 20 Light Come, Light Go. Lady Muriel's smile of welcome could not quite conceal the look of surprise with which she regarded my new companions. I presented them in due form. This is Sylvie, Lady Muriel, and this is Bruno. Any surname she inquired, her eyes twinkling with fun? No, I said gravely. No surname. She laughed, evidently thinking I said it in fun, and stooped to kiss the children a salute to which Bruno submitted with reluctance. Sylvie returned it with interest. While she and Arthur, who had arrived before me, supplied the children with tea and cake, I tried to engage the earl in conversation. But he was restless and distraught, and we made little progress. At last, by a sudden question, he betrayed the cause of his disquiet. Would you let me look at those flowers you have in your hand? Willingly, I said, handing him the bouquet. Botany was, I knew, a favourite study of his, and these flowers were to me so entirely new and mysterious that I was really curious to see what a botanist would say of them. They did not diminish his disquiet. On the contrary, he became every moment more excited as he turned them over. These are all from Central India, he said, laying aside part of the bouquet. They are rare even there, and I have never seen them in any other part of the world. These two are Mexican. This one, he rose hastily and carried it to the window to examine it in a better light, the flesh of excitement mounting to his very forehead, is, I am nearly sure, but I have a book of Indian botany here. He took a volume from the book shelves, and turned the leaves with trembling fingers. Yes, compare it with this picture. It is the exact duplicate. This is the flower of the upos tree, which usually grows only in the depths of the forest, and the flower fades so quickly after being plucked that it is scarcely possible to keep its former colour even so far as the outskirts of the forest. Yet this is in full bloom. Where did you get these flowers, he added with breathless eagerness? I glanced at Sylvie, who gravely and silently laid her finger on her lips, then back into Bruno to follow her, and ran out into the garden, and I found myself in the position of a defendant whose two most important witnesses have been suddenly taken away. Let me give you the flowers, I stammered out at last, quite at my wit's end, as to how to get out of the difficulty. You know much more about them than I do. I accept them most gratefully. But you have not yet told me, the Earl was beginning, when we were interrupted to my great relief, by the arrival of Eric Linden. To Arthur, however, the newcomer was, I saw clearly, anything but welcome. His face clouded over. He drew a little back from the circle, and took no further part in the conversation which was wholly maintained for some minutes by Lady Muriel and her lively cousin, who were discussing some new music that had just arrived from London. Do just try this one, he pleaded. The music looks easy to sing at sight, and the song's quite appropriate to the occasion. Then I suppose it's five o'clock tea, ever to thee, faithful I'll be, five o'clock tea, laughed Lady Muriel as she sat down to the piano, and lightly struck a few random chords. Not quite, and yet it is a kind of ever to thee, faithful I'll be. It's a pair of hapless lovers. He crosses the briny deep, and she is left lamenting. That is indeed appropriate, she replied mockingly, as he placed the song before her. And am I to do the lamenting? And who for, if you please? She played the air once or twice through, first in quick, and finally in slow time, and then gave us the whole song with as much graceful ease as if she had been familiar with it all her life. He stepped so lightly to the land, all in his manly pride. He kissed her cheek, he pressed her hand, yet still she glanced aside. Too gay he seems, she darkly dreams, too gallant and too gay, to think of me, poor simple me, when he is far away. I bring my love this goodly pearl across the seas, he said, a gem to deck the dearest girl that ever sail her wed. She clasps it tight her eyes are bright, her throbbing heart would say, he thought of me, he thought of me, when he was far away. The ship has sailed into the west, her ocean bird is flown. A dull dead pain is in her breast, and she is weak and lone. Yet there's a smile upon her face, a smile that seems to say, he'll think of me, he'll think of me, when he is far away. Though water is wide between his glide, our lives are warm and near. No distance parts two faithful hearts, two hearts that love so dear. And I will trust my sailor lad, for ever and a day, to think of me, to think of me, when he is far away. The look of displeasure which had begun to come over Arthur's face when the young captain spoke of love so lightly, faded away as the song proceeded, and he listened with evident delight. But his face darkened again when Eric de Murley remarked, Don't you think my soldier lad would have fitted the tune just as well? Why so it would, Lady Muriel gaily retorted. Soldiers, sailors, tinkers, tailors, what a lot of words would fit in. I think my tinker lad sounds best, don't you? To spare my friend further pain, I rose to go just as the earl was beginning to repeat his particularly embarrassing question about the flowers. You have not yet? Yes, I've had some tea, thank you, I hastily interrupted him. And now we really must be going. Good evening, Lady Muriel, and we made our adduce and escaped, while the earl was still absorbed in examining the mysterious bouquet. Lady Muriel accompanied us to the door. You couldn't have given my father a more acceptable present, she said warmly. He is so passionately fond of botany. I'm afraid I know nothing of the theory of it, but I keep his heart as sick as in order. I must get some sheets of blotting paper, and dry these new treasures for him before they fade. That won't be no good at all, said Bruno, who was waiting for us in the garden. Why won't it, said I? You know I had to give the flowers to stop the questions. Yes, it can't be helped, said Sylvie. But they will be sorry when they find them gone. But how will they go? Well, I don't know how. But they will go. The nose-gay was only a flizz, you know. Bruno made it up. These last words were in a whisper, as she evidently did not wish Arthur to hear. But of this there seemed to be little risk. He hardly seemed to notice the children, but paced on, silent and abstracted. And when, at the entrance to the wood, they bid us a hasty farewell and ran off, he seemed to wake out of a day-dream. The bouquet vanished as Sylvie had predicted, and when, a day or two afterwards, Arthur and I once more visited the hall, we found the Earl and his daughter, with the old housekeeper, out in the garden examining the fastenings of the drawing-room window. We are holding an inquest, Lady Muriel said, advancing to meet us. And we admit you, as accessories before the fact, to tell us all you know about those flowers. The accessories before the fact declined to answer any questions, I gravely replied, and they reserved their defense. Well, then, turn Queen's evidence, please. The flowers have disappeared in the night, she went on, turning to Arthur, and we are quite sure no one in the house has meddled with them. We must have entered by the window. But the fastenings have not been tampered with, said the Earl. It must have been while you were dining, my lady, said the housekeeper. That was it, said the Earl. The thief must have seen you bring the flowers, turning to me, and have noticed that you did not take them away, and he must have known their great value. They are simply priceless, he exclaimed, in sudden excitement. And you never told us how you got them, said Lady Muriel. Some day, I stammered, I may be free to tell you. Just now, would you excuse me? The Earl looked disappointed, but kindly said. Very well, we will ask no questions. But we consider you a very bad Queen's evidence, Lady Muriel added playfully, as we entered the arbor. We pronounce you to be an accomplice, and we sentence you to solitary confinement and to be fed on bread and butter. Do you take sugar? It is disquieting, certainly, she resumed, when all creature comforts had been duly supplied, to find that the house has been entered by a thief in this out-of-the-way place. If only the flowers had been edibles, one might have suspected a thief of quite another shape. You mean that universal explanation for all mysterious disappearances? The cat did it, said Arthur. Yes, she replied. What a convenient thing it would be if all thieves had the same shape. It's so confusing to have some of them quadrupeds and others bipeds. It has occurred to me, said Arthur, as a curious problem in teleology, the science of final causes, he added in answer to an inquiring look from Lady Muriel. And a final cause is? Well, suppose we say, the last of a series of connected events, each of the series being the cause of the next, for whose sake the first event takes place. But the last event is practically an effect of the first, isn't it? And yet you call it a cause of it. Arthur pondered a moment. The words are rather confusing, I grant you, he said. Will this do? The last event is an effect of the first. But the necessity for that event is a cause of the necessity for the first. That seems clear enough, said Lady Muriel. Now let us have the problem. It's merely this. What object can we imagine in the arrangement by which each different size, roughly speaking, of living creatures has its special shape? For instance, the human race has one kind of shape, bipeds. Another set, ranging from the lion to the mouse, are quadrupeds. Go down a step or two further, and you come to insects with six legs, hexapods. A beautiful name, is it not? But beauty, in our sense of the word, seems to diminish as we go down. The creatures become more, I won't say ugly, of any of God's creatures, more uncouth. And when we take the microscope and go a few steps lower still, we come up on an amokulee, terribly uncouth, and with a terrible number of legs. The other alternative, said the Earl, would be a diminuendo series of repetition of the same type. Never mind the monotony of it. Let's see how it would work in other ways. Begin with the race of men and the creatures they require. Let us say horses, cattle, sheep, and dogs. We don't exactly require frogs and spiders, do we Muriel? Lady Muriel shuddered perceptibly. It was evidently a painful subject. We can dispense with them, she said gravely. Well then, we'll have a second race of men, half a yard high. Who would have one source of exquisite enjoyment not possessed by ordinary men, Arthur interrupted? What source, said the Earl? Why the grandeur of scenery? Surely the grandeur of a mountain to me depends on its size relative to me. Double the height of the mountain, and of course, it's twice as grand. Have my height, and you produce the same effect. Happy, happy, happy, small. Lady Muriel murmured rapturously, None but the short, none but the short, None but the short enjoy the tall. But let me go on, said the Earl. We'll have a third race of men, five inches high, and a fourth race, an inch high. They couldn't eat common beef and mutton, I'm sure, Lady Muriel interrupted. True, my child, I was forgetting. Each set must have its own cattle and sheep, and its own vegetation, I added. What could a cow an inch high do with grass that waved far above its head? That is true. We must have a pasture within a pasture, so to speak. The common grass would serve our inch-high cows as a green forest of palms. While round the root of each tall stem would stretch a tiny carpet of microscopic grass. Yes, I think our scheme will work fairly well, and it would be very interesting coming into contact with the races below us. What sweet little things inch-high bulldogs would be. I doubt if even Muriel would run away from one of them. Don't you think we ought to have a crescendo series as well, said Lady Muriel? Only fancy being a hundred yards high. One could use an elephant as a paperweight, and a crocodile as a pair of scissors. And would you have races of different sizes communicate with one another, I inquired? Would they make war on one another, for instance? Or enter into treaties? War we must exclude, I think. When you could crush a whole nation with one blow of your fist, you couldn't conduct war on equal terms. But anything involving a collision of minds only would be possible in our ideal world. For, of course, we must allow mental powers to all, irrespective of size. Perhaps the fairest rule would be that, the smaller the race, the greater should be its intellectual development. Do you mean to say, said Lady Muriel, that these mannequins of an inch high are to argue with me? Surely, surely, said the Earl, an argument doesn't depend for its logical force on the size of the creature that utters it? She tossed her head indignantly. I would not argue with any man less than six inches high, she cried. I'd make him work. What at, said Arthur, listening to all this nonsense with an amused smile? Embroidery, she readily replied. What lovely embroidery they would do. Yet even if they did it wrong, I said, you couldn't argue the question. I don't know why, but I agreed that it couldn't be done. The reason is, said Lady Muriel, one couldn't sacrifice one's dignity so far. Of course one couldn't, echoed Arthur, any more than one could argue with a potato. It would be altogether, excuse the ancient pun, infra-dig. I doubt it, said I. Even a pun doesn't quite convince me. Well, if that is not the reason, said Lady Muriel, what reason would you give? I tried hard to understand the meaning of this question, but the persistent humming of the bees confused me, and there was a drowsiness in the air that made every thought stop and go to sleep before it had got well thought out. So all I could say was, that must depend on the weight of the potato. I felt the remark was not so sensible as I should have liked it to be, but Lady Muriel seemed to take it quite as a matter of course. In that case, she began, but suddenly started, and turned away to listen. Don't you hear him? She said, he's crying. We must go to him somehow. And I said to myself, that's very strange. I quite thought it was Lady Muriel talking to me. Why, it's Sylvie all the while, and I made another great effort to say something that should have some meaning in it. Is it about the potato? End of Chapter 20 Light come, light go. Recording by Patty Cunningham. Chapter 21 of Sylvie and Bruno. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll. Chapter 21 Through the Ivory Door. I don't know, said Sylvie. Hush, I must think. I could go to him by myself well enough, but I want you to come too. Let me go with you, I pleaded. I can walk as fast as you can, I'm sure. Sylvie laughed merrily. What nonsense, she cried. Why, you can't walk a bit. You're lying quite flat on your back. You don't understand these things. I can walk as well as you can, I repeated. And I tried my best to walk a few steps, but the ground slipped away backwards quite as fast as I could walk, so that I made no progress at all. Sylvie laughed again. There, I told you so. You have no idea how funny you look, moving your feet about in the air as if you were walking. Wait a bit, I'll ask the professor what we'd better do. And she knocked at his study door. The door opened, and the professor looked out. What's that crying, I heard just now, he asked. Is it a human animal? It's a boy, Sylvie said. I'm afraid you've been teasing him. No, indeed I haven't, Sylvie said very earnestly. I never tease him. Well, I must ask the other professor about it. He went back into the study, and we heard him whispering. Small human animal says she hasn't been teasing him. The kind that's called boy. Ask her which boy, said a new voice. The professor came out again. Which boy is it that you haven't been teasing? Sylvie looked at me with twinkling eyes. You dear old thing, she exclaimed, standing on tiptoe to kiss him, while he gravely stooped to receive the salute. How you do puzzle me, why there are several boys I haven't been teasing. The professor returned to his friend, and this time the boys said, tell her to bring them here, all of them. I can't and I won't, Sylvie exclaimed, the moment he reappeared. It's Bruno that's crying, and he's my brother. And please, we both want to go. He can't walk, you know. He's dreaming, you know. This in a whisper for fear of hurting my feelings. Do let's go through the ivory door. I'll ask him, said the professor, disappearing again. He returned directly. He says you may. Follow me and walk on tiptoe. The difficulty with me would have been just then, not to walk on tiptoe. It seemed very hard to reach down far enough to just touch the floor as Sylvie led me through the study. The professor went before us to unlock the ivory door. I had just time to glance at the other professor who was sitting, reading with his back to us, before the professor showed us out through the door and locked it behind us. Bruno was standing with his hands over his face, crying bitterly. What's the matter, darling? said Sylvie, with her arms round his neck. Hurted myself welly much, sobbed the poor little fellow. I'm so sorry, darling. However did you manage to hurt yourself so? Course I managed it, said Bruno, laughing through his tears. Does ooh think nobody else but ooh can't manage things? Matters were looking distinctly brighter and now Bruno had begun to argue. Come, let's hear all about it, I said. My foot took it into its head to slip, Bruno began. A foot hasn't got ahead, Sylvie put in, but all in vain. I slipped it down the bank and I tripped it over a stone and the stone hurted my foot and I trod on a bee and the bee stings my finger. Poor Bruno sobbed again. The complete list of woes was too much for his feelings. And it nude I didn't mean to trod on it, he added as the climax. That bee should be ashamed of itself, I said severely and Sylvie hugged and kissed the wounded hero till all tears were dried. My fingers quite unstung now, said Bruno. Why do's there be stones? Mr. Sir, do's ooh know? They're good for something, I said, even if we don't know what. What's the good of dandelions now? Dandel-dums, said Bruno. Oh, they're ever so pretty and stones aren't pretty one bit. Would ooh like some dandel-dums, Mr. Sir? Bruno, Sylvie murmured reproachfully. You mustn't say Mr. and Sir both at once. Remember what I told you? You told me I were to say Mr. when I spoke about him and I were to say Sir when I spoke to him. Well, you're not doing both, you know. Ah, but I is doing both, Miss Particular, Bruno exclaimed triumphantly. I wished to speak about the Jemplin and I wished to speak to the Jemplin. So, of course I said Mr. Sir. That's all right, Bruno, I said. Course it's all right, said Bruno. Sylvie just knows nothing at all. There never was an impertinenter boy, said Sylvie, browning till her bright eyes were nearly invisible. And there never was an ignoranter girl, retorted Bruno. Come along and pick some dandel-dums. That's all she's fit for, he added in a very loud whisper to me. But why do you say dandel-dums, Bruno? Dandelions is the right word. It's because he jumps about so, Sylvie said, laughing. Yes, that's it, Bruno assented. Sylvie tells me the words and then when I jump about, they get shooken up in my head till they're all froth. I expressed myself as perfectly satisfied with this explanation, but aren't you going to pick me any dandel-dums after all? Course we will, cried Bruno. Come along, Sylvie. And the happy children raced away bounding over the turf with the fleetness and grace of young antelopes. Then you didn't find your way back to Outland, I said to the professor. Oh, yes I did, he replied. We never got to Queer Street, but I found another way. I've been backwards and forwards several times since then. I had to be present at the election, you know, as author of the New Money Act. The emperor was so kind as to wish that I should have the credit of it. Let come what come may. I remember the very words of the imperial speech. If it should turn out that the warden is alive, you will bear witness that the change in the coinage is the professor's doing, not mine. I never was so glorified in my life before. Tears trickled down his cheeks at the recollection, which apparently was not wholly a pleasant one. Is the warden supposed to be dead? Well, it's supposed so, but mind you, I don't believe it. The evidence is very weak, mere hearsay. A wandering jester with a dancing bear, they found their way into the palace one day, has been telling people he comes from Farryland and that the warden died there. I wanted the vice warden to question him, but most unluckily he and my lady were always out walking when the jester came round. Yes, the warden's supposed to be dead and more tears trickled down the old man's cheeks, but what is the New Money Act? The professor brightened up again. The emperor started the thing, he said. He wanted to make everybody in Outland twice as rich as he was before just to make the new government popular. Only there wasn't nearly enough money in the treasury to do it. So I suggested that he might do it by doubling the value of every coin and banknote in Outland. It's the simplest thing possible. I wonder nobody ever thought of it before. And you never saw such universal joy. The shops are full from morning to night. Everybody's buying everything. And how was the glorifying done? A sudden gloom overcast the professor's jolly face. They did it as I went home after the election, he mournfully replied. It was kindly meant, but I didn't like it. They waved flags all round me till I was nearly blind and they rang bells till I was nearly deaf and they strewed the road so thick with flowers that I lost my way. And the poor old man sighed deeply. How far is it to Outland, I asked, to change the subject? About five days march, but one must go back occasionally. You see, as court professor, I have to be always in attendance on Prince Uggug. The Empress would be very angry if I left him even for an hour. But surely every time you come here, you're absent 10 days at least. Oh, more than that, the professor exclaimed. A fortnight sometimes. But of course I keep a memorandum of the exact time when I started so that I can put the court time back to the very moment. Excuse me, I said. I don't understand. Silently the professor drew front his pocket a square gold watch with six or eight hands and held it out for my inspection. This, he began, is an Outlandish watch. So I should have thought. Which has the peculiar property that instead of its going with the time, the time goes with it. I trust you understand me now? Hardly, I said. Permit me to explain. So long as it is let alone, it takes its own course. Time has no effect upon it. I have known such watches, I remarked. It goes, of course, at the usual rate. Only the time has to go with it. Hence, if I move the hands, I change the time. To move them forwards in advance of the true time is impossible. But I can move them as much as a month backwards. That is the limit. And then you have the events all over again with any alterations the experience may suggest. What a blessing such a watch would be, I thought, in real life, to be able to unsay some heedless word, to undo some reckless deed. Might I see the thing done? With pleasure, said the good-natured professor. When I move this hand back to here, pointing out the place, history goes back 15 minutes. Trembling with excitement, I watched him push the hand round as he described. How did mine self welly much? Shrilly and suddenly the words rang in my ears, and more startled than I cared to show, I turned to look for the speaker. Yes, there was Bruno, standing with the tears running down his cheeks just as I had seen him a quarter of an hour ago, and there was Sylvie with her arms round his neck. I had not the heart to make the dear little fellow go through his troubles the second time, so hastily begged the professor to push the hands round to their former position. In a moment Sylvie and Bruno were gone again, and I could just see them in the far distance, picking dindaldums. Wonderful indeed, I exclaimed. It has another property, yet more wonderful, said the professor. You see this little peg? That is called the reversal peg. If you push it in, the events of the next hour happen in the reverse order. Do not try it now. I will lend you the watch for a few days, and you can amuse yourself with experiments. Thank you very much, I said, as he gave me the watch. I'll take the greatest care of it. Why here are the children again? We could only but find six dindaldums, said Bruno, putting them into my hands, because Sylvie said it were time to go back. And here's a big blackberry for itself. We couldn't only find but two. Thank you, it's very nice, I said. And I suppose you ate the other Bruno. No, I didn't, Bruno said carelessly. Aren't they pretty dindaldums, Mr. Sarr? Yes, very. But what makes you limp, so, my child? Mine foots come hurt it again, Bruno mournfully replied. And he sat down on the ground and began nursing it. The professor held his head between his hands, an attitude that I knew indicated distraction of mind. Better rest a minute, he said. It may be better then, or it may be worse. If only I had some of my medicines here. I'm court physician, you know, he added, aside to me. Shall I go and get you some blackberries, darling? Sylvie whispered, with her arms round his neck, and she kissed away a tear that was trickling down his cheek. Bruno brightened up in a moment. That are a good plan, he exclaimed. I think my foot would come quite unherded if I ate it a blackberry, two or three blackberries, six or seven blackberries. Sylvie got up hastily. I'd better go, she said, aside to me, before he gets into the double figures. Let me come and help you, I said. I can reach higher up than you can. Yes, please, said Sylvie, putting her hand into mine, and we walked off together. Bruno loves blackberries, she said, as we paced slowly along by a tall hedge that looked a promising place for them. And it was so sweet of him to make me eat the only one. Oh, it was you that ate it then. Bruno didn't seem to like to tell me about it. No, I saw that, said Sylvie. He's always afraid of being praised, but he made me eat it really. I would much rather he, oh, what's that? And she clung to my hand, half frightened, as we came inside of a hare, lying on its side with legs stretched out just in the entrance to the wood. It's a hare, my child, perhaps it's asleep. No, it isn't asleep, Sylvie said, timidly going nearer to look at it. Its eyes are open. Is it, is it her voice dropped to an awestruck whisper? Is it dead, do you think? Yes, it's quite dead, I said, after stooping to examine it. Poor thing, I think it's been hunted to death. I know the Harriers were out yesterday. But they haven't touched it. Perhaps they caught sight of another and left it to die of fright and exhaustion. Hunted to death, Sylvie repeated to herself very slowly and sadly. I thought hunting was a thing they played at, like a game. Bruno and I hunt snails, but we never hurt them when we catch them. Sweet angel, I thought, how am I to get the idea of sport into your innocent mind? And as we stood hand in hand, looking down at the dead hare, I tried to put the thing into such words as she could understand. You know what fierce wild beasts, lions and tigers are? Sylvie nodded. Well, in some countries men have to kill them to save their own lives, you know. Yes, said Sylvie. If one tried to kill me, Bruno would kill it if he could. Well, and so the men, the hunters, get to enjoy it, you know. The running and the fighting and the shouting and the danger. Yes, said Sylvie. Bruno likes danger. Well, but in this country, there aren't any lions and tigers loose. So they hunt other creatures, you see. I hoped, but in vain, that this would satisfy her and that she would ask no more questions. They hunt foxes, Sylvie said thoughtfully. And I think they kill them too. Foxes are very fierce. I dare say men don't love them. Are hares fierce? No, I said. A hare is a sweet, gentle, timid animal, almost as gentle as a lamb. But if men love hares, why, why? Her voice quivered and her sweet eyes were brimming over with tears. I'm afraid they don't love them, dear child. All children love them, Sylvie said. All ladies love them. I'm afraid even ladies go to hunt them sometimes. Sylvie shuddered, oh, no, not ladies. She earnestly pleaded, not Lady Muriel. No, she never does, I'm sure. But this is too sad a sight for you, dear. Let's try and find some, but Sylvie was not satisfied yet. Now hushed, solemn tone, with bowed head and clasped hands, she put her final question. Does God love hares? Yes, I said. I'm sure he does. He loves every living thing, even sinful men. How much more the animals that cannot sin? I don't know what sin means, said Sylvie, and I didn't try to explain it. Come, my child, I said, trying to lead her away. Wish goodbye to the poor hare and come and look for blackberries. Goodbye, poor hare, Sylvie obediently repeated, looking over her shoulder at it as we turned away. And then, all in a moment, her self-command gave way. Pulling her hand out of mine, she ran back to where the dead hare was lying and flung herself down at its side in such an agony of grief as I could hardly have believed possible in so young a child. Oh, my darling, my darling, she moaned over and over again. And God meant your life to be so beautiful. Sometimes, but always keeping her face hidden on the ground, she would reach out one little hand to stroke the poor dead thing, and then once more bury her face in her hands and sob as if her heart would break. I was afraid she would really make herself ill. Still, I thought it best to let her weep away the first sharp agony of grief. And after a few minutes, the sobbing gradually ceased and Sylvie rose to her feet and looked calmly at me, though tears were still streaming down her cheeks. I did not dare to speak again just yet, but simply held out my hand to her that we might quit the melancholy spot. Yes, I'll come now, she said. Very reverently, she kneeled down and kissed the dead hare. Then rose and gave me her hand, and we moved on in silence. A child's sorrow was violent, but short, and it was almost in her usual voice that she said after a minute, oh, stop, stop, here are some lovely blackberries. We filled our hands with fruit and returned in all haste to where the professor and Bruno were seated on a bank awaiting our return. Just before we came within hearing distance, Sylvie checked me. Please don't tell Bruno about the hare, she said. Very well, my child, but why not? Tears again glittered in those sweet eyes and she turned her head away so that I could scarcely hear her reply. He's very fond of gentle creatures, you know. And he'd be so sorry. I don't want him to be made sorry. And your agony of sorrow is to count for nothing then, sweet and selfish child, I thought to myself. But no more was said till we had reached our friends and Bruno was far too much engrossed in the feast we had brought him to take any notice of Sylvie's unusually graved manner. I'm afraid it's getting rather late, professor, I said. Yes, indeed, said the professor. I must take you all through the ivory door again. You've stayed your full time. Might we stay a little longer, pleaded Sylvie? Just one minute, added Bruno, but the professor was unyielding. It's a great privilege coming through at all, he said. We must go now. And we followed him obediently to the ivory door, which he threw open and signed to me to go through first. You're coming too, aren't you? I said to Sylvie. Yes, she said. But you won't see us after you've gone through. But suppose I wait for you outside, I asked, as I stepped through the doorway. In that case, said Sylvie, I think the potato would be quite justified in asking your weight. I can quite imagine a really superior kidney potato declining to argue with anyone under fifteen stone. With a great effort I recovered the thread of my thoughts. We lapsed very quickly into nonsense, I said. End of Chapter Twenty-One, Through the Ivory Door, recording by Patty Cunningham. Chapter Twenty-Two of Sylvie and Bruno. This is a Lubrovox recording. All Lubrovox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Lubrovox.org. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll. Chapter Twenty-Two, Crossing the Line. Let us lapse again, said Lady Muriel. Take another cup of tea. I hope that sound common sense. And all that strange adventure, I thought, has occupied the space of a single comma in Lady Muriel's speech. A single comma for which grammarians tell us to count one. I felt no doubt that the professor had kindly put back the time for me to the exact point at which I had gone to sleep. When a few minutes afterwards, we left the house. Martha's first remark was certainly a strange one. We'd been there just twenty minutes, he said, and I've done nothing but listen to you and Lady Muriel talking, and yet somehow I feel exactly as if I had been talking with her for an hour at least. And so he had been, I felt no doubt, only as the time had been put back to the beginning of the tete-a-tete, he referred to, the whole of it had passed into oblivion, if not into nothingness. But I valued my own reputation for sanity too highly to venture on explaining to him what had happened. For some cause which I could not at the moment divine, Martha was unusually grave and silent during our walk home. It could not be connected with Eric Linden, I thought, as he had for some days been away in London, so that, having Lady Muriel almost all to himself, for I was only too glad to hear those two conversing, to have any wish to intrude any remarks of my own, he thought theoretically, to have been specially radiant and contented with life. When he had heard any bad news, I said to myself, and almost as if he had read my thoughts, he spoke. He will be here by the last train, he said, in the tone of one who is continuing a conversation rather than beginning one. Captain Linden, do you mean? Yes, Captain Linden, said Arthur. I said he, because I fancied we were talking about him. The Earl told me he comes tonight, though tomorrow is the day when he will know about the commission that he's hoping for. I wonder he doesn't stay another day to hear the result, if he's really so anxious about it as the Earl believes he is. He can have a telegram sent after him, I said, but it's not very soldier-like running away from possible bad news. He's a good fellow, said Arthur, but I confess it would be good news for me if he got his commission and his marching orders all at once. I wish him all happiness, with one exception, good night. We had reached home by this time. I'm not good company tonight, better be alone. It was much the same next day. Arthur declared he wasn't fit for society, and I had to set forth alone for an afternoon stroll. I took the road to the station, and at the point where the road from the hall joined it, I paused, seeing my friends in the distance, seemingly bound for the same goal. Will you join us? The Earl said, after I had exchanged greetings with him, and Lady Muriel and Captain Lyndon. This restless young man is expecting a telegram, and we are going to the station to meet it. There is also a restless young woman in the case, Lady Muriel added. That goes without saying my child, said her father. Women are always restless. The generous appreciation of all one's best qualities, his daughter impressively remarked, there's nothing to compare with a father, is there, Eric? Cousins are not in it, said Eric, and then somehow the conversation lapsed into two dual logs, the younger folk taking the lead, and the two old men following with less eager steps. And when are we to see your little friends again, said the Earl? They are singularly attractive children. I shall be delighted to bring them when I can, I said, but I don't know myself when I am likely to see them again. I'm not going to question you, said the Earl, but there's no harm in mentioning that Muriel is simply tormented with curiosity. We know most of the people about here, and she has been vainly trying to guess what house they can possibly be staying at. Someday I may be able to enlighten her, but just at present. Thanks, she must bear it as best she can. I tell her it's a grand opportunity for practicing patience, but she hardly sees it from that point of view. Why, there are the children. So indeed they were waiting for us apparently at a stile, which they could not have climbed over more than a few moments, as Lady Muriel and her cousin had passed it without seeing them. On catching sight of us, Bruno ran to meet us and to exhibit to us with much pride the handle of a clasp knife, the blade having been broken off, which he had picked up in the road. And what shall you use it for, Bruno? I said. Don't know, Bruno carelessly replied. Must think. A child's view of life, the Earl remarked, with that sweet sad smile of his, is that it is a period to be spent in accumulating portable property. That view gets modified as the years glide away, and he held out his hand to Sylvie, who had placed herself by me, looking a little shy of him. But the gentle old man was not one with whom any child, human or fairy, could be shy for long, and she had very soon deserted my hand for his. Bruno alone, remaining faithful to his first friend. We overtook the other couple, just as they reached the station, and both Lady Muriel and Eric greeted the children as old friends, the latter with the words, so you got to Babylon by candlelight after all. Yes, and back again cried Bruno. Lady Muriel looked from one to the other in blank astonishment. What you know them, Eric, she exclaimed. This mystery grows deeper every day. Then we must be somewhere in the third act, said Eric. You don't expect the mystery to be cleared up till the fifth act, do you? But it's such a long drama, was the plaintiff reply. We must have got to the fifth act by this time. Third act, I assure you, said the young soldier mercilessly. Seen a railway platform, lights down, and to Prince, in disguise, of course, and faithful attendant. This is the Prince, taking Bruno's hand, and he stands his humble servant. What is your royal highness' next command? And he made a most courtier-like bow to his puzzle little friend. Oh, you're not a servant, Bruno scornfully exclaimed, or again plunge. Servant, I assure your royal highness. Eric respectfully insisted. Allow me to mention to your royal highness my various situations, past, present, and future. What did you begin with, Bruno asked, beginning to enter into the jest. Was it a shoe-black? Lower than that, your royal highness. Years ago, I offered myself as a slave, as a confidential slave. I think it's called, he asked, turning to Lady Muriel. But Lady Muriel heard him not. Something had gone wrong with her glove, which entirely engrossed her attention. Did you get the place, said Bruno? Sad to say, your royal highness, I did not. So I had to take a situation as, as waiter, which I have held for some years, haven't I? He again glanced at Lady Muriel. Sylvie dear, do help me to button this club, Lady Muriel whispered, hastily stooping down, and failing to hear the question. And what will be next, said Bruno. My next place will be, I hope, be that of Groom, and after that. Don't puzzle the child so, Lady Muriel interrupted. What nonsense you talk! After that, Eric persisted. I hope to obtain the situation of Housekeeper, which, fourth act, he proclaimed, with a sudden change of tone. Lights turned up, red lights, green lights, and rumble heard, enter a passenger train. And in another minute, the train drew up alongside of the platform, and a stream of passengers began to flow out from the booking office and waiting rooms. Did you ever make real life into a drama, said the earl. Now just try, I've often amused myself that way. Consider this platform as our stage. Good entrances and exits on both sides, you see. Capital background scene, real engine moving up and down. All this bustle and people passing to and fro must have been most carefully rehearsed. How naturally they do it. With never a glance at the audience, and every grouping is quite fresh, you see. No repetition. It really was admirable. As soon as I began to enter into it from this point of view, even a porter passing with a barrow pile with luggage seemed so realistic that one was tempted to applaud. He was followed by an angry mother with hot red face, dragging along two screaming children and calling to someone behind, John, come on. Enter John, very neat, very silent and loaded with parcels. And he was followed in his turn by a frightened little nursemaid carrying a fat baby, also screaming. All the children screamed. Capital biplane, said the old man aside, did you notice the nursemaid's look of terror? It was simply perfect. You have struck quite a new vein, I said, to most of us life and its pleasures seem like a mine that is nearly worked out. Worked out exclaimed the earl for anyone with true dramatic instincts. It is only the overture that is ended. The real treat has yet to begin. You go to a theatre and pay your 10 shillings for a stall. And what do you get for your money? Perhaps it's a dialogue between a couple of farmers, unnatural in their overdone caricature of farmers' dress, more unnatural in their constrained attitudes and gestures, most unnatural in their attempts at ease and geniality in their talk. Go instead and take a seat in a third class railway carriage and you'll get the same dialogue done to the life. Front seats, no orchestra to block the view and nothing to pay. Which reminds me, said Eric, there is nothing to pay on receiving a telegram. Shall we inquire for one? And he and Lady Muriel strolled off in the direction of the telegraph office. I wonder if Shakespeare had that thought in his mind, I said, when he wrote all the worlds a stage. The old man sighed, and so it is, he said, look at it as you will. Life is indeed a drama, a drama but a few on course, and no bouquets, he added dreamily. We spent one half of it in regretting the things we did in the other half. And the secret of enjoying it, he continued, resuming his cheerful cone is intensity. But not in the modern aesthetic sense, I presume, like the young lady in punch who begins a conversation with, are you intense? By no means, replied the earl. What I mean is intensity of thought and concentrated attention. We lose half the pleasure we might have in life by not really attending. Take any instance you like, it doesn't matter how trivial the pleasure may be. The principle is the same. Suppose A and B are reading the same second rate circulating library novel. And never troubles himself to master the relationships of the characters, on which perhaps all the interest of the story depends. He skips over all the descriptions of scenery and every passage that looks rather dull. He doesn't half attend to the passages he does read. He goes on reading merely from want of resolution to find another occupation. For hours after he ought to have put the book aside and reaches the finet in a state of utter weariness and depression, B puts his whole soul into the thing, on the principle that whatever is worth doing is worth doing well. He masters the genealogies. He calls up pictures before his mind's eye, as he reads about the scenery. Best of all, he resolutely shuts the book at the end of some chapter, while his interest is yet at its keenest, and turns to other subjects, so that, when next he allows himself an hour at it, it is like a hungry man sitting down to dinner. And when the book is finished, he returns to the work of his daily life like a giant refreshed. But suppose the book were really rubbish, nothing to repay attention. Well, suppose it, said the earl. My theory meets that case. I assure you, and never finds out, that it is rubbish. But mourners on to the end, trying to believe he's enjoying himself. B quietly shuts the book, when he's read a dozen pages, walks off to the library, and changes it for a better. I have yet another theory for adding to the enjoyment of life. That is, if I have not exhausted your patience, I'm afraid you find me a very guerrillas old man. No, indeed, I exclaimed earnestly, and, indeed, I felt as if one could not easily tire of the sweet sadness of that gentle voice. It is that we should learn to take our pleasures quickly and our pain slowly. But why? I should have put it the other way myself. By taking artificial pain, which can be as trivial as you please. Slowly, the result is that, when real pain comes, however severe, all you need to do is to let it go at its ordinary pace, and it's over in a moment. Very true, I said, but how about the pleasure? Why? By taking a quick, you can get so much more into life. It takes you three hours and a half to hear and enjoy an opera. Suppose I can take it in and enjoy it in half an hour. Why? I can enjoy seven operas while you are listening to one. Always supposing you have an orchestra capable of playing them, I said, and that orchestra has yet to be found. The old man smiled. I have heard an ear played, he said, and by no means a short one, played right through, variations and all, in three seconds. When and how, I asked eagerly, with a half notion that I was dreaming again. It was done by a little musical box, he quietly replied. After it had been wound up, the regulator or something broke and it ran down, as I said, in about three seconds. But it must have played all the notes, you know. Did you enjoy it? I asked, with all the severity of the cross examining barrister. No, I didn't, he candidly confessed. But then, you know, I hadn't been trained to that kind of music. I should much like to try your plan, I said, and as Sylvie and Bruno happened to run up to us at the moment, I let them to keep the ear company and strolled along the platform, making each person an event, play its part in an extempore drama for my special benefit. What is the ear tired of you already? I said, as the children ran past me. No, Sylvie replied with great emphasis. He wants the evening paper, so Bruno's going to be a little news boy. Mind you charge a good price for it, I called after them. Returning up the platform, I came upon Sylvie alone. Well, child, I said, where's your little news boy? Couldn't he get you an evening paper? He went to get one at the bookstore at the other side, said Sylvie, and he's coming across the line with it. Oh, Bruno, you ought to cross by the bridge. For the distant thud thud of the express was already audible. Suddenly a look of horror came over her face. Oh, he's fallen down on the rails, she cried, and darted past me at a speed that quite defied the hasty effort I made to stop her. But the weasy old station master happened to be close behind me. He wasn't good for much, poor old man. But he was good for this, and before I could turn round, he had the child clasped in his arms, saved from the certain death she was rushing to. So intent was I in watching this scene that I hardly saw a flying figure in a light grey suit who shot across from the back of the platform and was on the line in another second. So far as one could take note of time in such a moment of horror, he had about ten clear seconds before the express would be upon him, in which to cross the rails and to pick up Bruno. Whether he did so or not, it was quite impossible to guess. The next thing one knew was that the express had passed, and that whether for life or death, all was over. When the cloud of dust had cleared away and the line was once more visible, we saw with thankful hearts that the child and his deliverer were safe. All right, Eric called to us cheerfully, as he recrossed the line, he's more frightened than hurt. He lifted the little fellow up into Lady Muriel's arms and mounted the platform as gaily as if nothing had happened, but he was as pale as death and leaned heavily on the arm I hastily offered him, fearing he was about to faint. I'll just sit down a moment, he said dreamily, where's Sylvie? Sylvie ran to him and flung her arms round his neck, sobbing as if her heart would break. Don't do that, my darling, Eric murmured, with a strange look in his eyes. Nothing to cry about now, you know. But you very nearly got yourself killed for nothing. For Bruno, the little maiden sobbed, and he would have done it for me, wouldn't you, Bruno? Course I would, Bruno said, looking round with a bewildered air. Lady Muriel kissed him in silence as she put him down out of her arms. Then she beckoned Sylvie to come and take his hand and signed to the children to go back to where the earl was seated. Tell him, she whispered, with quivering lips. Tell him all is well. Then she turned to the hero of the day. I thought it was death, she said. Thank God you are safe. Did you see how near it was? I thought there was just time, Eric said lightly. A soldier must learn to carry his life in his hand, you know. I'm all right now. Shall we go to the telegraph office again? I dare say it's come by this time. I went to join the earl and the children, and we waited, almost in silence, for no one seemed inclined to talk, and Bruno was half asleep on Sylvie's lap till the others joined us. No telegram had come. I'll take a stroll with the children, I said, feeling that we were a little detrop, and I'll look in in the course of the evening. We must go back into the wood now, Sylvie said, as soon as we were out of hearing. We can't stay this size any longer. Then you will be quite tiny fairies again, next time we meet. Yes, said Sylvie, but we'll be children again some day, if you'll let us. Bruno's very anxious to see Lady Muriel again. She are well in ice, said Bruno. I shall be very glad to take you to see her again, I said. Hadn't I better give you back the professor's watch? It'll be too large for you to carry when you're fairies, you know. Bruno laughed merrily. I was glad to see he had quite recovered from the terrible scene he had gone through. Oh, no, it won't, he said. When we go small, it'll go small. And then it'll go straight to the professor, Sylvie added, and you won't be able to use it any more, so you'd better use it all you can now. We must go small when the sun sets, goodbye. Goodbye, cried Bruno, but their voices sounded very far away, and when I looked round, both children had disappeared. And at once only two hours to sunset, I said, as I strolled on, I must make the best of my time. End of Chapter 22, Crossing the Line. Chapter 23 of Sylvie and Bruno. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Matt Wills. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll. Chapter 23, An Outlandish Watch. As I entered the little town, I came upon two of the fisherman's wives interchanging that last word, which never was the last, and it occurred to me as an experiment with the magic watch, to wait till the little scene was over, and then to encore it. Well, good night to you, and you won't ever get to send us word when your mother writes. Nay, I won't ever get. And if she isn't suited, she can put come back. Good night to you. A casual observer might have thought, and there ends the dialogue. That casual observer would have been mistaken. Ah, she'll like them, I warn you. They'll not treat her bad, you may depend. They're very cunning folk. Good night. Aye, they are that. Good night. Good night. And you'll send us word if she writes. Aye, I will, you may depend. Good night to you. And at last they parted. I waited till they were some twenty yards apart and then put the watch a minute back. The instantaneous change was startling. The two figures seemed to flash back into their former places. He isn't suited, she can put come back. Good night to you. One of them was saying, and so the whole dialogue was repeated, and when they had parted for the second time I let them go there several ways and strolled on through the town. But the real usefulness of this magic power, I thought, would be to undo some harm, some painful event, some accident. I had not longed to wait for an opportunity of testing this property also of the magic watch. For even as the thought passed through my mind, the accident I was imagining occurred. A light cart was standing at the door of the great millinery depot of Elveston, laden with cardboard packing cases which the driver was carrying into the shop, one by one. One of the cases had fallen into the street but it scarcely seemed worthwhile to step forward and pick it up as the man would be back again in a moment. Yet in that moment a young man riding a bicycle came sharp round the corner of the street and in trying to avoid running over the box upset his machine and was thrown headlong against the wheel of the spring cart. The driver ran out to his assistants and he and I together raised the unfortunate cyclist and carried him into the shop. His head was cut and bleeding and one knee seemed to be badly injured. It was speedily settled but he had better be conveyed at once to the only surgery in the place. I helped them in emptying the cart and placing in it some pillows for the wounded man to rest on. And it was only when the driver had mounted to his place and was starting for the surgery that I be thought me of the strange power I possessed of undoing all this harm. Now is my time, I said to myself as I moved back the hand of the watch and saw almost without surprise this time all things restored to the places they had occupied at the critical moment when I first noticed the falling packing case. Instantly I stepped out into the street, picked up the box and replaced it in the cart. In the next moment the bicycle had spun around the corner, passed the cart without let or hindrance and soon vanished in the distance in a cloud of dust. Did lightful power of magic I thought. How much of human suffering I have not only relieved but actually annihilated and in a glow of conscious virtue I stood watching the unloading of the cart still holding the magic watch open in my hand as I was curious to see what would happen when we again reached the exact time at which I had put back the hand. The result was one that if only I had considered the thing carefully I might have foreseen. As the hand of the watch touched the mark the spring cart which had driven off and was by this time halfway down the street was back again at the door and in the act of starting while a woe for the golden dream of worldwide benevolence that had dazzled my dreaming fancy. The wounded youth was once more reclining on the heap of pillows his pale face set rigidly in the hard lines that told the pain resolutely endured. Oh mocking magic watch I said to myself as I passed out of the little town and took the seaward road that led to my lodgings. The good I fancied I could do is vanished like a dream. The evil of this troublesome world is the only abiding reality. And now I must record an experience so strange that I think it only fair before beginning to relate it to release my much enduring reader from any obligation he may feel to believe this part of my story. I would not have believed it I freely confess if I had not seen it with my own eyes. Then why should I expect it of my reader who quite possibly has never seen anything of the sort. I was passing a pretty little villa which stood rather back from the road in its own grounds with bright flower beds in front, creepers wandering over the walls and hanging in festoons about the bow windows. An easy chair forgotten on the lawn with a newspaper lying near it, a small pug dog kushant before it, resolved to guard the treasure even at the sacrifice of life and a front door standing invitingly half open. Here is my chance I thought for testing the reverse action of the magic watch. I pressed the reversal peg and walked in. In another house the entrance of a stranger might cause surprise, perhaps anger even going so far as to expel this said stranger with violence. But here I knew nothing of the sort could happen. The ordinary course of events, first to think nothing about me, then hearing my footsteps to look up and see me and then to wonder what business I had there would be reversed by the action of my watch. They would first wonder who I was, then see me, then look down and think no more about me. And as to being expelled with violence that event would necessarily come first in this case. So if I can once get in I said to myself, all risk of expulsion will be over. The pug dog sat up as a precautionary measure as I passed. But as I took no notice of the treasure he was guarding he let me go without even one remonstrant bark. He that takes my life he seemed to be saying weasely to himself takes trash. But he that takes the daily telegraph. But this awful contingency I did not face. The party in the drawing room I had walked straight in you understand without ringing the bell or giving any notice of my approach consisted of four laughing rosy children of ages from about 14 down to 10 who were apparently all coming towards the door. I found they were really walking backwards. While their mother seated by the fire with some needlework on her lap was saying just as I entered the room, now girls you may get your things on for a walk. To my utter astonishment for I was not yet accustomed to the action of the watch all smiles ceased as Browning says on the four pretty faces and they all got out pieces of needlework and sat down. No one noticed me in the least as I quietly took a chair and sat down to watch them. When the needlework had been unfolded and they were all ready to begin, their mother said, Come, that's done at last. You may fold up your work, girls. But the children took no notice whatever of the remark. On the contrary, they set to work at once sewing, if that is the proper word to describe an operation such as I had never before witnessed. Each of them threaded her needle with a short end of thread attached to the work, which was instantly pulled by an invisible force through the stuff, dragging the needle after it. The nimble fingers of the little semsters caught it at the other side, but only to lose it again the next moment. And so the work went on steadily undoing itself and the neatly stitched little dresses, or whatever they were, steadily falling to pieces. Now and then one of the children would pause as the recovered thread became inconveniently long, wind it on a bobbin, and start again with another short end. At last all the work was picked to pieces and put away, and the lady led the way into the next room, walking backwards, and making the insane remark, Not yet, dear, we must get the sewing done first, after which I was not surprised to see the children skipping backwards after her, exclaiming, Oh, mother, it is such a lovely day for a walk. In the dining-room the table had only dirty plates and empty dishes on it. However, the party with the addition of a gentleman as good-natured and as rosy as the children, seated themselves at it very contentedly. You have seen people eating cherry tart, and every now and then cautiously conveying a cherry stone from their lips to their plates. Well, something like that went on all through this ghastly, or shall we say ghostly, banquet. An empty fork is raised to the lips. There it receives a neatly cut piece of mutton and swiftly conveys it to the plate, where it instantly attaches itself to the mutton already there. Soon one of the plates, furnished with a complete slice of mutton and two potatoes, was handed up to the presiding gentleman, who quietly replaced the slice on the joint and the potatoes in the dish. Their conversation was, if possible, more bewildering than their mode of dining. It began by the youngest girl suddenly and without provocation addressing her eldest sister, Oh, you wicked storyteller, she said. I expected a sharp reply from the sister, but instead of this she turned laughingly to her father and said in a very loud stage whisper, To be a bride. The father, in order to do his part in a conversation that seemed only fit for lunatics, replied, Whisper it to me, dear. But she didn't whisper. These children never did anything they were told. She said quite loud, of course not. Everybody knows what Dolly wants. And little Dolly shrugged her shoulders and said with a pretty pettishness, Now, father, you're not to tease. You know I don't want to be bridesmaid to anybody. And Dolly's to be the fourth was her father's idiotic reply. Here, number three, put in her oar. Oh, it is settled, mother dear, really and truly. Mary told us all about it. It's to be next Tuesday, four weeks, and three of her cousins are coming to be bridesmaids. And she doesn't forget it, Minnie, the mother laughingly replied. I do wish they'd get it settled. I don't like long engagements. And Minnie wound up the conversation if so chaotic a series of remarks that deserves the name with, only think we passed the cedars this morning just exactly as Mary Devonant was standing at the gate wishing good-bye to Mr., I forget his name. Of course, we looked the other way. By this time I was so hopelessly confused that I gave up listening and followed the dinner down into the kitchen. But to you, oh, hypercritical reader, resolute to believe no item of this weird adventure, what need to tell how the mutton was placed on the spit and slowly unroasted how the potatoes were wrapped in their skins and handed over to the gardener to be buried, how when the mutton had at length attained to rawness, the fire, which had gradually changed from red heat to a mere blaze, died down so suddenly that the cook had only just time to catch its last flicker on the end of a match, or how the maid, having taken the mutton off the spit, carried it backwards, of course, out of the house to meet the butcher who was coming also backwards down the road. The longer I thought over this strange adventure, the more hopelessly tangled the mystery became, and it was a real relief to meet Arthur in the road and get him to go with me up to the hall to learn what news the telegraph had brought. I told him as we went what had happened at the station, but as to my further adventures, I thought it best for the present to say nothing. The Earl was sitting alone when we entered. I am glad you are coming to keep me company, he said. Muriel has gone to bed. The excitement of that terrible scene was too much for her, and Eric has gone to the hotel to pack his things to start for London by the early train. Then the telegram has come, I said. Did you not hear? Oh, I had forgotten. It came in after you left the station. Yes, it's all right. Eric has got his commission, and now that he has arranged matters with Muriel, he has business in town that must be seen to it once. What arrangement do you mean? I asked with a sinking heart as the thought of Arthur's crushed hopes came to my mind. Do you mean that they are engaged? They have been engaged, in a sense, for two years, the old man gently replied. That is, he has had my promise to consent to it so soon as he could secure a permanent and settled line in life. I could never be happy with my child married to a man without an object to live for, without even an object to die for. I hope they will be happy, a strange voice said. The speaker was evidently in the room, but I had not heard the door open and I looked round in some astonishment. The Earl seemed to share my surprise. Who spoke, he exclaimed. It was I, said Arthur, looking at us with a worn, haggard face and eyes from which the light of life seemed suddenly to have faded, and let me wish you joy also, dear friend, he added, looking sadly at the Earl, and speaking in the same hollow tones that had startled us so much. Thank you, the old man said, simply and heartily. A silence followed. Then I rose, feeling sure that Arthur would wish to be alone and bade our gentle host good night. Arthur took his hand but said nothing, nor did he speak again as we went home till we were in the house and had lit our bedroom candles. Then he said more to himself than to me, the heart knoweth its own bitterness. I never understood those words till now. The next few days passed wearily enough. I felt no inclination to call by myself at the hall, still less to propose that Arthur should go with me. It seemed better to wait till time that gentle healer of our bitterest sorrows should have helped him to recover from the first shock of the disappointment that had lighted his life. Business, however, soon demanded my presence in town, and I had to announce to Arthur that I must leave him for a while. But I hoped to run down again in a month, I added. I would stay now if I could. I don't think it's good for you to be alone. No, I can't face solitude here for long, said Arthur. But don't think about me. I have made up my mind to accept a post in India that has been offered me. Out there I suppose I shall find something to live for. I can't see anything at present. This life of mine I guard as God's high gift from scath and wrong, not greatly care to lose. Yes, I said. Your namesake bore as heavy a blow and lived through it. A far heavier one than mine, said Arthur. The woman he loved proved false, and there is no such cloud as that on my memory of. He left the name unuttered and went unhurriedly. But you will return, will you not? Yes, I shall come back after a short time. Do, said Arthur, and you shall write and tell me of our friends. I'll send you my address when I'm settled down. End of Chapter 23 An Outlandish Watch Recording by Matt Wills, Richford, Vermont Chapter 24 Of Sylvie and Bruno This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Patty Cunningham. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 24 The Frog's Birthday Treat And so it came to pass that just a week after the day when my fairy friends first appeared as children, I found myself taking a farewell stroll through the wood in the hope of meeting them once more. I had but to stretch myself on the smooth turf, and the eerie feeling was on me in a moment. Put or ear welly low down, said Bruno, and I'll tell you a secret. It's the frog's birthday treat, and we've lost the baby. What baby, I said, quite bewildered by this complicated piece of news. The queen's baby, of course, said Bruno. Titania's baby, and we's welly sawy. Sylvie, she's oh so sorry. How sorry is she, I asked mischievously. Three-quarters of a yard, Bruno replied, with perfect solemnity, and I'm a little sorry too, he added, shutting his eyes so as not to see that he was smiling. And what are you doing about the baby? Well, the soldiers are all looking for it up and down everywhere. The soldiers, I exclaimed. Yes, of course, said Bruno. When there's no fighting to be done, the soldiers do any little odd jobs, uno. I was amused at the idea of it being a little odd job to find the royal baby. But how did you come to lose it, I asked. We put it in a flower. Sylvie, who had just joined us, explained with her eyes full of tears. Only we can't remember which. She says us put it in a flower, Bruno interrupted, because she doesn't want I to get punished. But it were really me what put it there. Sylvie, we're picking dindaldums. You shouldn't say us put it in a flower, Sylvie very gravely remarked. Well, huss then, said Bruno. I never can remember those horrid h's. Let me help you to look for it, I said. Still Sylvie and I made a voyage of discovery among all the flowers, but there was no baby to be seen. What's become of Bruno, I said, when we had completed our tour? He's down in the ditch there, said Sylvie, amusing a young frog. I went down on my hands and knees to look for him, for I felt very curious to know how young frogs ought to be amused. After a minute's search I found him sitting at the edge of the ditch by the side of the little frog, and looking rather disconsolate. How are you getting on, Bruno, I said, nodding to him as he looked up. Can't amuse it no more, Bruno answered very dolefully, because it won't say what it would like to do next. I've showed it all the duckweeds and a live cat-a-swarm, but it won't say nothing. What would oo like? He shouted into the ear of the frog. But the little creature sat quite still and took no notice of him. It's deaf, I think, Bruno said, turning away with a sigh. And it's time to get the theatre ready. Who are the audience to be? Only but frogs, said Bruno, but they haven't come yet. They want to be drove up like sheep. Would it save time, I suggested, if I were to walk round with Sylvie to drive up the frogs while you get the theatre ready? That are a good plan, cried Bruno, but where are Sylvie? I'm here, said Sylvie, peeping over the edge of the bank. I was just watching two frogs that were having a race. Which one it? Bruno eagerly inquired. Sylvie was puzzled. He does ask such hard questions, she invited to me. And what's to happen in the theatre, I asked. First they have their birthday feast, Sylvie said. Then Bruno does some bits of Shakespeare. Then he tells them a story. I should think the frogs like the feast best, don't they? Well, there's generally very few of them that get any. They will keep their mouths shut so tight. And it's just as well they do, she added, because Bruno likes to cook it himself, and he cooks very clearly. Now they're all in. Would you just help me to put them with their heads the right way? We soon managed this part of the business, though the frogs kept up the most discontented croaking all the time. What are they saying, I asked Sylvie. They're saying, fork, fork. It's very silly of them. You're not going to have forks, she announced with some severity. Those that want any feast have just got to open their mouths, and Bruno put some of it in. At this moment Bruno appeared, wearing a little white apron to show that he was a cook, and carrying a terrine full of very queer looking soup. I watched very carefully as he moved about among the frogs, but I could not see that any of them opened their mouths to be fed. Except one very young one, and I'm nearly sure it did it accidentally in yawning. However Bruno instantly put a large spoonful of soup into its mouth, and the poor little thing copped violently for some time. So Sylvie and I had to share the soup between us, and to pretend to enjoy it, for it certainly was very clearly cooked. I only ventured to take one spoonful of it. Sylvie's summer soup, Bruno had said it was, and must candidly confess that it was not at all nice, and I could not feel surprised that so many of the guests had kept their mouths shut up tight. What's the soup made of, Bruno? Said Sylvie, who had put a spoonful of it to her lips, and was making a rye face over it, and Bruno's answer was anything but encouraging. Bits of things. The entertainment was to conclude with bits of Shakespeare, as Sylvie expressed it, which were all to be done by Bruno, Sylvie being fully engaged in making the frogs keep their heads towards the stage. After which Bruno was to appear in his real character and tell them a story of his own invention. Will the story have a moral to it? I asked Sylvie, while Bruno was away behind the hedge, dressing for the first bit. I think so, Sylvie replied doubtfully. There generally is a moral, only he puts it in too soon. And will he say all the bits of Shakespeare? No, he'll only act them, said Sylvie. He knows hardly any of the words. When I see what he's dressed like, I have to tell the frogs what character it is. They're always in such a hurry to guess. Don't you hear them all saying, what, what? And so indeed they were. It had only sounded like croaking till Sylvie explained it, but I could now make out the what, what quite distinctly. But why do they try to guess before they see it? I don't know, Sylvie said, but they always do. Sometimes they begin guessing weeks and weeks before the day. So now, when you hear the frogs croaking in a particularly melancholy way, you may be sure they're trying to guess Bruno's next Shakespeare bit. Isn't that interesting? However, the chorus of guessing was cut short by Bruno, who suddenly rushed on from behind the scenes and took a flying leap down among the frogs to rearrange them. For the oldest and fattest frog, who had never been properly arranged so that he could see the stage, and so had no idea what was going on, was getting restless and had upset several of the frogs and turned others round with their heads the wrong way. And it was no good at all, Bruno said, to do a bit of Shakespeare when there was nobody to look at it. You see, he didn't count me as anybody. So he sat to work with a stick, stirring them up very much as you would stir up tea in a cup, till most of them had at least one great stupid eye gazing at the stage. Oom has come and sit among them, Sylvie, he said in despair. I've put these two side by side with their noses the same way ever so many times, but they do squarrel so. So Sylvie took her place as mistress of the ceremonies, and Bruno vanished again behind the scenes to dress for the first bit. Hamlet was suddenly proclaimed in the clear sweet tones I knew so well. The croaking all ceased in a moment, and I turned to the stage in some curiosity to see what Bruno's ideas were as to the behavior of Shakespeare's greatest character. According to this imminent interpreter of the drama, Hamlet wore a short black cloak, which he chiefly used for muffling up his face as if he suffered a good deal from toothache, and turned out his toes very much as he walked. To be or not to be, Hamlet remarked in a cheerful tone, and then turned head over heels several times, his cloak dropping off in the performance. I felt a little disappointed. Bruno's conception of the part seems so wanting indignity. Won't he say any more of the speech? I whispered to Sylvie. I think not, Sylvie whispered in reply. He generally turns head over heels when he doesn't know any more words. Bruno had meanwhile settled the question by disappearing from the stage, and the frogs instantly began inquiring the name of the next character. You'll know directly, cried Sylvie, as she adjusted two or three young frogs that had struggled round with her backs to the stage. Macbeth, she added, as Bruno reappeared. Macbeth had something twisted round to him that went over one shoulder and under the other arm, and was meant, I believe, for a scotch plaid. He had a thorn in his hand which he held out at arm's length as if he were a little afraid of it. Is this a dagger, Macbeth inquired in a puzzled sort of tone, and instantly a chorus of thorn, thorn arose from the frogs. I had quite learned to understand their croaking by this time. It's a dagger, Sylvie proclaimed in a preemptory tone. Hold your tongues, and the croaking ceased at once. Shakespeare has not told us so far as I know that Macbeth had any such eccentric habit as turning head over heels in private life. But Bruno evidently considered it quite an essential part of the character and left the stage in a series of somersaults. However, he was back again in a few moments having tucked under his chin the end of a tuft of wool, probably left on the thorn by a wandering sheep, which made a magnificent beard that reached nearly down to his feet. Shylock Sylvie proclaimed, no, I beg your pardon, she hastily corrected herself. King Lear! I hadn't noticed the crown. Bruno had very cleverly provided one which fitted him exactly by cutting out the center of a dandelion to make room for his head. King Lear folded his arms to the imminent peril of his beard and said in a mild explanatory tone, I, every inch a king, and then paused as if to consider how this could best be proved. And here with all possible deference to Bruno as a Shakespearean critic, I must express my opinion that the poet did not mean his three great tragic heroes to be so strangely alike in their personal habits. Nor do I believe that he would have accepted the faculty of turning head over heels as any proof at all of royal descent. Yet it appeared that King Lear, after deep meditation, could think of no other argument by which to prove his kingship. And as this was the last of the bits of Shakespeare, we never do more than three Sylvie explained in a whisper. Bruno gave the audience quite a long series of somersaults before he finally retired, leaving the enraptured frogs all crying out, more and more, which I suppose was their way of on-coring a performance. But Bruno wouldn't appear again till the proper time came for telling the story. When he appeared at last in his real character, I noticed a remarkable change in his behavior. He tried no more somersaults. It was clearly his opinion that, however suitable the habit of turning head over heels might be to such petty individuals as Hamlet and King Lear, it would never do for Bruno to sacrifice his dignity to such an extent. But it was equally clear that he did not feel entirely at his ease, standing all alone on the stage with no costume to disguise him. And though he began several times, there were a mouse. He kept glancing up and down and on all sides as if in search of more comfortable quarters from which to tell the story. Standing on one side of the stage and partly overshadowing it was a tall foxglove, which seemed as the evening breeze gently swayed at hither and thither to offer exactly the sort of accommodation that the orator desired. Having once decided on his quarters, it needed only a second or two for him to run up the stem like a tiny squirrel and to seat himself astride on the topmost bend where the fairy bells clustered most closely. And from once he could look down on his audience from such a height that all shyness vanished and he began his story merrily. Once there were a mouse and a crocodile and a man and a goat and a lion. I had never heard the dramatist person I tumbled into a story with such profusion and in such reckless haste and it fairly took my breath away. Even Sylvie gave a little gas and allowed three of the frogs who seemed to be getting tired of the entertainment to hop away into the ditch without attempting to stop them. And the mouse found a shoe and it thought it were a mouse trap. So it got right in and it stayed in ever so long. Why did it stay in? said Sylvie. Her function seemed to be much the same as that of the chorus in a Greek play. She had to encourage the orator and draw him out by a series of intelligent questions. Cause it thought it couldn't get out again, Bruno explained. It were a clever mouse. It knew it couldn't get out of traps. But why did it go in at all? said Sylvie. And it jammed and it jammed. Bruno proceeded ignoring this question and at last it got right out again and it looked at the mark in the shoe and the man's name were in it. So it knew it wasn't its own shoe. Had it thought it was, said Sylvie. Why didn't I tell you it thought it were a mouse trap? The indignant orator replied. Please, Mr. Sir, will who make Sylvie attend? Sylvie was silenced and was all attention. In fact, she and I were most of the audience now as the frogs kept hopping away and there were very few of them left. So the mouse gave the man his shoe and the man were welly glad cause he hadn't got but one shoe and he were hopping to get the other. Here I ventured on a question. Do you mean hopping or hoping? Both said Bruno and the man took the goat out of the sack. We haven't heard of the sack before, I said. Nor you won't hear of it again, said Bruno. And he said to the goat, ooh, we'll walk about here till I comes back. And he went and he tumbled into a deep hole and the goat walked round and round and it walked under the tree and it wugged its tail and it looked up in the tree and it sang a sad little song. Ooh, never heard such a sad little song. Can you sing it, Bruno? I asked. Yes, I can, Bruno readily replied. And I sent. It would make Sylvie cry. It wouldn't, Sylvie interrupted in great indignation. And I don't believe the goat sang it at all. It did, though, said Bruno. It singed it right foo. I sawed it singing with its long beard. It couldn't sing with its beard, I said, hoping to puzzle the little fellow. A beard isn't a voice. Well then, ooh, couldn't walk with Sylvie. Bruno cried triumphantly. Sylvie isn't a foot. I thought I had better follow Sylvie's example and be silent for a while. Bruno was too sharp for us. And when it had singed all the song, it ran away for to get along to look for the man, ooh, no. And the crocodile got along after it for to bite it, ooh, no. And the mouse got along after the crocodile. Wasn't the crocodile running, Sylvie inquired. She appealed to me. Crocodiles do run, don't they? I suggested crawling as the proper word. He wasn't running, said Bruno, and he wasn't crawling. He went struggling along like a portmanteau. And he held his chin ever so high in the air. What did he do that for, said Sylvie? Cause he hadn't got a two-fake, said Bruno. Can't you make out nothing without ice-blane it? Why, if he'd had a two-fake, of course he would have held his head down, like this, and he'd have put a lot of warm blankets around it. If he'd had any blankets, Sylvie argued. Of course he had blankets, retorted her brother. Do's ooh think crocodiles go's walks without blankets? And he frowned with his eyebrows and the goat was welly-flightened at his eyebrows. I'd never be afraid of eyebrows, exclaimed Sylvie. I should think ooh would, though, if they'd got a crocodile fastened to them like these had. And so the man jumped and he jumped and at last he got right out of the hole. Sylvie gave another little gasp. This rapid dodging about among the characters of the story had taken away her breath. And he run away for to look for the goat, oh no, and he heard the lion grunting. Lions don't grunt, said Sylvie. This one did, said Bruno, and its mouth were like a large cupboard and it had plenty of room in its mouth and the lion ran after the man for to eat him, oh no, and the mouse run after the lion. But the mouse was running after the crocodile, I said. He couldn't run after both. Bruno sighed over the density of his audience but explained very patiently. He did run after both because they went the same way. At first he caught the crocodile and then he didn't catch the lion and when he'd caught the crocodile, what do zoo think he did? Because he'd got pincers in his pocket. I can't guess, said Sylvie. Nobody couldn't guess Bruno cried in high glee why he wrenched out that crocodile's tooth. Which tooth I ventured to ask? But Bruno was not to be puzzled. The tooth he were going to bite the goat with, of course. He couldn't be sure about that, I argued, unless he wrenched out all its teeth. Bruno laughed merrily and half sang as he swung himself backwards and forwards. He did, wrenched out all its teeth. Why did the crocodile wait to have them wrenched out, said Sylvie? It had to wait, said Bruno. I ventured on another question. But what became of the man who said, you may wait here till I come back? He didn't say, ooh-may, Bruno explained. He said, ooh-will. Just like Sylvie says to me, ooh-will do or lessens till 12 o'clock. Oh, I wish, he added with a little sigh. I wish Sylvie would say, ooh-may do or lessens. This was a dangerous subject for discussion, Sylvie seemed to think. She returned to the story. But what became of the man? Well, the lion springed at him, but it came so slow, it were three weeks in the air. Did the man wait for it all that time, I said? Of course he didn't, Bruno replied, gliding head-first down the stem of the foxglove, for the story was evidently close to its end. He sold his house and he packed up his things while the lion were coming, and he went and he lived in another town, so the lion ate the wrong man. This was evidently the moral, so Sylvie made her final proclamation to the frogs. The story's finished, and whatever is to be learned from it, she added aside to me, I'm sure I don't know. I did not feel quite clear about it myself, so made no suggestion. But the frogs seemed quite content, moral or no moral, and merely raised a husky chorus of off, off, as they hopped away. End of Chapter 24. The Frog's Birthday Treat. Recording by Patti Cunningham. Chapter 25 of Sylvie and Bruno. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll. Chapter 25. Looking Eastwood. It's just a week, I said, three days later to Arthur, since we heard of Lady Muriel's engagement. I think I ought to call at any rate and offer my congratulations. Won't you come with me? A pained expression passed over his face. When must you leave us? He asked, by the first train on Monday. Well, yes, I will come with you. It would seem strange and unfriendly if I didn't, but this is only Friday. Give me till Sunday afternoon. I shall be strong within. Shading his eyes with one hand, as if half ashamed of the tears that were coursing down his cheeks, he held the other out to me. Ed trembled as I clasped it. I tried to frame some words of sympathy, but they seemed poor and cold, and I left them unspoken. Good night was all I said. Good night, dear friend, he replied. There was a manly vigor in his tone that convinced me he was wrestling with and triumphing over the great sorrow that had so nearly wrecked his life. And that, on the stepping stone of his dead self, he would surely rise to higher things. There was no chance, I was glad to think, as we set out on Sunday afternoon of meeting Eric at the hall, as he had returned to town the day after his engagement was announced. His presence might have disturbed the calm, the almost unnatural calm with which Arthur met the woman who had won his heart, and murmured the few graceful words of sympathy that the occasion demanded. Lady Muriel was perfectly radiant with happiness. Sadness could not live in the light of such a smile, and even Arthur brightened under it. And when she remarked, you see I'm watering my flowers, though it is the sabbath day, his voice had almost a sole ring of cheerfulness as he replied. Even on the sabbath day works of mercy are allowed, but this isn't the sabbath day. The sabbath day has ceased to exist. I know it's not Saturday, Lady Muriel replied, but isn't Sunday often called the Christian sabbath? It is so called, I think, in recognition of the spirit of the Jewish institution, that one day in seven should be a day of rest, but I hold that Christians are freed from the literal observance of the fourth commandment. Then where is our authority for Sunday observance? We have, first, the fact that the seventh day was sanctified when God rested from the work of creation, that is binding on us as theists. Secondly, we have the fact that the Lord's day is a Christian institution that is binding on us as Christians, and your practical rules would be, first, as theists, to keep it holy in some special way, and to make it so far as is reasonably possible, a day of rest. Secondly, as Christians to attend public worship. And what of amusements? I would say of them, as of all kinds of work, whatever is innocent on a weak day is innocent on Sunday, provided it does not interfere with the duties of the day. Then you would allow children to play on Sunday. Certainly I should. Why make the day irksome to their restless natures? I have a letter somewhere, said Lady Muriel, from an old friend, describing the way in which Sunday was kept in her younger days. I will fetch it for you. I had a similar description, the of those years ago, Arthur said, when she had left us, from a little girl. It was really touching to hear the melancholy tone in which she said, on Sunday I mustn't play with my doll. On Sunday I mustn't run on the sands. On Sunday I mustn't dig in the garden. Poor child, she had indeed abundant cause for hating Sunday. Here is the letter, said Lady Muriel, returning. Let me read you a piece of it. When, as a child, I first opened my eyes on a Sunday morning, a feeling of dismal anticipation, which begun, at least, on the Friday, culminated. I knew what was before me, and my wish, if not my word, was, would God at were evening. It was no day of rest, but a day of texts, of cataclysms, what's, of tracks about converted-swearers, godly charwoman, and edifying deaths of sinners saved. Up with the mark, hymns and portions of Scripture had to be learned by heart till eight o'clock, when there were family prayers, then breakfast, which I was never able to enjoy, partly from the fast already undergone, and partly from the outlook I dreaded. At nine came Sunday school, and it made me indignant to be put into the class with the village children, as well as alarmed lest, some mistake of mine, I should be put below them. The church service was a veritable wilderness of sin. I wandered in it, pitching the tabernacle of my thoughts on the lining of the square family pew, the fidgets of my small brothers, and the horror of knowing that, on the Monday, I should have to write out from memory, jottings of the rambling disconnected ex-Tempo sermon, which might have had any text but its own, and to stand or fall by the result. This was followed by a cold dinner at one, servants to have no work. Sunday school again from two to four, an evening service at six. The intervals were perhaps the greatest trial of all, from the efforts I had to make, to be less than usually sinful, by reading books and sermons as barren as the dead sea. There was but one rosy spot in the distance all that day, and that was bedtime, which never could come too early. Such teaching was well meant, no doubt, said Arthur, but it must have driven many of its victims into deserting the church services altogether. I'm afraid I was a deserter this morning, she gravely said. I had to write to Eric. Would you, would you mind my telling you something, he said about prayer. It had never struck me in that light before. In what light, said Arthur, why, that all nature goes by fixed, regular laws. Science has proved that, so that asking God to do anything, except of course praying for spiritual blessings, is to expect a miracle, and we've no right to do that. I've not put it as well as he did, but that was the outcome of it, and it has confused me. Please tell me what you can say in answer to it. I don't propose to discuss Captain Lyndon's difficulties, Arthur gravely replied, especially as he is not present, but if it is your difficulty, his voice unconsciously took a tender tone, then I will speak. It is my difficulty, she said anxiously. Then I will begin by asking, why did you accept spiritual blessings, is not your mind a part of nature? Yes, but free will comes in there. I can choose this or that, and God can influence my choice. Then you are not a fatalist. Oh no, she earnestly exclaimed, thank God Arthur said to himself, but in so low a whisper that only I heard it. You grant then that I can, by an act of free choice, move this cup, suiting the action to the word, this way or that way. Yes, I grant it. Well let us see how far the result is produced by fixed laws. The cup moves because certain mechanical forces are impressed on it by my hand. My hand moves because certain forces, electric, magnetic or whatever, nerve force, may prove to be, are impressed on it by my brain. This nerve force stored in the brain would probably be traceable, if science were complete, to chemical forces supplied to the brain by the blood, and ultimately derived from the food I eat and the air I breathe, but would not that be fatalism, where would free will come in? In choice of nerves replied Arthur, the nerve force in the brain may flow just as naturally down one nerve as down another. We need something more than a fixed law of nature to settle which nerve shall carry it. That something is free will. Her eyes sparkled, I see what you mean, she exclaimed. And free will is an exception to the system of fixed law. Eric said something like that, and then I think he pointed out that God can only influence nature by influencing human wills. So that we might reasonably pray, give us this day our daily bread, because many of the causes that produce bread are under man's control. But to pray for rain or fine weather would be as unreasonable as, she checked herself as if fearful of saying something irreverent. In a hushed low tone that trembled with emotion, and with the solemnity of one in the presence of death, Arthur slowly replied, Shelt he that contendeth with the Almighty instruct him. Shall we this form that in the noontime beam were born, feeling in ourselves the power to direct, this way or that, the forces of nature, of nature, of which we form so trivial a part? Shall we, in our boundless arrogance, in our pitiful conceit, deny that power to the ancient of days? According to our Creator, thus far and no further, thou maddest, but thou canst not rule. Lady Miriam had covered her face in her hands, and did not look up. She only murmured, thanks, thanks, again and again. We rose to go, Arthur said, with evident effort, one word more, if you would know the power of prayer, in anything and everything that man can need try it, ask, and it shall be given you. I have tried it, I know that God answers prayer. Our walk home was a silent one, till we had nearly reached the lodgings. Then Arthur murmured, and it was almost an echo of my own thoughts. Don't now us thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband. The subject was not touched on again. We sat on, talking, while hour after hour, of this our last night together, glided away unnoticed. He had much to tell me about India, and the new life he was going to, and the work he hoped to do. And his great generous soul seemed so filled with noble ambition, as to have no space left for any vain regret, or selfish repining. Come, it is nearly morning, Arthur said, at last, rising and leading the way upstairs. The sun will be rising in a few minutes, and though I have basically defrauded you of your last chance of a night's rest here. I'm sure you'll forgive me, for I really couldn't bring myself to say, good night sooner. And God knows whether you'll see me again, or hear of me. Here of you I am certain I shall. I've only responded, and quoted the concluding lines of that strange poem wearing. I never star was lost here, but it rose afar, look east, where whole new thousands are, in fish new land, whatever tar. I, look eastward, Arthur eagerly replied, pausing at the staircase window, which commanded a fine view of the sea and the eastward horizon. The west is the fitting tomb for all the sorrow and the sighing, all the errors and the follies of the past, for all its withered hopes and all its buried loves. From the east comes new strength, new ambition, new hope, new life, new love, look eastward, I look eastward. These last words were still ringing in my ears as I entered my room, and undrew the window curtains, just in time to see the sun burst in glory from its ocean prison, and clothe the world in the light of a new day. So may it be for him and me, and all of us, I'm used, all that is evil and dead and hopeless, fading with the night that is past, all that is good and living and hopeful, rising with the dawn of day, fading with the night the chilly mists and the noxious vapours and the heavy shadows and the wailing gusts and the owl's melancholy hootings, rising with the day the darting shafts of light and the wholesome morning breeze and the warmth of adorning light and the mad music of the lark, look eastward, fading with the night the clouds of ignorance and the deadly blight of sin and the silent tears of sorrow and ever rising higher, higher with the day, the radiant dawn of knowledge and the sweet breath of purity and the throb of world's ecstasy, look eastward, fading with the night the memory of a dead love and the withered leaves of a blighted hope and the sickly repinnings and moody regrets that numb the best energies of the soul and rising, broadening, rolling upward like a living flood, the manly resolve and the dauntless will and the heavenward gaze of faith, the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen, look eastward, I look eastward. End of Chapter 25 Looking Eastward End of Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll