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Title: Sylvie and Bruno Concluded (Illustrated) Author: Lewis Carroll Illustrator: Harry Furniss Release Date: April 26, 2015 [EBook #48795] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SYLVIE AND BRUNO CONCLUDED *** Produced by MWS, Stephen Hutcheson, Carol Spears, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Sylvie and Bruno Concluded 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, x xi ix xii 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 xiii xiv 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 unconscious 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). xvi xv xvii 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. xix xxi xxii xviii xx 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, unconscious: 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, xxiii CHAPTER I. BRUNO’S LESSONS II. LOVE’S CURFEW III. STREAKS OF DAWN IV. THE DOG-KING V. MATILDA JANE VI. WILLIE’S WIFE VII. FORTUNATUS’ PURSE VIII. IN A SHADY PLACE IX. THE FAREWELL-PARTY X. JABBERING AND JAM XI. THE MAN IN THE MOON XII. FAIRY-MUSIC XIII. WHAT TOTTLES MEANT XIV. BRUNO’S PICNIC XV. THE LITTLE FOXES XVI. BEYOND THESE VOICES XVII. TO THE RESCUE! XVIII. A NEWSPAPER-CUTTING XIX. A FAIRY-DUET XX. GAMMON AND SPINACH XXI. THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE XXII. THE BANQUET XXIII. THE PIG-TALE XXIV. THE BEGGAR’S RETURN XXV. LIFE OUT OF DEATH General Index List of Works xxv xxvii 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. PAGE 1 20 36 52 67 82 96 110 128 147 162 175 194 212 233 247 262 282 287 310 329 346 363 381 400 413 426 THE MARCH-UP VISITING THE PROFESSOR BOOTS FOR HORIZONTAL WEATHER A PORTABLE PLUNGE-BATH REMOVAL OF UGGUG ‘WHAT A GAME!’ ‘DRINK THIS!’ ‘COME, YOU BE OFF!’ THE GARDENER A BEGGAR’S PALACE THE CRIMSON LOCKET ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A BUFFALO’ ‘IT WAS A HIPPOPOTAMUS’ THE MAP OF FAIRYLAND ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW A KANGAROO’ THE MOUSE-LION ‘HAMMER IT IN!’ A BEAR WITHOUT A HEAD ‘COME UP, BRUIN!’ THE OTHER PROFESSOR ‘HOW CHEERFULLY THE BOND HE SIGNED!’ ‘POOR PETER SHUDDERED IN DESPAIR’ ‘SUCH BOOTS AS THESE YOU SELDOM SEE’ ‘I WILL LEND YOU FIFTY MORE!’ ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ALBATROSS’ THE MASTIFF-SENTINEL THE DOG-KING FAIRY-SYLVIE BRUNO’S REVENGE FAIRIES RESTING A CHANGED CROCODILE A LECTURE ON ART ‘THREE BADGERS ON A MOSSY STONE’ ‘THE FATHER-BADGER, WRITHING IN A CAVE’ ‘THOSE AGED ONES WAXED GAY’ ‘HOW PERFECTLY ISOCHRONOUS!’ THE LAME CHILD ‘IT WENT IN TWO HALVES’ FIVE O’CLOCK TEA ‘WHAT’S THE MATTER, DARLING?’ THE DEAD HARE CROSSING THE LINE ‘THE PUG-DOG SAT UP’ THE QUEEN’S BABY THE FROGS’ BIRTHDAY-TREAT ‘HE WRENCHED OUT THAT CROCODILE’S TOOF!’ ‘LOOK EASTWARD!’ SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL KING FISHER’S WOOING xxix ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. I. PAGE 3 11 15 24 41 48 53 62 66 72 77 79 91 96 106 108 115 117 123 135 144 147 150 154 165 172 176 193 213 226 229 240 247 249 252 268 280 285 296 307 321 341 351 363 373 380 395 ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II. PAGE 8 15 ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’ ‘ARE NOT THOSE ORCHISES?’ A ROYAL THIEF-TAKER ‘SUMMAT WRONG WI’ MY SPECTACLES!’ BESSIE’S SONG THE RESCUE OF WILLIE WILLIE’S WIFE FORTUNATUS’ PURSE ‘I AM SITTING AT YOUR FEET’ MEIN HERR’S FAIRY-FRIENDS ‘HOW CALL YOU THE OPERA?’ SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUED SCHOLAR-HUNTING: THE PURSUERS THE EGG-MERCHANT STARTING FOR BRUNO’S PICNIC ‘ENTER THE LION’ ‘WHIHUAUCH! WHIHUAUCH!’ ‘NEVER!’ YELLED TOTTLES BRUNO’S BED-TIME ‘LONG CEREMONIOUS CALLS’ THE VOICES ‘HIS SOUL SHALL BE SAD FOR THE SPIDER’ LORDS OF THE CREATION ‘WILL YOU NOT SPARE ME?’ IN THE CHURCH-YARD A FAIRY-DUET THE OTHER PROFESSOR FOUND ‘HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS IS SURPRISED!’ ‘HE THOUGHT HE SAW AN ELEPHANT’ AN EXPLOSION ‘A CANNOT SHAK’ HANDS WI’ THEE!’ THE OTHER PROFESSOR’S FALL ‘TEACHING TIGRESSES TO SMILE’ ‘HORRID WAS THAT PIG’S DESPAIR!’ THE FATAL JUMP ‘BATHING CROCODILES IN CREAM’ ‘THAT PIG LAY STILL AS ANY STONE’ ‘STILL HE SITS IN MISERIE’ ‘BLESSED BY HAPPY STAGS’ THE OLD BEGGAR’S RETURN ‘PORCUPINE!’ ‘GOOD-NIGHT, PROFESSOR!’ ‘HIS WIFE KNELT DOWN AT HIS SIDE’ THE BLUE LOCKET ‘IT IS LOVE!’ 1 22 50 62 64 75 83 88 103 119 163 178 188 189 197 230 236 242 248 265 266 267 268 271 277 291 304 317 326 335 345 350 352 365 367 369 371 372 373 377 382 388 398 404 409 411 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 2 3 4 5 6 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 unmarried 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. 7 8 9 “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. SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL 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?” 10 11 12 “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?” 14 13 15 “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!’” 18 16 17 KING FISHER’S WOOING 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. 19 21 20 22 “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. CHAPTER II. LOVE’S CURFEW. “Fayfield Junction! Change for Elveston!” What subtle memory could there be, linked to these commonplace words, that caused such a flood of happy thoughts to fill my brain? I dismounted from the carriage in a state of joyful excitement for which I could not at first account. True, I had taken this very journey, and at the same hour of the day, six months ago; but many things had happened since then, and an old man’s memory has but a slender hold on recent events: I sought ‘the missing link’ in vain. Suddenly I caught sight of a bench—the only one provided on the cheerless platform—with a lady seated on it, and the whole forgotten scene flashed upon me as vividly as if it were happening over again. “Yes,” I thought. “This bare platform is, for me, rich with the memory of a dear friend! She was sitting on that very bench, and invited me to share it, with some quotation from Shakespeare—I forget what. I’ll try the Earl’s plan for the Dramatisation of Life, and fancy that figure to be Lady Muriel; and I won’t undeceive myself too soon!” So I strolled along the platform, resolutely ‘making-believe’ (as children say) that the casual passenger, seated on that bench, was the Lady Muriel I remembered so well. She was facing away from me, which aided the elaborate cheatery I was practising on myself: but, though I was careful, in passing the spot, to look the other way, in order to prolong the pleasant illusion, it was inevitable that, when I turned to walk back again, I should see who it was. It was Lady Muriel herself! ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’ ‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’