Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (270 page)

Behind much of the world’s laughter tears may be hiding, but not so in the case of Lewis Carroll; all is pure mirth that flows from him to us, and above all he possesses that indescribable thing called charm.
It lurks in the quaint conversations, in the fluent measure of the songs, in the fantastic scenes so full of ideas that seem to vanish before we quite grasp them—like the
Cheshire Cat
—leaving only the smile behind.

To those of us—the world in short—who were denied the privilege of hearing Lewis Carroll tell his own story, the Tenniel pictures bring Wonderland very close.
Our natural history alone would not help us in the least when it came to classifying the many strange animals
Alice
met on her journey.
The
Mock Turtle
, the
Gryphon
, the
Lory
, the
Dodo
, the
Cheshire Cat
, the
Fish
and
Frog
footmen—how could we imagine them without the Tenniel “guidebook”?
The numberless transformations of
Alice
could hardly be understood without photographs of her in the various stages.
And certainly at the croquet party, given by the
Queen of Hearts
, how could anyone imagine a game played with bent-over soldiers for wickets, hedgehogs for croquet balls, and flamingoes for mallets, unless there were accompanying illustrations?

One specially interesting picture shows the
Gryphon
in the foreground; he and
Alice
paid a visit to the
Mock Turtle
, who, by way of entertaining his guests, gave the following description of the Lobster Quadrille.
With tears running down his cheeks he began:

“‘You have never lived much under the sea’ (‘I haven’t,’ said Alice) ‘and perhaps you were never introduced to a lobster—’ (Alice began to say ‘I once tasted—’ but she checked herself hastily, and said, ‘No, never’), ‘so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!’

“‘No, indeed,’ said Alice.
‘What sort of a dance is it?’

“‘Why,’ said the Gryphon, ‘you first form into a line along the seashore.’

“‘Two lines!’
cried the Mock Turtle.
‘Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then when you’ve cleared all the jellyfish out of the way—’

“‘
That
generally takes some time,’ interrupted the Gryphon.

“‘You advance twice.’

“‘Each with a lobster as a partner!’
cried the Gryphon.

“‘Of course,’ the Mock Turtle said; ‘advance twice, set to partners—’

“‘Change lobsters and retire in same order,’ continued the Gryphon.

“‘Then, you know,’ the Mock Turtle went on, ‘you throw the—’

“‘The lobsters!’
shouted the Gryphon with a bound into the air.

“‘As far out to sea as you can—’

“‘Swim after them!’
screamed the Gryphon.

“‘Turn a somersault in the sea!’
cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about.

“‘Change lobsters again!’
yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.

“‘Back to land again, and—that’s all the first figure,’ said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice, and the two creatures who had been jumping about like mad things all this time sat down again, very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice.”

Who could read this without laughing, with no reason for the laugh but sheer delight and sympathy with the story-teller, and with dancing and motion and all the rest of it.
If anyone begins to hunt for the reasons why we like “Alice in Wonderland” that person is either very, very sleepy, or she has left her youth so far behind her that, like the
Lory
, she absolutely refuses to tell her age, in which case she must be as old as the hills.

Then the dance, which the two gravely performed for the little girl, and who can forget the song of the
Mock Turtle
?

“Will you walk a little faster!”
said a whiting to a snail,

“There’s a porpoise close behind us, and he’s treading on my tail.

See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!

They are waiting on the shingle—will you come and join the dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?

“You can really have no notion how delightful it will be

When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!”

But the snail replied, “Too far, too far!”
and gave a look askance—

Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.

Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

“What matters it how far we go?”
his scaly friend replied,

“There is another shore, you know, upon the other side,

The farther off from England the nearer is to France;

Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?

Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, won’t you join the dance?”

Then
Alice
tried to repeat “’Tis the voice of the Sluggard,” but she was so full of the Lobster Quadrille that the words came like this:

’Tis the voice of the lobster, I heard him declare,

“You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.”

As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose

Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.

The whole time she was in Wonderland she never by any chance recited anything correctly, and through all of her wanderings she never met anything in the shape of a little boy, except the infant son of the
Duchess
, who after all turned out to be a pig and vanished in the woods.
The “roundabouts” played no parts in “Alice in Wonderland,” and yet—to a man—they love it to this day.

When at last
Alice
bade farewell to the
Mock Turtle
, she left it sobbing of course, and singing with much emotion the following song, entitled:

TURTLE SOUP.

Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,

Waiting in a hot tureen!

Who for such dainties would not stoop?

Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!

Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!

Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,

Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup!
Who cares for fish,

Game, or any other dish

Who would not give all else for two

pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!

Beau—ootiful Soo—oop!

Soo—oop of the e—e—evening,

Beautiful, beauti—ful Soup!

We might spend a whole chapter over the great trial scene of the
Knave of Hearts
.
We all know that the wretched fellow stole some tarts upon a summer’s day, and that he was brought in chains before the
King
and
Queen
, to face the charges.
What we did not know was that it was the fourth of July, and that
Alice
was one of the witnesses.

This, in a certain way, is the cleverest chapter in the book, for all the characters in Wonderland take part in the proceedings, which are so like, and yet so comically unlike, a real court.
We forget, as
Alice
did, that all these royalties are but a pack of cards, and follow all the evidence with the greatest interest, including the piece of paper which the
White Rabbit
had just found and presented to the Court.
It contained the following verses:

They told me you had been to her,

And mentioned me to him:

She gave me a good character,

But said I could not swim.

He sent them word I had not gone

(We know it to be true):

If she should push the matter on,

What would become of you?

I gave her one, they gave him two,

You gave us three or more:

They all returned from him to you,

Though they were mine before.

If I or she should chance to be

Involved in this affair,

He trusts to you to set them free,

Exactly as we were.

My notion was that you had been

(Before she had this fit)

An obstacle that came between

Him, and ourselves, and it.

Don’t let him know she liked them best,

For this must ever be

A secret, kept from all the rest,

Between yourself and me.

This truly clear explanation touches the
Queen of Hearts
so closely that the outsider is led to believe that she is indirectly responsible for the theft, that the poor knave is but the tool of her Majesty, whose fondness for tarts led her into temptation.
Lewis Carroll had a keen eye for the dramatic climax—the packed court room, the rambling evidence, the mystifying scrap of paper, and
Alice’s
defiance of the
King
and
Queen
.

“‘Off with her head!’
the Queen shouted at the top of her voice.
Nobody moved.
‘Who cares for you?’
said Alice (she had grown to her full size by this time), ‘you’re nothing but a pack of cards.’

“At this, the whole pack rose up in the air and came flying down upon her; she gave a little scream, half of fright, half of anger, and tried to beat them off and found herself lying on the bank, with her head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead leaves that had fluttered down from the trees on to her face....”

And so Alice woke up, shook back the elf-locks, and laughed as she rubbed her eyes.

“Such a curious dream!”
she said, as the wonder of it all came back to her, and she told her sister of the queer things she had seen and heard, and long after she had run away, this big sister sat with closed eyes, dreaming and wondering.

“The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by; the frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighboring pool; she could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution.
Once more the pig-baby was sneezing on the Duchess’s knee, while plates and dishes crashed around it; once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the Lizard’s slate pencil, and the choking of the suppressed Guinea Pigs filled the air, mixed up with the distant sob of the miserable Mock Turtle.”

Yet when she opened her eyes she knew that Wonderland must go.
In reality “the grass would only be rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds, the rattling teacups would change to tinkling sheep bells and the Queen’s shrill cries to the voice of the shepherd boy, and the sneeze of the baby, the shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises would change ...
to the confused clamor of the busy farmyard, while the lowing of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle’s heavy sobs.”

So
we
have dreamed of Wonderland from that time till now, when Lewis Carroll looks out from the pages of his book and says:

“That’s all—for to-night—there may be more to-morrow.”

CHAPTER VIII.

LEWIS CARROLL AT HOME AND ABROAD.

The popularity of “Alice in Wonderland” was a never-ending source of surprise to the author, who had only to stand quietly by and rake in his profits, as edition after edition was swallowed up by a public incessantly clamoring for more, and Lewis Carroll was not too modest to enjoy the sensation he was creating in the literary world.
His success came to him unsought, and was all the more lasting because the seeds of it were planted in love and laughter.
Let us see what he says in the preface to “Alice Underground,” the forerunner, as we know, of “Alice in Wonderland.”

“The ‘why’ of this book cannot and need not be put into words.
Those for whom a child’s mind is a sealed book, and who see no divinity in a child’s smile, would read such words in vain; while for any one who has ever loved one true child, no words are needed.
For he will have known the awe that falls on one in the presence of a spirit, fresh from God’s hands, on whom no shadow of sin, and but the outermost fringe of the shadow of sorrow, has yet fallen; he will have felt the bitter contrast between the haunting selfishness that spoils his best deeds and the life that is but an overflowing love—for I think a child’s first attitude to the world is a simple love for all living things—and he will have learned that the best work a man can do is when he works for love’s sake only, with no thought of name or gain or earthly reward.
No deed of ours, I suppose, on this side of the grave is really unselfish, yet if one can put forth all one’s powers in a task where nothing of reward is hoped for but a little child’s whispered thanks, and the airy touch of a little child’s pure lips, one seems to have come somewhere near to this.”

In the appendix to the same book he writes regarding laughter:

“I do not believe God means us to divide life into two halves—to wear a grave face on Sunday, and to think it out of place even so much as to mention Him on a week-day....
Surely the children’s innocent laughter is as sweet in His ears as the grandest anthem that ever rolled up from ‘the dim religious light’ of some solemn cathedral; and if I have written anything to add to those stores of innocent and healthy amusement that are laid up in books for the children I love so well, it is surely something I may hope to look back upon without shame or sorrow ...
when my turn comes to walk through the valley of shadows.”

Such was the man who filled the world with laughter, and wrote “nonsense” books; a man of such deeply religious feeling that a jest that touched upon sacred things, however innocent in itself, was sure to bring down his wrath upon the head of the offender.
There is a certain strain of sadness in those quoted words of his, which surely never belonged to those “golden summer days” when he made merry with the three little Liddells.
We must remember that twenty-one years had passed between the telling of the story and the reprint of the original manuscript, and Lewis Carroll was just a little graver and considerably older than on that eventful day when the
White Rabbit
looked at his watch as if to say: “Oh—my ears and whiskers!
What will the Duchess think!”
as he popped down the hole with
Alice
at his heels.

But we are going a little too far ahead.
After the writing of “Alice,” with the accompanying excitement of seeing his first-born win favor, Lewis Carroll went quietly forward in his daily routine.
He had already become quite a famous lecturer, being, indeed, the only mathematical lecturer in Christ Church College, so Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was not completely overshadowed by the glory of Lewis Carroll.

From the beginning he was careful to separate these two sides of his life, and the numbers of letters which soon began to pour in upon the latter were never recognized by the grave, precise “don,” whose thoughts flowed in numbers, and so it was all through his life.
When anyone wrote to him, addressing him by his real name, and praising him for the “Alice” books, he sent a printed reply which he kept “handy,” saying that as C.
L.
Dodgson was so often approached as the author of books bearing another name, it must be understood that Mr.
Dodgson never acknowledged the authorship of a book which did not bear his name.
He was most careful in the wording of this printed form, that it should bear no shadow of untruth.
It was only his shy way of avoiding the notice of strangers, and it succeeded so well that very few people knew that the Rev.
Charles Dodgson and Lewis Carroll were one and the same person.
It was also hinted, and very broadly, too, that many of the queer characters
Alice
met on her journey through Wonderland were very dignified and stately figures in the University itself, who posed unconsciously as models.
The
Hatter
is an acknowledged portrait, and no doubt there were many other sly caricatures, for Lewis Carroll was a born humorist.

“Alice” has been given to the public in many ways besides translations.
There have been lectures, plays, magic lantern slides of Tenniel’s wonderful pictures, tableaux; and many scenes find their way, even at this day, in the nursery wall-paper covered over with Gryphons and Mock Turtles and the whole Court of Cards—a most imposing array.
It has been truly stated that, with the exception of Shakespeare’s plays, no books have been so often quoted as the two “Alices.”

After the publication of “Alice in Wonderland,” Lewis Carroll contributed short stories to the various periodicals which were eager for his work.
As early as 1867, he sent to
Aunt Judy’s Magazine
a short story called “Bruno’s Revenge,” the foundation of “Sylvie and Bruno,” which was never published in book form until 1889, twenty-two years after.

The editor of the magazine, Mrs.
Gatty, in accepting the story, gave the author some wholesome advice wrapped up in a bundle of praise for the dainty little idyll.
She reminded him that mathematical ability such as he possessed was also the gift of hundreds of others, but his story-telling talent, so full of exquisite touches, was peculiarly his own, and whatever of fame might come to him would be on the wings of the fairies, and not from the lecture room.

In “Bruno’s Revenge” we have, for the first time in any of his stories, a little boy.
It was a sort of unwilling tribute Lewis Carroll paid to the poor despised “roundabouts,” and for all the winsome fairy ways and merry little touches,
Bruno
was never
quite
the real thing; at any rate the story was put away to simmer, and as the long years passed, it was added to bit by bit until—but
that
is another story.

Between the publication of “Alice” and the summer vacation of 1867 he wrote several very learned mathematical works that earned him much distinction among the Christ Church undergraduates, who found it hard to believe that Mr.
Dodgson and Lewis Carroll were so closely connected.
It was during this summer (1867) that he and Dr.
Liddon took a short tour on the Continent.

The two men had much in common and were firm friends.
Both had the true Oxford spirit, both were churchmen, Dr.
Liddon being quite a famous preacher, and both were men of high intelligence with a good supply of humor; consequently the prospect of a trip to Russia together was a very delightful one.
Lewis Carroll kept a journal which was such a complete record of his experiences that at one time he thought of publishing it, though it was never done.

He went up to London on July 12th, remarking in his characteristic way that he and the Sultan of Turkey arrived on the same day,
his
entrance being at Paddington station—the Sultan’s at Charing Cross, where, he was forced to admit, the crowd was much greater.
He met Dr.
Liddon at Dover and they crossed to Calais, finding the passage unusually smooth and uneventful, feeling in some way that they had paid their money in vain, for the trip across the channel is generally one of storm and stress.

All such tours have practically the same object—to see and to enjoy—and the young “don” came out of his den for this express purpose.
It had been impossible in the busy years since his graduation to take his holidays far away from home, but at the age of thirty-five he felt that he had earned the right, and proceeded to use it in his own way.
Their route lay through Germany, stopping at Cologne, Danzig, Berlin and Königsberg, among other places, and he feasted on the beauties which these various cities had to offer him; the architecture and paintings, the pageantry of strange religions, the music in the great cathedrals, and last, but not least, the foreign drama interested him greatly.
The German acting was easy enough to follow, as he knew a little of the language; but the Russian tongue was beyond him, and he could only rely upon the gestures and expression.

Their special object in going to Russia was to see the great fair at Nijni-Novgorod.
This fair brought all the corners of the earth together; Chinese, Persians, Tartars, native Russians, mingled in the busy, surging life about them, and lent colour and variety to every step.
The two friends spent their time pleasantly, for the fame of Dr.
Liddon’s preaching had reached Russia, and the clergy opened their doors to the travelers and took them over many churches and monasteries, which otherwise they might never have seen.
They stopped in Moscow, St.
Petersburg, Kronstadt, Warsaw, taking in Leipzig, Giessen, Ems, and many smaller places on the homeward road.

They visited a famous monastery while in Moscow, and were even shown the subterranean cells of the hermits.
At Kronstadt they had a most amusing experience.
They went to call upon a friend, and Dr.
Liddon, forgetting his scanty knowledge of the Russian language, rashly handed his overcoat to one of the servants.
When they were ready to leave there was a waiting-maid in attendance—but no overcoat.
The damsel spoke no English, the gentleman spoke no Russian, so Dr.
Liddon asked for his overcoat with what he considered the most appropriate gesture.
Intelligence beamed upon the maiden’s face; she ran from the room, returning with a clothes brush.
No, Dr.
Liddon did not want his coat brushed; he tried other gestures, succeeding so beautifully that the girl was convinced that he wanted to take a nap on the sofa, and brought a cushion and a pillow for that purpose.
Still no overcoat, and Dr.
Liddon was in despair until Lewis Carroll made a sketch of his friend with one coat on, in the act of putting on another, in the hands of an obliging Russian peasant.
The drawing was so expressive that the maid understood at once; the mystery was solved—and the coat recovered.

With this gift of drawing a situation, it is remarkable that Lewis Carroll never became an artist.
With all his artistic ideas, and with his real knowledge of art, it seems a pity that he could not have gratified his ambition, but after serious consultation with John Ruskin, who as critic and friend examined his work, he decided that his natural gift was not great enough to push, and sensibly resolved not to waste so much precious time.
Still, to the end of his life, he drew for amusement’s sake and for the pleasure it gave his small friends.

Altogether their tour was a very pleasant one, and their return was through Germany, that most interesting country of hills and valleys and pretty white villages nestling among the trees.
What Lewis Carroll specially liked was the way the old castles seemed to spring out of the rock on which they had been built, as if they had grown there without the aid of bricks and mortar.
He admired the spirit of the old architects, which guided them to plan buildings naturally suited to their surroundings, and was never tired of the beautiful hills, so densely covered with small trees as to look moss-grown in the distance.

On his return to Oxford, he plunged at once into very active work.
The new term was beginning—there were lectures to prepare and courses to plan, and undergraduates to interview, all of which kept him quite busy for a while, though it did not interfere with certain cozy afternoon teas, when he related his summer adventures to his numerous girl friends, and kept them in a gale of laughter over his many queer experiences.

But these same little girls were clamoring for another book, and a hundred thousand others were alike eager for it, to judge by the heavy budgets of mail he received, so he cast about in that original mind of his for a worthy sequel to “Alice in Wonderland.”
He was willing to write a sequel then, for “Alice” was still fresh and amusing to a host of children, and its luster had been undimmed as yet by countless imitations.
To be sure “Alice in Blunderland” had appeared in
Punch
, the well-known English paper of wit and humor, but then
Punch
was
Punch
, and spared nothing which might yield a ripple of laughter.