Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (110 page)

`Traitor!
villain!
malcontent!
regicide!'
he hissed through his closed teeth, taking any abusive epithet that came into his head, without stopping to consider its suitability.
`Is it thou?
Now shalt thou feel my wrath!'
And doubtless the waiter did experience that singular sensation, whatever it may have been, for he struggled violently with his assailant, and bellowed `murder' the instant he recovered his breath.

`Say not so,' the Poet sternly answered, as he released him; `it is thou that murderest me.'
The waiter gathered himself up, and began in great surprise, `Why, I never —' `'Tis a lie!'
the Poet screamed; `she loves thee not!
Me, me alone.'
`Who ever said she did?'
the other asked, beginning to perceive how matters stood.
`Thou!
thou saidst it,' was the wild reply, `what, villain?
acquire her heart?
thou never shalt.'

The waiter calmly explained himself: `My' ope were, Sir, to hacquire her Hart of waiting at table, which she do perdigious well, sure-ly: seeing that I were thinking of happlying for to be 'eadwaiter at the 'otel.'
The Poet's wrath instantly abated, indeed, he looked rather crestfallen than otherwise; `Excuse my violence,' he gently said, `and let us take a friendly glass together.'
`I agree,' was the waiter's generous answer, `but man halive, you've ruinated my coat!'

`Courage,' cried our hero gaily, `thou shalt have a new one anon: aye, and of the best cashmere.'
`H'm,' said the other, hesitatingly, `wouldn't hany other stuff —' `I will not buy thee one of any other stuff,' returned the Poet, gently but decidedly, and the waiter gave up the point.

Arrived once more at the friendly tavern, the Poet briskly ordered a jorum of Punch, and, on its being furnished, called on his friend for a toast.
`I'll give you,' said the waiter, who was of a sentimental turn, however little he looked like it, `I'll give you—Woman!
She doubles our sorrows and 'alves our joy.'
The Poet drained his glass, not caring to correct his companion's mistake, and at intervals during the evening the same inspiring sentiment was repeated.
And so the night wore away, and another jorum of Punch was ordered, and another.

*             *             *             *             *

`And now hallow me,' said the waiter, attempting for about the tenth time to rise on his feet and make a speech, and failing even more signally than he had yet done, `to give a toast for this 'appy hoccasion.
Woman!
she doubles —' but at this moment, probably in illustration of his favourite theory, he `doubled' himself up, and so effectually, that he instantly vanished under the table.

Occupying that limited sphere of observation, it is conjectured that he fell to moralizing on human ills in general, and their remedies, for a solemn voice was presently heard to issue from his retreat, proclaiming feelingly though rather indistinctly, that `when the 'art of man is hopressed with care —' here came a pause, as if he wished to leave the question open to discussion, but as no one present seemed competent to suggest the proper course to be taken in that melancholy contingency, he attempted to supply the deficiency himself with the remarkable statement `she's hall my fancy painted 'er.'

Meanwhile the Poet was sitting, smiling quietly to himself, as he sipped his punch: the only notice he took of his companion's abrupt disappearance was to help himself to a fresh glass, and say, `your health!'
in a cordial tone, nodding to where the waiter ought to have been.
He then cried, `hear, hear!'
encouragingly, and made an attempt to thump the table with his fist, but missed it.
He seemed interested in the question regarding the heart oppressed with care, and winked sagaciously with one eye two or three times, as if there were a good deal he could say on that subject, if he close; but the second quotation roused him to speech, and he at once broke into the waiter's subterranean soliloquy with an ecstatic fragment from the poem he had been just composing:

`What though the world be cross and crooky?

Of Life's fair flowers the fairest bouquet

I plucked, when I chose
thee
, my Sukie!

`Say, could'st thou grasp at nothing greater

Than to be wedded to a waiter?

And did'st thou deem thy Schmitz a traitor?

`Nay!
the fond waiter, was rejected,

And thou, alone, with flower-bedecked head,

Sitting, did'st sing of one expected.

`And while the waiter, crazed and silly,

Dreamed he had won that precious lily,

At length he came, thy wished-for Willie.

`And then thy music took a new key,

For whether Schmitz be boor or duke, he

Is all in all to faithful Sukie!'

He paused for a reply, but a heavy snoring from beneath the table was the only one he got.

CHAPTER FOUR

`IS THIS THE HEND?'

                                     
(Nicholas Nickleby)

BATHED in the radiance of the newly-risen Sun, the billows are surging and bristling below the Cliff, along which the Poet is thoughtfully wending his way.
It may possibly surprise the reader that he should not ere this have obtained an interview with his beloved Sukie: he may ask the reason: he will ask in vain: to record with rigid accuracy the progress of events is the sole duty of the historian: were he to go beyond that, and attempt to dive into the hidden causes of things, the why and the wherefore, he would be trespassing on the province of the metaphysician.

Presently the Poet reached a small rising ground at the end of the gravel walk, where he found a seat commanding a view of the sea, and here he sunk down wearily.

For a while he gazed dreamily upon the expanse of ocean, then, struck by a sudden thought, he opened a small pocket book, and proceeded to correct and complete his last poem.
Slowly to himself he muttered the words `death—saith—breath', impatiently tapping the ground with his foot.
`Ah, that'll do,' he said at last, with an air of relief, `breath':

`His barque had perished in the storm,

   Whirled by its fiery breath

On sunken rocks, his stalwart form

   Was doomed to watery death.'

`That last line's good,' he continued exaltingly, `and on Coleridge's principle of alliteration, too—W.
D., W.
D.—was doomed to watery death.'

`Take care,' growled a deep voice in his ear, `what you say will be used in evidence against you—now it's no use trying that, we've got you tight,' this last remark being caused by the struggles of the Poet, naturally indignant at being unexpectedly collared by two men from behind.

`He's confessed to it, constable?
you heard him?'
said the first speaker (who rejoiced in the euphonious title of Muggle, and whom it is almost superfluous to introduce to the reader as the elder traveler of Chapter One!) `it's as much as his life is worth.'

`I say, stow that —' warmly responded the other; `seems to me the gen'leman was a spouting potry.'

`What—what's the matter?'
here gasped our unfortunate hero, who had recovered his breath; `you—Muggle—what do you mean by it?'

`Mean by it!'
blustered his quondam friend, `what do
you
mean by it, if it comes to that?
You're an assassin, that's what you are!
Where's the waiter you had with you last night?
answer me that!'

`The—the waiter?'
slowly repeated the Poet, still stunned by the suddenness of his capture, `why, he's dr —'

`I knew it!'
cried his friend, who was at him in a moment, and choked up the unfinished word in his throat, `drowned, Constable!
I told you so—and who did it?'
he continued, loosing his grip a moment to obtain an answer.

The Poet's answer, so far as it could be gathered (for it came out in a very fragmentary state, and as it were by crumbs, in intervals of choking), was the following: `It was my—my—you'll kill me—fault—I say, fault—I—I—gave him—you—you're suffoca—I say—I gave him —' `a push I suppose,' concluded the other, who here `shut off' the slender supply of breath he had hitherto allowed his victim `and he fell in: no doubt.
I heard some one had fallen off the Bridge last night,' turning to the Constable;`no doubt this unfortunate waiter.
Now mark my words!
from this moment I renounce this man as my friend: don't pity him, constable!
don't think of letting him go to spare
my
feelings!'

Some convulsive sounds were heard at this moment from the Poet, which, on attentive consideration, were found to be `the punch—was—was too much—for him—quite —' `Miserable man!'
sternly interposed Muggle; `can you jest about it?
You gave him a punch, did you?
and what then?'

`It quite—quite—upset him,' continued the unhappy Schmitz, in a sort of rambling soliloquy, which was here cut short by the impatience of the Constable, and the party set forth on their return to the town.

But an unexpected character burst upon the scene and broke into a speech far more remarkable for energetic delivery than for grammatical accuracy: `I've only just 'erd of it—I were hasleep under table —'avin' taken more punch than I could stand—he's as hinnocent as I am—dead indeed!
I'm more alive than you, a precious sight.'

This speech produced various effects on its hearers: the Constable calmly released his man, the bewildered Muggle muttered `Impossible!
conspiracy—perjury—have it tried at assizes': while the happy Poet rushed into the arms of his deliverer crying in a broken voice: `No, never from this hour to part.
We'll live and love so true!'
a sentiment which the waiter did not echo with the cordiality that might have been expected.

Later in the day, Wilhelm and Sukie were sitting conversing with the waiter and a few friends, when the penitent Muggle suddenly entered the room placed a folded paper on the knees of Schmitz, pronounced in a hollow tone the affecting words `be happy!'
vanished, and was seen no more.

After perusing the paper, Wilhelm rose to his feet; in the excitement of the moment he was roused into unconscious and extempore verse:

`My Sukie!
He hath bought, yea, Muggle's self,

Convinced at last of deeds unjust and foul,

The licence of a vacant public-house.

We are licensed here to sell to all,

Spirits, porter, snuff, and ale!'

So we leave him: his after happiness who dare to doubt?
has he not Sukie?
and having her, he is content.

WHAT THE TORTOISE SAID TO ACHILLES

Written in 1895 for the philosophical journal
Mind
, this brief dialogue playfully considers the foundations of logic.
The title alludes to the philosopher Zeno's paradox of motion, in which Achilles could never overtake a tortoise in a race.
In Carroll's dialogue, the tortoise challenges Achilles to use the force of logic to make him accept the conclusion of a simple deductive argument.
Eventually, Achilles fails, because the clever tortoise leads him into an infinite regression.

WHAT THE TORTOISE SAID TO ACHILLES

Achilles had overtaken the Tortoise, and had seated himself comfortably on its back.

So you've got to the end of our race-course?
said the Tortoise.
Even though it
does
consist of an infinite series of distances?
I thought some wiseacre or another had proved that the thing couldn't be done?

It
can
be done, said Achilles; It
has
been done!
Solvitur ambulando.
You see, the distances were constantly
diminishing
; and so—

But if they had been constantly
increasing
?
the Tortoise interrupted.
How then?

Then I shouldn't be
here
, Achilles modestly replied; and
you
would have got several times round the world, by this time!

You flatter me—
flatten
, I mean, said the Tortoise; for you
are
a heavy weight, and
no
mistake!
Well now, would you like to hear of a race-course, that most people fancy they can get to the end of in two or three steps, while it
really
consists of an infinite number of distances, each one longer than the previous one?

Very much indeed!
said the Grecian warrior, as he drew from his helmet (few Grecian warriors prossessed
pockets
in those days) an enormous note-book and a pencil.
Proceed!
And speak
slowly
, please.
Short-hand
isn't invented yet!

That beautiful First Proposition of Euclid!
the Tortoise murmured dreamily.
You admire Euclid?

Passionately!
So far, at least, as one
can
admire a treatise that wo'n't be published for some centuries to come!

Well, now, let's take a little bit of the argument in that First Proposition—just
two
steps, and the conclusion drawn from them.
Kindly enter them in your note-book.
And in order to refer to them conveniently, let's call them
A
,
B
, and
Z
:—

(A) Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other.

(B) The two sides of this Triangle are things that are equal to the same.

(Z) The two sides of this Triangle are equal to each other.

Readers of Euclid will grant, I suppose, that
Z
follows logically from
A
and
B
, so that any one who accepts
A
and
B
as true,
must
accept
Z
as true?

Undoubtedly!
The youngest child in High School—as soon as High Schools are invented, which wlil not be till some two thousand years later—will grant
that
.

And if some reader had
not
yet accepted
A
and
B
as true, he might still accept the
sequence
as a
valid
one, I suppose?

No doubt such a reader might exist.
He might say, I accept as true the Hypothetical Proposition that,
if
A
and
B
be true,
Z
must be true; but, I
don't
accept
A
and
B
as true.
Such a reader would do wisely in abandoning Euclid, and taking to football.

And might there not
also
be some reader who would say, I accept
A
and
B
as true, but I
don't
accept the Hypothetical?

Certainly there might.
He
, also, had better take to football.

And
neither
of these readers, the Tortoise continued, is
as yet
under any logical necessity to accept
Z
as true?

Quite so, Achilles assented.

Well, now, I want you to consider
me
as a reader of the
second
kind, and to force me, logically, to accept
Z
as true.

A tortoise playing football would be— Achilles was beginning

—an anomaly, of course, the Tortoise hastily interrupted.
Don't wander from the point.
Let's have
Z
first, and football afterwards!

I'm to force you to accept
Z
, am I?
Achilles said musingly.
And your present position is that you accept
A
and
B
, but you
don't
accept the Hypothetical—

Let's call it
C
, said the Tortoise.

—but you
don't
accept

(C) If
A
and
B
are true,
Z
must be true.

That is my present position, said the Tortoise.

Then I must ask you to accept
C
.

I'll do so, said the Tortoise, as soon as you've entered it in that note-book of yours.
What else have you got in it?

Only a few memoranda, said Achilles, nervously fluttering the leaves: a few memoranda of—of the battles in which I have distinguished myself!

Plenty of blank leaves, I see!
the Tortoise cheerily remarked.
We shall need them
all
!
(Achilles shuddered.) Now write as I dictate:—

(A) Things that are equal to the same are equal to each other.

(B) The two sides of this Triangle are things that are equal to the same.

(C) If
A
and
B
are true,
Z
must be true.

(Z) The two sides of this Triangle are equal to each other.

You should call it
D
, not
Z
, said Achilles.
It comes
next
to the other three.
If you accept
A
and
B
and
C
, you
must
accept
Z
.

And why
must
I?

Because it follows
logically
from them.
If
A
and
B
and
C
are true,
Z
must
be true.
You don't dispute
that
, I imagine?

If
A
and
B
and
C
are true,
Z
must
be true, the Tortoise thoughtfully repeated.
That's
another
Hypothetical, isn't it?
And, if I failed to see its truth, I might accept
A
and
B
and
C
, and
still
not accept
Z
, mightn't I?

You might, the candid hero admitted; though such obtuseness would certainly be phenomenal.
Still, the event is
possible
.
So I must ask you to grant
one
more Hypothetical.

Very good.
I'm quite willing to grant it, as soon as you've written it down.
We will call it

(D) If
A
and
B
and
C
are true,
Z
must be true.

Have you entered that in your notebook?

I
have
!
Achilles joyfully exclaimed, as he ran the pencil into its sheath.
And at last we've got to the end of this ideal race-course!
Now that you accept
A
and
B
and
C
and
D
,
of course
you accept
Z
.

Do I?
said the Tortoise innocently.
Let's make that quite clear.
I accept
A
and
B
and
C
and
D
.
Suppose I
still
refused to accept
Z
?

Then Logic would take you by the throat, and
force
you to do it!
Achilles triumphantly replied.
Logic would tell you, You ca'n't help yourself.
Now that you've accepted
A
and
B
and
C
and
D
, you
must
accept
Z
!
So you've no choice, you see.

Whatever
Logic
is good enough to tell me is worth
writing down
, said the Tortoise.
So enter it in your note-book, please.
We will call it

(E) If
A
and
B
and
C
and
D
are true,
Z
must be true.
Until I've granted
that
, of course I needn't grant
Z
.
So it's quite a
necessary
step, you see?

I see, said Achilles; and there was a touch of sadness in his tone.

Here the narrator, having pressing business at the Bank, was obliged to leave the happy pair, and did not again pass the spot until some months afterwards.
When he did so, Achilles was still seated on the back of the much-enduring Tortoise, and was writing in his note-book, which appeared to be nearly full.
The Tortoise was saying, Have you got that last step written down?
Unless I've lost count, that makes a thousand and one.
There are several millions more to come.
And
would
you mind, as a personal favour, considering what a lot of instruction this colloquy of ours will provide for the Logicians of the Nineteenth Century—
would
you mind adopting a pun that my cousin the Mock-Turtle will then make, and allowing yourself to be re-named
Taught-Us
?

As you please!
replied the weary warrior, in the hollow tones of despair, as he buried his face in his hands.
Provided that
you
, for
your
part, will adopt a pun the Mock-Turtle never made, and allow yourself to be re-named
A Kill-Ease
!