_ as very remarkable?"
I represented, modestly, that to _my_ ears it appeared that they were
shouting for different things, but the Chancellor would not listen to my
suggestion for a moment. "They all shout the same words, I assure you!"
he said: then, leaning well out of the window, he whispered to a man who
was standing close underneath, "Keep 'em together, ca'n't you? The
Warden will be here directly. Give 'em the signal for the march up!" All
this was evidently not meant for _my_ ears, but I could scarcely help
hearing it, considering that my chin was almost on the Chancellor's
shoulder.
[Illustration: THE MARCH-UP]
The 'march up' was a very curious sight: a straggling procession of men,
marching two and two, began from the other side of the market-place, and
advanced in an irregular zig-zag fashion towards the Palace, wildly
tacking from side to side, like a sailing vessel making way against an
unfavourable wind--so that the head of the procession was often further
from us at the end of one tack than it had been at the end of the
previous one.
Yet it was evident that all was being done under orders, for I noticed
that all eyes were fixed on the man who stood just under the window, and
to whom the Chancellor was continually whispering. This man held his hat
in one hand and a little green flag in the other: whenever he waved the
flag the procession advanced a little nearer, when he dipped it they
sidled a little farther off, and whenever he waved his hat they all
raised a hoarse cheer. "Hoo-roah!" they cried, carefully keeping time
with the hat as it bobbed up and down. "Hoo-roah! Noo! Consti! Tooshun!
Less! Bread! More! Taxes!"
"That'll do, that'll do!" the Chancellor whispered. "Let 'em rest a bit
till I give you the word. He's not here yet!" But at this moment the
great folding-doors of the saloon were flung open, and he turned with a
guilty start to receive His High Excellency. However it was only Bruno,
and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety.
"Morning!" said the little fellow, addressing the remark, in a general
sort of way, to the Chancellor and the waiters. "Doos oo know where
Sylvie is? I's looking for Sylvie!"
"She's with the Warden, I believe, y'reince!" the Chancellor replied
with a low bow. There was, no doubt, a certain amount of absurdity in
applying this title (which, as of course you see without my telling you,
was nothing but 'your Royal Highness' condensed into one syllable) to a
small creature whose father was merely the Warden of Outland: still,
large excuse must be made for a man who had passed several years at the
Court of Fairyland, and had there acquired the almost impossible art of
pronouncing five syllables as one.
But the bow was lost upon Bruno, who had run out of the room, even while
the great feat of The Unpronounceable Monosyllable was being
triumphantly performed.
Just then, a single voice in the distance was understood to shout "A
speech from the Chancellor!" "Certainly, my friends!" the Chancellor
replied with extraordinary promptitude. "You shall have a speech!" Here
one of the waiters, who had been for some minutes busy making a
queer-looking mixture of egg and sherry, respectfully presented it on a
large silver salver. The Chancellor took it haughtily, drank it off
thoughtfully, smiled benevolently on the happy waiter as he set down the
empty glass, and began. To the best of my recollection this is what he
said.
"Ahem! Ahem! Ahem! Fellow-sufferers, or rather suffering fellows----"
("Don't call 'em names!" muttered the man under the window. "I didn't
say _felons_!" the Chancellor explained.) "You may be sure that I always
sympa----" ("'Ear, 'ear!" shouted the crowd, so loudly as quite to drown
the orator's thin squeaky voice) "--that I always sympa----" he
repeated. ("Don't simper quite so much!" said the man under the window.
"It makes yer look a hidiot!" And, all this time, "'Ear, 'ear!" went
rumbling round the market-place, like a peal of thunder.) "That I always
_sympathise_!" yelled the Chancellor, the first moment there was
silence. "But your _true_ friend is the _Sub-Warden_! Day and night he
is brooding on your wrongs--I should say your _rights_--that is to say
your _wrongs_--no, I mean your _rights_----" ("Don't talk no more!"
growled the man under the window. "You're making a mess of it!") At this
moment the Sub-Warden entered the saloon. He was a thin man, with a mean
and crafty face, and a greenish-yellow complexion; and he crossed the
room very slowly, looking suspiciously about him as if he thought there
might be a savage dog hidden somewhere. "Bravo!" he cried, patting the
Chancellor on the back. "You did that speech very well indeed. Why,
you're a born orator, man!"
"Oh, that's nothing!" the Chancellor replied, modestly, with downcast
eyes. "Most orators are _born_, you know."
The Sub-Warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "Why, so they are!" he
admitted. "I never considered it in that light. Still, you did it very
well. A word in your ear!"
The rest of their conversation was all in whispers: so, as I could hear
no more, I thought I would go and find Bruno.
I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed
by one of the men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double
from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like
the fins of a fish. "His High Excellency," this respectful man was
saying, "is in his Study, y'reince!" (He didn't pronounce this quite so
well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to
follow him.
The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face,
was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and
holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it
has ever been my lot to see. She looked four or five years older than
Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same
wealth of curly brown hair. Her eager smiling face was turned upwards
towards her father's, and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love
with which the two faces--one in the Spring of Life, the other in its
late Autumn--were gazing on each other.
"No, you've never seen him," the old man was saying: "you couldn't, you
know, he's been away so long--traveling from land to land, and seeking
for health, more years than you've been alive, little Sylvie!"
Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing, on a
rather complicated system, was the result.
"He only came back last night," said the Warden, when the kissing was
over: "he's been traveling post-haste, for the last thousand miles or
so, in order to be here on Sylvie's birthday. But he's a very early
riser, and I dare say he's in the Library already. Come with me and see
him. He's always kind to children. You'll be sure to like him."
"Has the Other Professor come too?" Bruno asked in an awe-struck voice.
"Yes, they arrived together. The Other Professor is--well, you won't
like him quite so much, perhaps. He's a little more _dreamy_, you know."
"I wiss _Sylvie_ was a little more dreamy," said Bruno.
"What _do_ you mean, Bruno?" said Sylvie.
Bruno went on addressing his father. "She says she _ca'n't_, oo know.
But I thinks it isn't _ca'n't_, it's _wo'n't_."
"Says she _ca'n't_ dream!" the puzzled Warden repeated.
"She _do_ say it," Bruno persisted. "When I says to her 'Let's stop
lessons!', she says 'Oh, I ca'n't _dream_ of letting oo stop yet!'"
"He always wants to stop lessons," Sylvie explained, "five minutes after
we begin!"
"Five minutes' lessons a day!" said the Warden. "You won't learn much at
_that_ rate, little man!"
"That's just what Sylvie says," Bruno rejoined. "She says I _wo'n't_
learn my lessons. And I tells her, over and over, I _ca'n't_ learn 'em.
And what doos oo think she says? She says 'It isn't _ca'n't_, it's
_wo'n't_!'"
"Let's go and see the Professor," the Warden said, wisely avoiding
further discussion. The children got down off his knees, each secured a
hand, and the happy trio set off for the Library--followed by me. I had
come to the conclusion by this time that none of the party (except, for
a few moments, the Lord Chancellor) was in the least able to see me.
"What's the matter with him?" Sylvie asked, walking with a little extra
sedateness, by way of example to Bruno at the other side, who never
ceased jumping up and down.
[Illustration: VISITING THE PROFESSOR]
"What _was_ the matter--but I hope he's all right now--was lumbago, and
rheumatism, and that kind of thing. He's been curing _himself_, you
know: he's a very learned doctor. Why, he's actually _invented_ three
new diseases, besides a new way of breaking your collar-bone!"
"Is it a nice way?" said Bruno.
"Well, hum, not _very_," the Warden said, as we entered the Library.
"And here _is_ the Professor. Good morning, Professor! Hope you're quite
rested after your journey!"
A jolly-looking, fat little man, in a flowery dressing-gown, with a
large book under each arm, came trotting in at the other end of the
room, and was going straight across without taking any notice of the
children. "I'm looking for Vol. Three," he said. "Do you happen to have
seen it?"
"You don't see my _children_, Professor!" the Warden exclaimed, taking
him by the shoulders and turning him round to face them.
The Professor laughed violently: then he gazed at them through his great
spectacles, for a minute or two, without speaking.
At last he addressed Bruno. "I hope you have had a good night, my
child?"
Bruno looked puzzled. "I's had the same night _oo've_ had," he replied.
"There's only been _one_ night since yesterday!"
It was the Professor's turn to look puzzled now. He took off his
spectacles, and rubbed them with his hankerchief. Then he gazed at them
again. Then he turned to the Warden. "Are they bound?" he enquired.
"No, we aren't," said Bruno, who thought himself quite able to answer
_this_ question.
The Professor shook his head sadly. "Not even half-bound?"
"Why _would_ we be half-bound?" said Bruno. "We're not prisoners!"
But the Professor had forgotten all about them by this time, and was
speaking to the Warden again. "You'll be glad to hear," he was saying,
"that the Barometer's beginning to move----"
"Well, which way?" said the Warden--adding to the children, "Not that
_I_ care, you know. Only _he_ thinks it affects the weather. He's a
wonderfully clever man, you know. Sometimes he says things that only the
Other Professor can understand. Sometimes he says things that _nobody_
can understand! Which way is it, Professor? Up or down?"
"Neither!" said the Professor, gently clapping his hands. "It's going
sideways--if I may so express myself."
"And what kind of weather does _that_ produce?" said the Warden.
"Listen, children! Now you'll hear something worth knowing!"
"Horizontal weather," said the Professor, and made straight for the
door, very nearly trampling on Bruno, who had only just time to get out
of his way.
"_Isn't_ he learned?" the Warden said, looking after him with admiring
eyes. "Positively he runs over with learning!"
"But he needn't run over _me_!" said Bruno.
The Professor was back in a moment: he had changed his dressing-gown for
a frock-coat, and had put on a pair of very strange-looking boots, the
tops of which were open umbrellas. "I thought you'd like to see them,"
he said. "_These_ are the boots for horizontal weather!"
"But what's the use of wearing umbrellas round one's knees?"
"In _ordinary_ rain," the Professor admitted, "they would _not_ be of
much use. But if ever it rained _horizontally_, you know, they would be
invaluable--simply invaluable!"
"Take the Professor to the breakfast-saloon, children," said the Warden.
"And tell them not to wait for me. I had breakfast early, as I've some
business to attend to." The children seized the Professor's hands, as
familiarly as if they had known him for years, and hurried him away. I
followed respectfully behind.
[Illustration: BOOTS FOR HORIZONTAL WEATHER]