SYLVIE AND BRUNO
CONCLUDED
BY
LEWIS CARROLL
_WITH FORTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
HARRY FURNISS_
_New York_
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON
1894
_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved_
Dreams, that elude the Waker’s frenzied grasp—
Hands, stark and still, on a dead Mother’s breast,
Which nevermore shall render clasp for clasp,
Or deftly soothe a weeping Child to rest—
In suchlike forms me listeth to portray
My Tale, here ended. Thou delicious Fay—
The guardian of a Sprite that lives to tease thee—
Loving in earnest, chiding but in play
The merry mocking Bruno! Who, that sees thee,
Can fail to love thee, Darling, even as I?—
My sweetest Sylvie, we must say ‘Good-bye!’
PREFACE.
I must begin with the same announcement as in the previous Volume (which
I shall henceforward refer to as “Vol. I.,” calling the present Volume
“Vol. II.”), viz. that the Locket, at p. 405, was drawn by ‘Miss Alice
Havers.’ And my reason, for not stating this on the title-page—that it
seems only due, to the artist of these wonderful pictures, that his name
should stand there alone—has, I think, even greater weight in Vol. II.
than it had in Vol. I. Let me call especial attention to the three
“Little Birds” borders, at pp. 365, 371, 377. The way, in which he has
managed to introduce the most minute details of the stanzas to be
illustrated, seems to me a triumph of artistic ingenuity.
Let me here express my sincere gratitude to the many Reviewers who have
noticed, whether favorably or unfavorably, the previous Volume. Their
unfavorable remarks were, most probably, well-deserved; the favorable
ones less probably so. Both kinds have no doubt served to make the book
known, and have helped the reading Public to form their opinions of it.
Let me also here assure them that it is not from any want of respect for
their criticisms, that I have carefully forborne from reading _any_ of
them. I am strongly of opinion that an author had far better _not_ read
any reviews of his books: the unfavorable ones are almost certain to
make him cross, and the favorable ones conceited; and _neither_ of these
results is desirable.
Criticisms have, however, reached me from private sources, to some of
which I propose to offer a reply.
One such critic complains that Arthur’s strictures, on sermons and on
choristers, are too severe. Let me say, in reply, that I do _not_ hold
myself responsible for _any_ of the opinions expressed by the characters
in my book. They are simply opinions which, it seemed to me, might
probably be held by the persons into whose mouths I put them, and which
were worth consideration.
Other critics have objected to certain innovations in spelling, such as
“ca’n’t,” “wo’n’t,” “traveler.” In reply, I can only plead my firm
conviction that the popular usage is _wrong_. As to “ca’n’t,” it will
not be disputed that, in all _other_ words ending in “n’t,” these
letters are an abbreviation of “not”; and it is surely absurd to suppose
that, in this solitary instance, “not” is represented by “’t”! In fact
“can’t” is the _proper_ abbreviation for “can it,” just as “is’t” is for
“is it.” Again, in “wo’n’t,” the first apostrophe is needed, because the
word “would” is here _abridged_ into “wo”: but I hold it proper to spell
“don’t” with only _one_ apostrophe, because the word “do” is here
_complete_. As to such words as “traveler,” I hold the correct principle
to be, to _double_ the consonant when the accent falls on that syllable;
otherwise to leave it _single_. This rule is observed in most cases
(e.g. we double the “r” in “preferred,” but leave it single in
“offered”), so that I am only extending, to other cases, an existing
rule. I admit, however, that I do not spell “parallel,” as the rule
would have it; but here we are constrained, by the etymology, to insert
the double “l”.
In the Preface to Vol. I. were two puzzles, on which my readers might
exercise their ingenuity. One was, to detect the 3 lines of “padding,”
which I had found it necessary to supply in the passage extending from
the top of p. 35 to the middle of p. 38. They are the 14th, 15th, and
16th lines of p. 37. The other puzzle was, to determine which (if any)
of the 8 stanzas of the Gardener’s Song (see pp. 65, 78, 83, 90, 106,
116, 164, 168) were adapted to the context, and which (if any) had the
context adapted to them. The last of them is the only one that was
adapted to the context, the “Garden-Door that opened with a key” having
been substituted for some creature (a Cormorant, I think) “that nestled
in a tree.” At pp. 78, 106, and 164, the context was adapted to the
stanza. At p. 90, neither stanza nor context was altered: the connection
between them was simply a piece of good luck.
In the Preface to Vol. I., at pp. ix., x., I gave an account of the
making-up of the story of “Sylvie and Bruno.” A few more details may
perhaps be acceptable to my Readers.
It was in 1873, as I _now_ believe, that the idea first occurred to me
that a little fairy-tale (written, in 1867, for “Aunt Judy’s Magazine,”
under the title “Bruno’s Revenge”) might serve as the nucleus of a
longer story. This I surmise, from having found the original draft of
the last paragraph of Vol. II., dated 1873. So that this paragraph has
been waiting 20 years for its chance of emerging into print—more than
twice the period so cautiously recommended by Horace for ‘repressing’
one’s literary efforts!
It was in February, 1885, that I entered into negotiations, with Mr.
Harry Furniss, for illustrating the book. Most of the substance of
_both_ Volumes was then in existence in manuscript: and my original
intention was to publish the _whole_ story at once. In September, 1885,
I received from Mr. Furniss the first set of drawings—the four which
illustrate “Peter and Paul” (see I. pp. 144, 147, 150, 154): in
November, 1886, I received the second set—the three which illustrate the
Professor’s song about the “little man” who had “a little gun” (Vol. II.
pp. 265, 266, 267): and in January, 1887, I received the third set—the
four which illustrate the “Pig-Tale.”
So we went on, illustrating first one bit of the story, and then
another, without any idea of sequence. And it was not till March, 1889,
that, having calculated the number of pages the story would occupy, I
decided on dividing it into _two_ portions, and publishing it half at a
time. This necessitated the writing of a _sort_ of conclusion for the
first Volume: and _most_ of my Readers, I fancy, regarded this as the
_actual_ conclusion, when that Volume appeared in December, 1889. At any
rate, among all the letters I received about it, there was only _one_
which expressed _any_ suspicion that it was not a _final_ conclusion.
This letter was from a child. She wrote “we were so glad, when we came
to the end of the book, to find that there was no ending-up, for that
shows us that you are going to write a sequel.”
It may interest some of my Readers to know the _theory_ on which this
story is constructed. It is an attempt to show what might _possibly_
happen, supposing that Fairies really existed; and that they were
sometimes visible to us, and we to them; and that they were sometimes
able to assume human form: and supposing, also, that human beings might
sometimes become conscious of what goes on in the Fairy-world—by actual
transference of their immaterial essence, such as we meet with in
‘Esoteric Buddhism.’
I have supposed a Human being to be capable of various psychical states,
with varying degrees of consciousness, as follows:—
(_a_) the ordinary state, with no consciousness of the presence of
Fairies;
(_b_) the ‘eerie’ state, in which, while conscious of actual
surroundings, he is _also_ conscious of the presence of Fairies;
(_c_) a form of trance, in which, while _un_conscious of actual
surroundings, and apparently asleep, he (i.e. his immaterial essence)
migrates to other scenes, in the actual world, or in Fairyland, and is
conscious of the presence of Fairies.
I have also supposed a Fairy to be capable of migrating from Fairyland
into the actual world, and of assuming, at pleasure, a Human form; and
also to be capable of various psychical states, viz.
(_a_) the ordinary state, with no consciousness of the presence of Human
beings;
(_b_) a sort of ‘eerie’ state, in which he is conscious, if in the
actual world, of the presence of actual Human beings; if in Fairyland,
of the presence of the immaterial essences of Human beings.
I will here tabulate the passages, in both Volumes, where abnormal
states occur.
Historian’s Locality and State. Other characters.
Vol. I.
pp. 1-16 In train _c_ Chancellor (_b_) p. 2.
33-55 do. _c_
65-79 do. _c_
83-99 At lodgings _c_
105-117 On beach _c_
119-183 At lodgings _c_ S. and B. (_b_) pp. 158-163.
Professor (_b_) p. 169.
190-221 In wood _b_ Bruno (_b_) pp. 198-220.
225-233 do. sleep-walking _c_ S. and B. (_b_).
247-253 Among ruins _c_ do. (_b_).
262, 263 do. dreaming _a_
263-269 do. sleep-walking _c_ S. B. and Professor in Human
form.
270 In street _b_
279-294 At station, &c. _b_ S. and B. (_b_).
304-323 In garden _c_ S. B. and Professor (_b_).
329-344 On road, &c. _a_ S. and B. in Human form.
345-356 In street, &c. _a_
361-382 In wood _b_ S. and B. (_b_).
Vol. II.
pp. 4-18 In garden _b_ S. and B (_b_).
47-52 On road _b_ do. (_b_).
53-78 do. _b_ do. in Human form.
79-92 do _b_ do. (_b_).
152-211 In drawing-room _a_ do. in Human form.
212-246 do. _c_ do. (_b_).
262-270 In smoking-room _c_ do. (_b_).
304-309 In wood _b_ do. (_a_); Lady Muriel (_b_).
311-345 At lodgings _c_
351-399 do. _c_
407-end. do. _b_
In the Preface to Vol. I., at p. x., I gave an account of the
_origination_ of some of the ideas embodied in the book. A few more such
details may perhaps interest my Readers:—
I. p. 203. The very peculiar use, here made of a dead mouse, comes from
real life. I once found two very small boys, in a garden, playing a
microscopic game of ‘Single-Wicket.’ The bat was, I think, about the
size of a table-spoon; and the utmost distance attained by the ball, in
its most daring flights, was some 4 or 5 yards. The _exact_ length was
of course a matter of _supreme_ importance; and it was always carefully
measured out (the batsman and the bowler amicably sharing the toil) with
a dead mouse!
I. p. 259. The two quasi-mathematical Axioms, quoted by Arthur at p. 259
of Vol. I., (“Things that are greater than the same are greater than one
another,” and “All angles are equal”) were actually enunciated, in all
seriousness, by undergraduates at a University situated not 100 miles
from Ely.
II. p. 10. Bruno’s remark (“I can, if I like, &c.”) was actually made by
a little boy.
II. p. 12. So also was his remark (“I know what it _doesn’t_ spell.”)
And his remark (“I just twiddled my eyes, &c.”) I heard from the lips of
a little girl, who had just solved a puzzle I had set her.
II. p. 57. Bruno’s soliloquy (“For its father, &c.”) was actually spoken
by a little girl, looking out of the window of a railway-carriage.
II. p. 138. The remark, made by a guest at the dinner-party, when asking
for a dish of fruit (“I’ve been wishing for them, &c.”) I heard made by
the great Poet-Laureate, whose loss the whole reading-world has so
lately had to deplore.
II. p. 163. Bruno’s speech, on the subject of the age of ‘Mein Herr,’
embodies the reply of a little girl to the question “Is your grandmother
an _old_ lady?” “I don’t know if she’s an _old_ lady,” said this
cautious young person; “she’s _eighty-three_.”
II. p. 203. The speech about ‘Obstruction’ is no mere creature of my
imagination! It is copied _verbatim_ from the columns of the Standard,
and was spoken by Sir William Harcourt, who was, at the time, a member
of the ‘Opposition,’ at the ‘National Liberal Club,’ on July the 16th,
1890.
II. p. 329. The Professor’s remark, about a dog’s tail, that “it doesn’t
bite at _that_ end,” was actually made by a child, when warned of the
danger he was incurring by pulling the dog’s tail.
II. p. 374. The dialogue between Sylvie and Bruno, which occupies lines
6 to 15, is a _verbatim_ report (merely substituting “cake” for “penny”)
of a dialogue overheard between two children.
One story in this Volume—‘Bruno’s Picnic’—I can vouch for as suitable
for telling to children, having tested it again and again; and, whether
my audience has been a dozen little girls in a village-school, or some
thirty or forty in a London drawing-room, or a hundred in a High School,
I have always found them earnestly attentive, and keenly appreciative of
such fun as the story supplied.
May I take this opportunity of calling attention to what I flatter
myself was a successful piece of name-coining, at p. 42 of Vol. I. Does
not the name ‘Sibimet’ fairly embody the character of the Sub-Warden?
The gentle Reader has no doubt observed what a singularly useless
article in a house a brazen trumpet is, if you simply leave it lying
about, and never blow it!
Readers of the first Volume, who have amused themselves by trying to
solve the two puzzles propounded at pp. xi., xii. of the Preface, may
perhaps like to exercise their ingenuity in discovering which (if any)
of the following parallelisms were intentional, and which (if any)
accidental.
“Little Birds.” Events, and Persons.
Stanza 1. Banquet.
2. Chancellor.
3. Empress and Spinach (II. 325).
4. Warden’s Return.
5. Professor’s Lecture (II. 339).
6. Other Professor’s song (I. 138).
7. Petting of Uggug.
8. Baron Doppelgeist.
9. Jester and Bear (I. 119). Little Foxes.
10. Bruno’s Dinner-Bell; Little Foxes.
I will publish the answer to this puzzle in the Preface to a little book
of “Original Games and Puzzles,” now in course of preparation.
I have reserved, for the last, one or two rather more serious topics.
I had intended, in this Preface, to discuss more fully, than I had done
in the previous Volume, the ‘Morality of Sport’, with special reference
to letters I have received from lovers of Sport, in which they point out
the many great advantages which men get from it, and try to prove that
the suffering, which it inflicts on animals, is too trivial to be
regarded.
But, when I came to think the subject out, and to arrange the whole of
the arguments ‘pro’ and ‘con’, I found it much too large for treatment
here. Some day, I hope to publish an essay on this subject. At present,
I will content myself with stating the net result I have arrived at.
It is, that God has given to Man an absolute right to take the _lives_
of other animals, for _any_ reasonable cause, such as the supply of
food: but that He has _not_ given to Man the right to inflict _pain_,
unless when _necessary_: that mere pleasure, or advantage, does not
constitute such a necessity: and, consequently, that pain, inflicted for
the purposes of _Sport_, is cruel, and therefore wrong. But I find it a
far more complex question than I had supposed; and that the ‘case’, on
the side of the Sportsman, is a much stronger one than I had supposed.
So, for the present, I say no more about it.
Objections have been raised to the severe language I have put into the
mouth of ‘Arthur’, at p. 277, on the subject of ‘Sermons,’ and at pp.
273, 274, on the subjects of Choral Services and ‘Choristers.’
I have already protested against the assumption that I am ready to
endorse the opinions of characters in my story. But, in these two
instances, I admit that I am much in sympathy with ‘Arthur.’ In my
opinion, far too many sermons are expected from our preachers; and, as a
consequence, a great many are preached, which are not worth listening
to; and, as a consequence of _that_, we are very apt _not_ to listen.
The reader of this paragraph probably heard a sermon last Sunday
morning? Well, let him, if he can, name the text, and state how the
preacher treated it!
Then, as to ‘Choristers,’ and all the other accessories—of music,
vestments, processions, &c.,—which have come, along with them, into
fashion—while freely admitting that the ‘Ritual’ movement was sorely
needed, and that it has effected a vast improvement in our
Church-Services, which had become dead and dry to the last degree, I
hold that, like many other desirable movements, it has gone too far in
the opposite direction, and has introduced many new dangers.
For the Congregation this new movement involves the danger of learning
to think that the Services are done _for_ them; and that their bodily
_presence_ is all they need contribute. And, for Clergy and Congregation
alike, it involves the danger of regarding these elaborate Services as
_ends in themselves_, and of forgetting that they are simply _means_,
and the very hollowest of mockeries, unless they bear fruit in our
_lives_.
For the Choristers it seems to involve the danger of self-conceit, as
described at p. 274, the danger of regarding those parts of the Service,
where their help is not required, as not worth attending to, the danger
of coming to regard the Service as a mere outward form—a series of
postures to be assumed, and of words to be said or sung, while the
_thoughts_ are elsewhere—and the danger of ‘familiarity’ breeding
‘contempt’ for sacred things.
Let me illustrate these last two forms of danger, from my own
experience. Not long ago, I attended a Cathedral-Service, and was placed
immediately behind a row of men, members of the Choir; and I could not
help noticing that they treated the _Lessons_ as a part of the Service
to which they needed not to give _any_ attention, and as affording them
a convenient opportunity for arranging music-books, &c., &c. Also I have
frequently seen a row of little choristers, after marching in procession
to their places, kneel down, as if about to pray, and rise from their
knees after a minute spent in looking about them, it being but too
evident that the attitude was a mere mockery. Surely it is very
dangerous, for these children, to thus accustom them to _pretend_ to
pray? As an instance of irreverent treatment of holy things, I will
mention a custom, which no doubt many of my readers have noticed in
Churches where the Clergy and Choir enter in procession, viz. that, at
the end of the private devotions, which are carried on in the vestry,
and which are of course inaudible to the Congregation, the final “Amen”
is _shouted_, loud enough to be heard all through the Church. This
serves as a signal, to the Congregation, to prepare to rise when the
procession appears: and it admits of no dispute that it is for this
purpose that it is thus shouted. When we remember to Whom that “Amen” is
_really_ addressed, and consider that it is here _used_ for the same
purpose as one of the Church-bells, we must surely admit that it is a
piece of gross irreverence? To _me_ it is much as if I were to see a
Bible used as a footstool.
As an instance of the dangers, for the Clergy themselves, introduced by
this new movement, let me mention the fact that, according to _my_
experience, Clergymen of this school are _specially_ apt to retail comic
anecdotes, in which the most sacred names and words—sometimes actual
texts from the Bible—are used as themes for jesting. Many such things
are repeated as having been originally said by _children_, whose utter
ignorance of evil must no doubt acquit _them_, in the sight of God, of
all blame; but it must be otherwise for those who _consciously_ use such
innocent utterances as material for their unholy mirth.
Let me add, however, _most_ earnestly, that I fully believe that this
profanity is, in many cases, _un_conscious: the ‘environment’ (as I have
tried to explain at p. 123) makes all the difference between man and
man; and I rejoice to think that many of these profane stories—which _I_
find so painful to listen to, and should feel it a sin to repeat—give to
_their_ ears no pain, and to _their_ consciences no shock; and that
_they_ can utter, not less sincerely than myself, the two prayers,
“_Hallowed be Thy Name_” and “_from hardness of heart, and contempt of
Thy Word and Commandment, Good Lord, deliver us!_” To which I would
desire to add, for their sake and for my own, Keble’s beautiful
petition, “_help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we
pray!_” It is, in fact, for its _consequences_—for the grave dangers,
both to speaker and to hearer, which it involves—rather than for what it
is _in itself_, that I mourn over this clerical habit of profanity in
social talk. To the _believing_ hearer it brings the danger of loss of
reverence for holy things, by the mere act of listening to, and
enjoying, such jests; and also the temptation to retail them for the
amusement of others. To the _unbelieving_ hearer it brings a welcome
confirmation of his theory that religion is a fable, in the spectacle of
its accredited champions thus betraying their trust. And to the speaker
himself it must surely bring the danger of _loss of faith_. For surely
such jests, if uttered with no consciousness of harm, must necessarily
be also uttered with no consciousness, at the moment, of the _reality_
of God, as a _living being_, who hears all we say. And he, who allows
himself the habit of thus uttering holy words, with no thought of their
meaning, is but too likely to find that, for him, God has become a myth,
and heaven a poetic fancy—that, for him, the light of life is gone, and
that he is at heart an atheist, lost in “_a darkness that may be felt_.”
There is, I fear, at the present time, an increasing tendency to
irreverent treatment of the name of God and of subjects connected with
religion. Some of our theatres are helping this downward movement by the
gross caricatures of clergymen which they put upon the stage: some of
our clergy are themselves helping it, by showing that they can lay aside
the spirit of reverence, along with their surplices, and can treat as
jests, when _outside_ their churches, names and things to which they pay
an almost superstitious veneration when _inside_: the “Salvation Army”
has, I fear, with the best intentions, done much to help it, by the
coarse familiarity with which they treat holy things: and surely every
one, who desires to _live_ in the spirit of the prayer “_Hallowed be thy
Name_,” ought to do what he can, however little that may be, to check
it. So I have gladly taken this unique opportunity, however unfit the
topic may seem for the Preface to a book of this kind, to express some
thoughts which have weighed on my mind for a long time. I did not
expect, when I wrote the Preface to Vol. I, that it would be read to any
appreciable extent: but I rejoice to believe, from evidence that has
reached me, that it _has_ been read by many, and to hope that this
Preface will also be so: and I think that, among them, some will be
found ready to sympathise with the views I have put forwards, and ready
to help, with their prayers and their example, the revival, in Society,
of the waning spirit of reverence.
_Christmas_, 1893.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BRUNO’S LESSONS 1
II. LOVE’S CURFEW 20
III. STREAKS OF DAWN 36
IV. THE DOG-KING 52
V. MATILDA JANE 67
VI. WILLIE’S WIFE 82
VII. FORTUNATUS’ PURSE 96
VIII. IN A SHADY PLACE 110
IX. THE FAREWELL-PARTY 128
X. JABBERING AND JAM 147
XI. THE MAN IN THE MOON 162
XII. FAIRY-MUSIC 175
XIII. WHAT TOTTLES MEANT 194
XIV. BRUNO’S PICNIC 212
XV. THE LITTLE FOXES 233
XVI. BEYOND THESE VOICES 247
XVII. TO THE RESCUE! 262
XVIII. A NEWSPAPER-CUTTING 282
XIX. A FAIRY-DUET 287
XX. GAMMON AND SPINACH 310
XXI. THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 329
XXII. THE BANQUET 346
XXIII. THE PIG-TALE 363
XXIV. THE BEGGAR’S RETURN 381
XXV. LIFE OUT OF DEATH 400
General Index 413
List of Works 426
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I.
PAGE
THE MARCH-UP 3
VISITING THE PROFESSOR 11
BOOTS FOR HORIZONTAL WEATHER 15
A PORTABLE PLUNGE-BATH 24
REMOVAL OF UGGUG 41
‘WHAT A GAME!’ 48
‘DRINK THIS!’ 53
‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’ 62
THE GARDENER 66
A BEGGAR’S PALACE 72
THE CRIMSON LOCKET 77
‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A BUFFALO’ 79
‘IT WAS A HIPPOPOTAMUS’ 91
THE MAP OF FAIRYLAND 96
‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO’ 106
THE MOUSE-LION 108
‘HAMMER IT IN!’ 115
A BEAR WITHOUT A HEAD 117
‘COME UP, BRUIN!’ 123
THE OTHER PROFESSOR 135
‘HOW CHEERFULLY THE BOND HE SIGNED!’ 144
‘POOR PETER SHUDDERED IN DESPAIR’ 147
‘SUCH BOOTS AS THESE YOU SELDOM SEE’ 150
‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’ 154
‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’ 165
THE MASTIFF-SENTINEL 172
THE DOG-KING 176
FAIRY-SYLVIE 193
BRUNO’S REVENGE 213
FAIRIES RESTING 226
A CHANGED CROCODILE 229
A LECTURE ON ART 240
‘THREE BADGERS ON A MOSSY STONE’ 247
‘THE FATHER-BADGER, WRITHING IN A CAVE’ 249
‘THOSE AGED ONES WAXED GAY’ 252
‘HOW PERFECTLY ISOCHRONOUS!’ 268
THE LAME CHILD 280
‘IT WENT IN TWO HALVES’ 285
FIVE O’CLOCK TEA 296
‘WHAT’S THE MATTER, DARLING?’ 307
THE DEAD HARE 321
CROSSING THE LINE 341
‘THE PUG-DOG SAT UP’ 351
THE QUEEN’S BABY 363
THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT 373
‘HE WRENCHED OUT THAT CROCODILE’S TOOF!’ 380
‘LOOK EASTWARD!’ 395
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.
PAGE
SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL 8
KING FISHER’S WOOING 15
‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’ 22
‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’ 50
A ROYAL THIEF-TAKER 62
‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’ 64
BESSIE’S SONG 75
THE RESCUE OF WILLIE 83
WILLIE’S WIFE 88
FORTUNATUS’ PURSE 103
‘I AM SITTING AT YOUR FEET’ 119
MEIN HERR’S FAIRY-FRIENDS 163
‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’ 178
SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED 188
SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS 189
THE EGG-MERCHANT 197
STARTING FOR BRUNO’S PICNIC 230
‘ENTER THE LION’ 236
‘WHIHUAUCH! WHIHUAUCH!’ 242
‘NEVER!’ YELLED TOTTLES 248
BRUNO’S BED-TIME 265
‘LONG CEREMONIOUS CALLS’ 266
THE VOICES 267
‘HIS SOUL SHALL BE SAD FOR THE SPIDER’ 268
LORDS OF THE CREATION 271
‘WILL YOU NOT SPARE ME?’ 277
IN THE CHURCH-YARD 291
A FAIRY-DUET 304
THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND 317
‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’ 326
‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ELEPHANT’ 335
AN EXPLOSION 345
‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’ 350
THE OTHER PROFESSOR’S FALL 352
‘TEACHING TIGRESSES TO SMILE’ 365
‘HORRID WAS THAT PIG’S DESPAIR!’ 367
THE FATAL JUMP 369
‘BATHING CROCODILES IN CREAM’ 371
‘THAT PIG LAY STILL AS ANY STONE’ 372
‘STILL HE SITS IN MISERIE’ 373
‘BLESSED BY HAPPY STAGS’ 377
THE OLD BEGGAR’S RETURN 382
‘PORCUPINE!’ 388
‘GOOD-NIGHT, PROFESSOR!’ 398
‘HIS WIFE KNELT DOWN AT HIS SIDE’ 404
THE BLUE LOCKET 409
‘IT IS LOVE!’ 411
SYLVIE AND BRUNO
CONCLUDED.
CHAPTER I.
BRUNO’S LESSONS.
During the next month or two my solitary town-life seemed, by contrast,
unusually dull and tedious. I missed the pleasant friends I had left
behind at Elveston—the genial interchange of thought—the sympathy which
gave to one’s ideas a new and vivid reality: but, perhaps more than all,
I missed the companionship of the two Fairies—or Dream-Children, for I
had not yet solved the problem as to who or what they were—whose sweet
playfulness had shed a magic radiance over my life.
In office-hours—which I suppose reduce most men to the mental condition
of a coffee-mill or a mangle—time sped along much as usual: it was in
the pauses of life, the desolate hours when books and newspapers palled
on the sated appetite, and when, thrown back upon one’s own dreary
musings, one strove—all in vain—to people the vacant air with the dear
faces of absent friends, that the real bitterness of solitude made
itself felt.
One evening, feeling my life a little more wearisome than usual, I
strolled down to my Club, not so much with the hope of meeting any
friend there, for London was now ‘out of town,’ as with the feeling that
here, at least, I should hear ‘sweet words of human speech,’ and come
into contact with human thought.
However, almost the first face I saw there _was_ that of a friend. Eric
Lindon was lounging, with rather a ‘bored’ expression of face, over a
newspaper; and we fell into conversation with a mutual satisfaction
which neither of us tried to conceal.
After a while I ventured to introduce what was just then the main
subject of my thoughts. “And so the Doctor” (a name we had adopted by a
tacit agreement, as a convenient compromise between the formality of
‘Doctor Forester’ and the intimacy—to which Eric Lindon hardly seemed
entitled—of ‘Arthur’) “has gone abroad by this time, I suppose? Can you
give me his present address?”
“He is still at Elveston—I believe,” was the reply. “But I have not been
there since I last met you.”
I did not know which part of this intelligence to wonder at most. “And
might I ask—if it isn’t taking too much of a liberty—when your
wedding-bells are to—or perhaps they _have_ rung, already?”
“No,” said Eric, in a steady voice, which betrayed scarcely a trace of
emotion: “_that_ engagement is at an end. I am still ‘Benedick the
_un_married man.’”
After this, the thick-coming fancies—all radiant with new possibilities
of happiness for Arthur—were far too bewildering to admit of any further
conversation, and I was only too glad to avail myself of the first
decent excuse, that offered itself, for retiring into silence.
The next day I wrote to Arthur, with as much of a reprimand for his long
silence as I could bring myself to put into words, begging him to tell
me how the world went with him.
Needs must that three or four days—possibly more—should elapse before I
could receive his reply; and never had I known days drag their slow
length along with a more tedious indolence.
To while away the time, I strolled, one afternoon, into Kensington
Gardens, and, wandering aimlessly along any path that presented itself,
I soon became aware that I had somehow strayed into one that was wholly
new to me. Still, my elfish experiences seemed to have so completely
faded out of my life that nothing was further from my thoughts than the
idea of again meeting my fairy-friends, when I chanced to notice a small
creature, moving among the grass that fringed the path, that did not
seem to be an insect, or a frog, or any other living thing that I could
think of. Cautiously kneeling down, and making an _ex tempore_ cage of
my two hands, I imprisoned the little wanderer, and felt a sudden thrill
of surprise and delight on discovering that my prisoner was no other
than _Bruno_ himself!
Bruno took the matter _very_ coolly, and, when I had replaced him on the
ground, where he would be within easy conversational distance, he began
talking, just as if it were only a few minutes since last we had met.
“Doos oo know what the _Rule_ is,” he enquired, “when oo catches a
Fairy, withouten its having tolded oo where it was?” (Bruno’s notions of
English Grammar had certainly _not_ improved since our last meeting.)
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know there was any Rule about it.”
“I _think_ oo’ve got a right to _eat_ me,” said the little fellow,
looking up into my face with a winning smile. “But I’m not pruffickly
sure. Oo’d better not do it wizout asking.”
It did indeed seem reasonable not to take so irrevocable a step as
_that_, without due enquiry. “I’ll certainly _ask_ about it, first,” I
said. “Besides, I don’t know yet whether you would be _worth_ eating!”
“I guess I’m _deliciously_ good to eat,” Bruno remarked in a satisfied
tone, as if it were something to be rather proud of.
“And what are you doing here, Bruno?”
“_That’s_ not my name!” said my cunning little friend. “Don’t oo know my
name’s ‘Oh Bruno!’? That’s what Sylvie always calls me, when I says mine
lessons.”
“Well then, what are you doing here, oh Bruno?”
“Doing mine lessons, a-course!” With that roguish twinkle in his eye,
that always came when he knew he was talking nonsense.
“Oh, _that’s_ the way you do your lessons, is it? And do you remember
them well?”
“Always can ’member _mine_ lessons,” said Bruno. “It’s _Sylvie’s_
lessons that’s so _dreffully_ hard to ’member!” He frowned, as if in
agonies of thought, and tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “I
_ca’n’t_ think enough to understand them!” he said despairingly. “It
wants _double_ thinking, I believe!”
“But where’s Sylvie gone?”
“That’s just what _I_ want to know!” said Bruno disconsolately. “What
ever’s the good of setting me lessons, when she isn’t here to ’splain
the hard bits?”
“_I’ll_ find her for you!” I volunteered; and, getting up, I wandered
round the tree under whose shade I had been reclining, looking on all
sides for Sylvie. In another minute I _again_ noticed some strange thing
moving among the grass, and, kneeling down, was immediately confronted
with Sylvie’s innocent face, lighted up with a joyful surprise at seeing
me, and was accosted, in the sweet voice I knew so well, with what
seemed to be the _end_ of a sentence whose beginning I had failed to
catch.
“—and I think he ought to have _finished_ them by this time. So I’m
going back to him. Will you come too? It’s only just round at the other
side of this tree.”
It was but a few steps for _me_; but it was a great many for Sylvie; and
I had to be very careful to walk slowly, in order not to leave the
little creature so far behind as to lose sight of her.
To find Bruno’s _lessons_ was easy enough: they appeared to be neatly
written out on large smooth ivy-leaves, which were scattered in some
confusion over a little patch of ground where the grass had been worn
away; but the pale student, who ought by rights to have been bending
over them, was nowhere to be seen: we looked in all directions, for some
time, in vain; but at last Sylvie’s sharp eyes detected him, swinging on
a tendril of ivy, and Sylvie’s stern voice commanded his instant return
to _terra firma_ and to the business of Life.
[Illustration: SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL]
“Pleasure first and business afterwards” seemed to be the motto of these
tiny folk, so many hugs and kisses had to be interchanged before
anything else could be done.
“Now, Bruno,” Sylvie said reproachfully, “didn’t I tell you you were to
go on with your lessons, unless you heard to the contrary?”
“But I _did_ heard to the contrary!” Bruno insisted, with a mischievous
twinkle in his eye.
“_What_ did you hear, you wicked boy?”
“It were a sort of noise in the air,” said Bruno: “a sort of a
scrambling noise. Didn’t _oo_ hear it, Mister Sir?”
“Well, anyhow, you needn’t go to _sleep_ over them, you lazy-lazy!” For
Bruno had curled himself up, on the largest ‘lesson,’ and was arranging
another as a pillow.
“I _wasn’t_ asleep!” said Bruno, in a deeply-injured tone. “When I shuts
mine eyes, it’s to show that I’m _awake_!”
“Well, how much have you learned, then?”
“I’ve learned a little tiny bit,” said Bruno, modestly, being evidently
afraid of overstating his achievement. “_Ca’n’t_ learn no more!”
“Oh Bruno! You know you _can_, if you like.”
“Course I can, if I _like_,” the pale student replied; “but I ca’n’t if
I _don’t_ like!”
Sylvie had a way—which I could not too highly admire—of evading Bruno’s
logical perplexities by suddenly striking into a new line of thought;
and this masterly stratagem she now adopted.
“Well, I must say _one_ thing——”
“Did oo know, Mister Sir,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked, “that Sylvie
ca’n’t count? Whenever she says ‘I must say _one_ thing,’ I _know_ quite
well she’ll say _two_ things! And she always doos.”
“Two heads are better than one, Bruno,” I said, but with no very
distinct idea as to what I meant by it.
“I shouldn’t mind having two _heads_,” Bruno said softly to himself:
“one head to eat mine dinner, and one head to argue wiz Sylvie—doos oo
think oo’d look prettier if oo’d got _two_ heads, Mister Sir?”
The case did not, I assured him, admit of a doubt.
“The reason why Sylvie’s so cross——” Bruno went on very seriously,
almost sadly.
Sylvie’s eyes grew large and round with surprise at this new line of
enquiry—her rosy face being perfectly radiant with good humour. But she
said nothing.
“Wouldn’t it be better to tell me after the lessons are over?” I
suggested.
“Very well,” Bruno said with a resigned air: “only she wo’n’t be cross
then.”
“There’s only three lessons to do,” said Sylvie. “Spelling, and
Geography, and Singing.”
“Not _Arithmetic_?” I said.
“No, he hasn’t a head for Arithmetic——”
“Course I haven’t!” said Bruno. “Mine head’s for _hair_. I haven’t got a
_lot_ of heads!”
“—and he ca’n’t learn his Multiplication-table——”
“I like _History_ ever so much better,” Bruno remarked. “Oo has to
_repeat_ that Muddlecome table——”
“Well, and you have to repeat——”
“No, oo hasn’t!” Bruno interrupted. “History repeats itself. The
Professor said so!”
Sylvie was arranging some letters on a board——E—V—I—L. “Now, Bruno,” she
said, “what does _that_ spell?”
Bruno looked at it, in solemn silence, for a minute. “I knows what it
_doosn’t_ spell!” he said at last.
“That’s no good,” said Sylvie. “What _does_ it spell?”
Bruno took another look at the mysterious letters. “Why, it’s ‘LIVE,’
backwards!” he exclaimed. (I thought it was, indeed.)
“How _did_ you manage to see that?” said Sylvie.
“I just twiddled my eyes,” said Bruno, “and then I saw it directly. Now
may I sing the King-fisher Song?”
“Geography next,” said Sylvie. “Don’t you know the Rules?”
“I thinks there oughtn’t to be such a lot of Rules, Sylvie! I thinks——”
“Yes, there _ought_ to be such a lot of Rules, you wicked, wicked boy!
And how dare you _think_ at all about it? And shut up that mouth
directly!”
So, as ‘that mouth’ didn’t seem inclined to shut up of itself, Sylvie
shut it for him—with both hands—and sealed it with a kiss, just as you
would fasten up a letter.
“Now that Bruno is fastened up from talking,” she went on, turning to
me, “I’ll show you the Map he does his lessons on.”
And there it was, a large Map of the World, spread out on the ground. It
was so large that Bruno had to crawl about on it, to point out the
places named in the ‘King-fisher Lesson.’
“When a King-fisher sees a Lady-bird flying away, he says ‘_Ceylon_, if
you _Candia_!’ And when he catches it, he says ‘Come to _Media_! And if
you’re _Hungary_ or thirsty, I’ll give you some _Nubia_!’ When he takes
it in his claws, he says ‘_Europe!_’ When he puts it into his beak, he
says ‘_India!_’ When he’s swallowed it, he says ‘_Eton!_’ That’s all.”
“That’s _quite_ perfect,” said Sylvie. “Now you may sing the King-fisher
Song.”
“Will _oo_ sing the chorus?” Bruno said to me.
I was just beginning to say “I’m afraid I don’t know the _words_,” when
Sylvie silently turned the map over, and I found the words were all
written on the back. In one respect it was a _very_ peculiar song: the
chorus to each verse came in the _middle_, instead of at the _end_ of
it. However, the tune was so easy that I soon picked it up, and managed
the chorus as well, perhaps, as it is possible for _one_ person to
manage such a thing. It was in vain that I signed to Sylvie to help me:
she only smiled sweetly and shook her head.
“King Fisher courted Lady Bird—
_Sing Beans, sing Bones, sing Butterflies!_
‘Find me my match,’ he said,
‘With such a noble head—
With such a beard, as white as curd—
With such expressive eyes!’
“‘Yet pins have heads,’ said Lady Bird—
_Sing Prunes, sing Prawns, sing Primrose-Hill!_
‘And, where you stick them in,
They stay, and thus a pin
Is very much to be preferred
To one that’s never still!’
“‘Oysters have beards,’ said Lady Bird—
_Sing Flies, sing Frogs, sing Fiddle-strings!_
‘I love them, for I know
_They_ never chatter so:
They would not say one single word—
Not if you crowned them Kings!’
“‘Needles have eyes,’ said Lady Bird—
_Sing Cats, sing Corks, sing Cowslip-tea!_
‘And they are sharp—just what
Your Majesty is _not:_
So get you gone—’tis too absurd
To come a-courting _me_!’”
[Illustration: KING FISHER’S WOOING]
“So he went away,” Bruno added as a kind of postscript, when the last
note of the song had died away. “Just like he always did.”
“Oh, my _dear_ Bruno!” Sylvie exclaimed, with her hands over her ears.
“You shouldn’t say ‘like’: you should say ‘_what_.’”
To which Bruno replied, doggedly, “I only says ‘what!’ when oo doosn’t
speak loud, so as I can hear oo.”
“Where did he go to?” I asked, hoping to prevent an argument.
“He went more far than he’d never been before,” said Bruno.
“You should never say ‘more far,’” Sylvie corrected him: “you should say
‘_farther_.’”
“Then _oo_ shouldn’t say ‘more broth,’ when we’re at dinner,” Bruno
retorted: “oo should say ‘_brother_’!”
This time Sylvie evaded an argument by turning away, and beginning to
roll up the Map. “Lessons are over!” she proclaimed in her sweetest
tones.
“And has there been no _crying_ over them?” I enquired. “Little boys
_always_ cry over their lessons, don’t they?”
“I never cries after twelve o’clock,” said Bruno: “’cause then it’s
getting so near to dinner-time.”
“Sometimes, in the morning,” Sylvie said in a low voice; “when it’s
Geography-day, and when he’s been disobe——”
“_What_ a fellow you are to talk, Sylvie!” Bruno hastily interposed.
“Doos oo think the world was _made_ for oo to talk in?”
“Why, where would you _have_ me talk, then?” Sylvie said, evidently
quite ready for an argument.
But Bruno answered resolutely. “I’m not going to argue about it, ’cause
it’s getting late, and there wo’n’t be time—but oo’s as ’ong as ever oo
can be!” And he rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, in which
tears were beginning to glitter.
_Sylvie’s_ eyes filled with tears in a moment. “I didn’t mean it, Bruno,
_darling_!” she whispered; and the rest of the argument was lost ‘amid
the tangles of Neæra’s hair,’ while the two disputants hugged and kissed
each other.
But this new form of argument was brought to a sudden end by a flash of
lightning, which was closely followed by a peal of thunder, and by a
torrent of rain-drops, which came hissing and spitting, almost like live
creatures, through the leaves of the tree that sheltered us.
“Why, it’s raining cats and dogs!” I said.
“And all the _dogs_ has come down _first_,” said Bruno: “there’s nothing
but _cats_ coming down now!”
In another minute the pattering ceased, as suddenly as it had begun. I
stepped out from under the tree, and found that the storm was over; but
I looked in vain, on my return, for my tiny companions. They had
vanished with the storm, and there was nothing for it but to make the
best of my way home.
On the table lay, awaiting my return, an envelope of that peculiar
yellow tint which always announces a telegram, and which must be, in the
memories of so many of us, inseparably linked with some great and sudden
sorrow—something that has cast a shadow, never in this world to be
wholly lifted off, on the brightness of Life. No doubt it has _also_
heralded—for many of us—some sudden news of joy; but this, I think, is
less common: human life seems, on the whole, to contain more of sorrow
than of joy. And yet the world goes on. Who knows why?
This time, however, there was no shock of sorrow to be faced: in fact,
the few words it contained (“Could not bring myself to write. Come soon.
Always welcome. A letter follows this. Arthur.”) seemed so like Arthur
himself speaking, that it gave me quite a thrill of pleasure, and I at
once began the preparations needed for the journey.