Preface 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 Lucy Perry. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll. Preface Is all our life then but a dream, seen faintly in the golden gleam, a thwart times dark, resistless stream, bowed to the earth with bitter woe, or laughing at some rary show, we flutter idly to and fro. Man's little day in haste we spend, and from its merry noontide send, no glance to meet the silent end. One little picture in this book, the magic locket at page 77, was drawn by Miss Alice Havers. I did not state this on the title page, since it only seemed due to the artist of all these, to my mind, wonderful pictures, that his name should stand alone. The descriptions, at pages 386 and 387, of Sunday as spent by children of the last generation, are quoted verbatim from a speech made to me by a child friend, and a letter written to me by a lady friend. The chapters headed, Fairy Sylvie and Bruno's Revenge, are a reprint with a few alterations of a little fairy tale which I wrote in the year 1867, at the request of the late Mrs. Gattie, for Aunt Judy's magazine, which she was then editing. It was in 1874, I believe, that the idea first occurred to me of making it the nucleus of a longer story. As the years went on, I jotted down at odd moments all sorts of odd ideas and fragments of dialogue that occurred to me, who knows how, with a transitory suddenness that left me no choice but either to record them then and there, or to abandon them to oblivion. Sometimes one could trace to their source these random flashes of thought, as being suggested by a book one was reading, or struck out from the flint of one's own mind by the steel of a friend's chance remark. But they also had a way of their own, of occurring a purpose of nothing, specimens of that hopelessly illogical phenomenon, an effect without a cause. Such, for example, was the last line of The Hunting of the Snark, which came into my head, as I have already related in The Theatre, for April 1887, quite suddenly, during a solitary walk, and such again, have been passages which occurred in dreams and which I cannot trace to any antecedent cause whatever. There are at least two instances of such dream suggestions in this book. One, my lady's remark, it often runs in families just as a love for pastry does, at page 88. The other, Eric Linden's bad in age about having been in domestic service at page 332. And thus it came to pass that I found myself at last in possession of a huge unwieldy mass of literature. L-I-T-T-E-R-A-T-U-R-E. If the reader will kindly excuse the spelling, which only needed stringing together upon the thread of a consecutive story to constitute the book I hoped to write. Only. The task at first seemed absolutely hopeless and gave me a far clearer idea than I have ever had before of the meaning of the word chaos, and I think it must have been ten years or more before I had succeeded in classifying these odds and ends sufficiently to see what sort of a story they indicated. For the story had to grow out of the incidents, not the incidents out of the story. I am telling this in no spirit of egoism, but because I really believe that some of my readers will be interested in these details of the genesis of a book, which looks so simple and straightforward a matter when completed that they might suppose it to have been written straight off, page by page, as one would write a letter beginning at the beginning and ending at the end. It is, no doubt, possible to write a story in that way, and, if it be not vanity to say so, I believe that I could, myself, if I were in the unfortunate position, for I do hold it to be a real misfortune of being obliged to produce a given amount of fiction in a given time, that I could fulfil my task and produce my tale of bricks as other slaves have done. One thing, at any rate, I could guarantee, as to the story so produced, that it should be utterly commonplace, should contain no new ideas whatever, and should be very, very weary reading. This species of literature has received the very appropriate name of Padding, which might fitly be defined as that which all can write and none can read, that the present volume contains no such writing I dare not avail. Sometimes, in order to bring a picture into its proper place, it has been necessary to eke out a page of two or three extra lines, but I can honestly say I have put in no more than I was absolutely compelled to do. My readers may perhaps like to amuse themselves by trying to detect, in a given passage, the one piece of Padding it contains. While arranging the slips into pages, I found that the passage which now extends from the top of page 35 to the middle of page 38 was three lines too short. I supplied the deficiency, not by interpolating a word here by writing in three consecutive lines. Now can my readers guess which they are? A harder puzzle, if a harder be desired, would be to determine as to the gardener's song in which cases, if any, the stanza was adapted to the surrounding text, and in which, if any, the text was adapted to the stanza. Perhaps the hardest thing in all literature, at least I have found it so. By no voluntary effort can I accomplish it. I have to take it as it comes, is to write anything original, and perhaps the easiest is, when once an original line has been struck out, to follow it up, and to write any amount more to the same tune. I do not know if Alice in Wonderland was an original story. I was, at least, no conscious imitator in writing it, but I do know that, since it came out, something like a dozen story books have appeared on identically the same path. The path I timidly explored believing myself to be the first that ever burst into the silent sea is now a beaten high road, all the wayside flowers have long ago been trampled into the dust, and it would be courting disaster for me to attempt that style again. Hence it is that in Sylvie and Bruno I have striven with I know not what success to strike out yet another new path, be it bad or good, it is the best I can do. It is written, not for money and not for fame, but in the hope of supplying for the children whom I love some thoughts that may suit those hours which are the very life of childhood and also in the hope of suggesting to them and to others some of the thoughts that may prove I would feign hope, not wholly out of harmony with the grave accadences of life. If I have not already exhausted the patience of my readers I would like to seize this opportunity perhaps the last I shall have of addressing so many friends at once of putting on record some ideas that have occurred to me as to books desirable to be written I may not ever have the time or power to carry through in the hope that, if I should fail then the years are gliding away very fast. To finish the task I have set myself other hands may take it up. First a child's bible the only real essentials of this would be carefully selected passages suitable for a child's reading and pictures one principle of selection which I would adopt would be that religion should be put before a child as a revelation of love no need to pain and puzzle the young mind with the history of crime and punishment on such a principle I should for example omit the history of the flood the supplying of the pictures would involve no great difficulty no new ones would be needed hundreds of excellent pictures already exist the copyright of which is long ago expired and which simply need photos incography or some similar process for their successful reproduction the book should be handy in size with the pretty attractive looking cover in clear legible type and above all with abundance of pictures pictures pictures secondly a book of pieces selected from the bible not single texts but passages are from 10 to 20 verses each to be committed to memory such passages would be found useful to repeat to oneself and to ponder over on many occasions when reading is difficult if not impossible for instance when lying awake at night on a railway journey when taking a solitary walk in old age when eyesight is failing or wholly lost and best of all when illness while incapacitating us for reading or any other occupation condemns us to lie awake through many weary silent hours at such a time how keenly one may realise the truth of David's rapturous cry oh how sweet are thy words unto my throat yay sweeter than honey unto my mouth I have said passages rather than single texts because we have no means of recalling single texts memory needs links and here and non one may have hundreds of texts stored in the memory and not be able to recall at will more than half a dozen and those by mere chance whereas once get hold of any portion of a chapter that has been committed to memory and the whole can be recovered all hangs together thirdly a collection of passages both prose and verse from books other than the bible there is not perhaps much in what is called uninspired literature a misnomer I hold if Shakespeare was not inspired one may well doubt if any man ever was that will bear the process of being pondered over a hundred times still there are such passages enough I think to make a goodly store for the memory these two books of sacred and secular passages for the memory will serve other good purposes besides merely occupying vacant hours they will help to keep at bay many anxious thoughts worrying thoughts, uncharitable thoughts and holy thoughts let me say this in better words than my own by copying a passage from that most interesting book Robertson's Lectures on the Epistles to the Corinthians Lecture 49 if a man finds himself haunted by evil desires and unholy images which will generally be at periodical hours let him commit to memory passages of scripture or passages from the best writers in verse or prose let him store his mind with these as safeguards to repeat when he lies awake in some restless night or when despairing imaginations or gloomy suicidal thoughts beset him let these be to him the sword turning everywhere to keep the way of the garden of life from the intrusion of profane of footsteps fourthly a Shakespeare for girls that is an addition which everything not suitable for the perusal of girls of say from ten to seventeen should be omitted few children under ten would be likely to understand or enjoy the greatest of poets and those who have passed out of girlhood may safely be left to read Shakespeare in any edition expugated or not that they may prefer but it seems a pity that so many children in the intermediate stage should be debarred from a greater pleasure for want of an addition suitable to them neither boldness, chambers, brandrums nor cundles, boudoir Shakespeare seems to me to meet the want they are not sufficiently expugated boldness is the most extraordinary of all looking through it I am filled with a deep sense of wonder considering what he has left in that he should have cut anything out besides relentlessly erasing all that is unsuitable on the score of reverence or decency I should be inclined to omit also all that seems too difficult or not likely to interest young readers the resulting book might be slightly fragmentary but it would be a real treasure to all British maidens who have any taste for poetry if it be needful to apologise to anyone for the new departure I have taken in this story by introducing along with what will I hope proved to be acceptable nonsense for children some of the graver thoughts of human life it must be to one who has learned the art of keeping such thoughts wholly at a distance in hours of mirth and careless ease to him such a mixture will seem no doubt ill judged and repulsive and that such an art exists I do not dispute with youth, good health and sufficient money it seems quite possible to lead for years together a life of unmixed gaiety with the exception of one solemn fact with which we are liable to be confronted with at any moment even in the midst of the most brilliant company or the most sparkling entertainment a man may fix his own times for admitting serious thought for attending public worship for prayer, for reading the bible all such matters he can defer to that convenient season which is so apt to never occur at all but he cannot defer, for one single moment the necessity of attending to a message which may come before he has finished reading this page this night shall thy soul be required of thee the ever present sense of this grim possibility has been in all ages note at the moment when I had written these words there was a knock at the door and a telegram was brought to me announcing the sudden death of a dear friend an incubus that men have striven to shake off few more interesting subjects of inquiry could be found by a student of history than the various weapons that have been used against this shadowy foe saddest of all must have been the thoughts of those who saw indeed an existence beyond the grave, but an existence far more terrible than annihilation an existence as filmy impalpable, all but invisible spectres drifting about through endless ages in a world of shadows with nothing to do, nothing to hope for nothing to love in the midst of the gay verse of the genial bon vivant horus there stands one dreary word whose utter sadness goes to one's heart it is the word exilium in the well-known passage omnes e ordem ogin wood omnium where sata unes erus ocuse soes exetora et nos in iternum exilium imposetora kimbae yes to him this present life spite of all its weariness and all its sorrow was the only life worth having all else was exile does it not seem almost incredible that one holding such a creed should ever have smiled a many in this day I fear even though believing in an existence beyond the grey far more real than horus ever dreamed of, yet regarded as a sort of exile from all the joys of life and so adopt horus's theory and say, let us eat and drink for tomorrow we die we go to entertainment such as the theatre I say we, for I also go to the play whenever I get a chance of seeing a really good one and keep at arm's length, if possible the thought that we may not return alive yet how do you know, dear friend whose patience has carried you through this garrulous preface that it may not be your lot when mirth is fastest and most furious to feel the sharp pang or the deadly fakeness which heralds the final crisis to see, with vague wonder anxious friends bending over you to hear their troubled whispers perhaps yourself to shake the question with trembling lips is it serious, and to be told yes, the end is near and oh, how different all life will look when those words are said but all this may not happen to you this night and dare you, knowing this, say to yourself well, perhaps it is an immoral play perhaps the situations are a little too risky the dialogue a little too strong the business a little too suggestive I don't say that conscience is quite easy but the piece is so clever I must see it this once I'll begin a stricter life tomorrow tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow who sins in hope who sinning says who sin God's judgment stays against God's spirity lies quite stops, mercy with insult dares and drops, like a scorched fly that spins in vain upon the axis of its pain then takes its doom to limp and crawl blind and forgot from fall to fall let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought of the possibility of death if calmly realised and steadily faced would be one of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene of amusement right or wrong if the thought of sudden death acquires for you, a special horror when imagined as happening in a theatre then be very sure the theatre is harmful for you however harmless it may be for others and that you are incurring a deadly peril in going be sure the safest rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we dare not die but, once realised what the true object is in life that it is not pleasure, not knowledge not even fame itself but that it is the development of character the rising to a higher noble pure standard the building up of the perfect man and then, so long as we feel that this is going on and will, we trust go on forever more death has for us no terror it is not a shadow, but a light not an end, but a beginning one other matter may perhaps seem to call for apology that I should have treated with such entire want of sympathy the British passion for sport which no doubt has been in bygone days and is still, in some forms of it an excellent school for hardyhood and for coolness in moments of danger but I am not entirely without sympathy for genuine sport I can heartily admire the courage of the man who with severe bodily toil and at the risk of his life hunts down some man-eating tiger and I can heartily sympathise with him when he exalts in the glorious excitement of the chase and the hand-to-hand struggle with the monster brought to bay but I can look with deep wonder and sorrow on the hunter who, at his ease and in safety, can find pleasure in what involves, for some defenceless creature wild terror and a death of agony deeper if the hunter be one who has pledged himself to preach to men the religion of universal love deepest of all if it be one of those tender and delicate beings whose very name serves as a symbol of love thy love to me was wonderful passing the love of women whose mission here is surely to help and comfort all that are in pain or sorrow Farewell, farewell but this I tell to thee thy wedding-guest he prayeth well, who loveth well both man and bird and beast he prayeth best, who loveth best all things both great and small for, dear God, who loveth us he maiden loveth all End of Preface Recording by Lucy Perry in Bath on May 11th, 2009 Chapter 1 of Sylvie and Bruno This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Claire Gauget Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 1 Less Bread, More Taxes And then all the people cheered again and one man who was more excited than the rest flung his hat high into the air and shouted, as well as I can make out Who roared for the subwarden? Everybody roared, but whether it was for the subwarden or not did not clearly appear. Some were shouting, Bread! And some, Taxes! But no one seemed to know what it was they really wanted. All this I saw from the open window of the warden's breakfast saloon looking across the shoulder of the Lord Chancellor who had sprung to his feet the moment the shouting began almost as if he had been expecting it and had rushed to the window which commanded the best view of the marketplace. What can it all mean? He kept repeating to himself as with his hands clasped behind him and his gown floating in the air he paced rapidly up and down the room. I never heard such shouting before and at this time of the morning too and was such unanimity. Doesn't it strike you as very remarkable? I represented modestly that to my ears it appeared that they were shouting for different things but the Chancellor would not listen to my suggestion for a moment. They all shout the same words, I assure you, he said then leaning well out of the window he whispered to a man who was standing close underneath. Keep him together, can't you? The warden will be here directly. Give him the signal for the march up. All this was evidently not meant for my ears but I could scarcely help hearing it considering that my chin was almost on the Chancellor's shoulder. The march up was a very curious sight. A straggling procession of men marching two and two began from the other side of the marketplace and advanced in an irregular zigzag fashion towards the palace wildly tacking from side to side like a sailing vessel making way against an unfavorable wind so that the head of the procession was often further from us at the end of one track than it had been at the end of the previous one. Yet it was evident that all was being done under orders for I noticed that all eyes were fixed on the man who stood just under the window and to whom the Chancellor was continually whispering. This man held his hat in one hand and a little green flag in the other whenever he waved the flag the procession advanced a little nearer. When he dipped it they sidled a little farther off and whenever he waved his hat they all raised a horse cheer. Hoorah! they cried, carefully keeping in time with the hat as it bobbed up and down. Hoorah! No! Consti! Tushan! Less! Bread! More! Taxes! That'll do! That'll do! the Chancellor whispered. Let him rest a bit till I give you the word. He's not here yet. He was holding doors of the saloon where flung open and he turned with a guilty start to receive his high excellency. However it was only Bruno and the Chancellor gave a little gasp of relieved anxiety. Morning said the little fellow addressing the remark in a general sort of way to the Chancellor and the waiters. Do you know where Sylvie is? I'll look for Sylvie! She's with the warden, I believe, Your Highness. The Chancellor replied with a low bow.  Still, large excuse must be made for man who had passed several years at the court of Fairyland, and had there acquired the most impossible art of pronouncing five syllables as one. But the bow was lost upon Bruno who had run out of the room even while the great feat wasumpently performed. Just then a single voice in the distance was understood to shout, a speech from the Chancellor. Certainly, my friends, the Chancellor replied with extraordinary promptitude, you shall have a speech. Here one of the waiters who had been for some minutes busy making a queer-looking mixture of egg and sherry respectfully presented it on a large silver salver. The Chancellor took it haughtily, drank it off thoughtfully, smiled benevolently and a happy waiter as he set down the empty glass and began. To the best of my recollection this is what he said, ahem, ahem, ahem, fellow sufferers, or rather suffering fellows. Don't call them names, muttered the man under the window. I didn't say felons, the Chancellor explained. You may be sure that I always simpah. Earier shouted the crowd so loudly as quite to drown the orator's thin squeaky voice, always simpah, he repeated. Don't simpah quite so much, said the man under the window. It makes your look a-hitty it. And all this time, earier went rumbling round the marketplace like a peel of thunder. That I always sympathize, yelled the Chancellor, the first moment there was silence. But your true friend is the sub-warden. Day and night he is brooding on your wrongs. I should say your rights. That is to say your wrongs. No, I mean your rights. Don't talk no more, growled the man under the window. You're making a mess of it! At this moment the sub-warden entered the saloon. He was a thin man with a mean and crafty face and a greenish-yellow complexion, and he crossed the room very slowly, looking suspiciously about him, as if he thought there might be a savage dog hidden somewhere. Bravo! he cried, patting the Chancellor on the back. You did that speech very well indeed. Why, you're a born orator man. I think the Chancellor replied modestly with downcast eyes. Most orators are born, you know. The sub-warden thoughtfully rubbed his chin. Why, so they are, he admitted. I never considered it in that light. Still, you did it very well. A word in your ear. The rest of their conversation was all in whispers, so as I could hear no more I thought I would go and find Bruno. I found the little fellow standing in the passage and being addressed by one of the men in library, who stood before him, nearly bent double with the same respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like the fins of a fish. His high excellency, this respectful man was saying, is in his study, your Highness. He didn't pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor. Further Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him. The warden, a tall, dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face, was seated before a writing-table which was covered with papers and holding on his knee one of the sweetest it has ever been my lot to see. She looked four or five years older than Bruno but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes and the same wealth of curly brown hair. Her eager, smiling face was turned upwards towards her father's and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love with which the two faces, one in the spring of life, the other in its late autumn, were gazing on each other. No, you've never seen him, the old man was saying. You couldn't, you know.  Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee and a good deal of kissing on a rather complicated system was the result.  He's been travelling post-haste for the last thousand miles or so in order to be here on Sylvie's birthday. But he's a very early riser and I dare say he's in the library already. Come with me and see him. He's always kind to children. You'll be sure to like him. Has the other professor come too? Bruno asked in an awestruck voice. Yes, they arrived together. The other professor is, well, you won't like him quite so much perhaps. He's a little more dreamy, you know. I was Sylvie was a little more dreamy, said Bruno. What do you mean Bruno? said Sylvie. Bruno went on addressing his father. She says she can't, you know, but I think it isn't. It won't. She says she can't dream, repeated. She do say it, Bruno persisted. Where I says to her, let's stop lessons.  He always wants to stop lessons, Sylvie explained, five minutes after we begin. Five minutes lessons a day, cried the warden. You won't learn much at that rate, little man. That's just what Sylvie says, Bruno rejoined. She says I won't learn my lessons and I tells her over and over and what do you think she says? She says it isn't, can't, it won't. Let's go and see the professor, the warden said, wisely avoiding further discussion. The children got down off his knees, each secured a hand, and the happy trio set off for the library, followed by me. I had come to the conclusion by this time that none of the party, except for a few moments the Lord Chancellor was in the least able to see me. What's the matter with him, Sylvie asked, walking with a little extra sedatedness by way of example to Bruno, at the other side, who never ceased jumping up and down. What was the matter, but I hope he's all right now, was lumbago and rheumatism and that kind of thing. He's been curing himself, you know, he's a very learned doctor, why he's actually invented three new diseases besides a new way of breaking your collarbone. Is it a nice way, said Bruno? Well, not very, the warden said as we entered the library, and there is the professor. Good morning, professor. Hope you're quite rested after your journey. A jolly looking fat little man in a flowery dressing gown with a large book under each arm came trotting in at the other end of the room and was going straight across without taking any notice of the children. I'm looking for volume three, he said. Do you happen to have seen it? You don't see my children, professor, the warden exclaimed, taking him by the shoulders and turning him round to face them. The professor laughed violently, then he gazed at them through his great spectacles for a minute or two without speaking. At last he addressed Bruno. I hope you have had a good night, my child. Bruno looked puzzled. I has had the same night of overhead, he replied. There's only been one night since yesterday. It was the professor's turn to look puzzled now. He took off his spectacles and rubbed them with his handkerchief. Then he gazed at them again, then he turned to the warden. Are they bound, he inquired. No, we aren't, said Bruno, who thought himself quite able to answer this question. The professor shook his head sadly. Not even half-bound? Why would we be half-bound, said Bruno? We're not prisoners. But the professor had forgotten all about them by this time and was speaking to the warden again. You'll be glad to hear, he was saying, that the barometer's beginning to move. Well, which way, said the warden, adding to the children, not that I care, you know, only he thinks it affects the weather. He's a wonderfully clever man, you know. Sometimes he says things that only the other professor can understand. Sometimes he says things that nobody can understand. Which way is it, professor, up or down? Neither, said the professor, gently clapping his hands. It's going sideways, if I may so express myself. And what kind of weather does that produce, said the warden? Listen, children, now you'll hear something worth knowing. Horizontal weather, said the professor, and made straight for the door, very nearly trampling on Bruno, who had only just time to get out of his way. Isn't he learned, the warden said, looking after him with admiring eyes? Positively, he runs over with learning. But he didn't run over me, said Bruno. The professor was back in a moment. He had changed his dressing gown for a frock coat, and had put on a pair of very strange-looking boots, the tops of which were open umbrellas. I thought you'd like to see them, he said. These are the boots for horizontal weather. But what's the use of wearing umbrellas round one's knees? In ordinary rain, the professor admitted, they would not be of much use. But if it ever rained horizontally, you know, they would be invaluable, simply invaluable. Take the professor to the breakfast-loon children, said the warden, and tell them not to wait for me. I had breakfast early, as I've had some business to attend to. The children seized the professor's hand, as familiarly as if they had known him for years, and hurried him away. And respectfully behind. End of Chapter 1. Less Bread, More Taxes. Recording by Claire Gauget. Chapter 2. 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 Claire Gauget. Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll. Chapter 2. L'Amie Unconnu. As we entered the breakfast-loon, the professor was saying, and he had breakfast by himself early, so he begged you wouldn't wait for him, my lady. This way, my lady, he added, this way, and then with, as it seemed to me, most superfluous politeness, he flung open the door of my compartment and ushered in. A young and lovely lady, I muttered to myself with some bitterness. And this is, of course, the opening scene that she is the heroine, and I am one of those subordinate characters that only turn up when needed for the development of her destiny, and whose final appearance is outside the church waiting to greet the happy pair. Yes, my lady, change at Fayfield, were the next words I heard. Oh, that too obsequious guard! Next station but one, and the door closed, and the lady settled down into her corner and the monotonous throb of the engine, making one feel as if the train was a monster whose very circulation we could feel, proclaimed that we were once more speeding on our way.  And here it occurred to me to see for myself what the lady was really like would be more satisfactory than much speculation. I looked round cautiously and was entirely disappointed of my hope. The veil which shrouded her whole face was too thick for me to see the glitter of bright eyes and the hazy outline of what might be a lovely oval face, but might also unfortunately be an equally unlovely one. I closed my eyes again saying to myself, couldn't have a better chance for an experiment in telepathy. I'll think out her face and afterwards test the portrait with the original. At first no result at all crowned my efforts. Though I divided my swift mind now hither now thither in a way that I felt sure would have made my way of envy. But the dimly seen oval remained as provokingly blank as ever, a mere ellipse as if in some mathematical diagram without even the foci that might be made to do duty as a nose and a mouth. Gradually however the conviction came upon me that I could, by a certain concentration of thought, think the veil away and so get a glimpse of the mysterious face. As to which the two questions, is she pretty and is she plain, still hung and did in my mind in beautiful equipose. Success was partial and fitful, still there was a result. Ever in a non the veil seemed to vanish in a sudden flash of light. But before I could fully realize the face all was dark again.  So either I have been dreaming about Sylvie I said to myself and this is the reality or else I've really been with Sylvie and this is a dream his life itself a dream I wonder. To occupy the time I got out the letter which had caused me to take this sudden railway journey from my London home down to a strange fishing town on the north coast and read it over again. Dear old friend I'm sure it will be as great a pleasure to me as it can possibly be to you to meet once more after so many years. And of course I shall be ready to give you all the benefit of such medical skill as I have only you know one mustn't violate professional etiquette and you are already in the hands of a first rate London doctor with whom it would be utter affection for me to pretend to compete. I make no doubt he is right in saying the heart is affected all your symptoms point that way. One thing at any rate I have already done is my doctoral capacity. Secured you a bedroom on the ground floor so that you will not need to ascend the stairs at all. I shall expect you by last train on Friday in accordance with your letter, until then I shall say in the words of the old song, O for Friday niche Friday's Langa coming. Yours always. Arthur Forester P.S. Do you believe in fate? This post-script puzzled me sorely. He is far too sensible a man I thought to have become a fatalist and yet what else can he mean by it? And as I folded up the letter and put it away I inadvertently repeated the words aloud. Do you believe in fate? The fair incognita turned her head quickly at the sudden question. No I don't, she said with a smile. Do you? I—I didn't mean to ask the question, I stammered. A little taken aback at having begun a conversation in so unconventional a fashion. The lady's smile became a laugh, not a mocking laugh, but the laugh of a happy child who was perfectly at her ease. Didn't you? she said. Then it was a case of what you doctors call unconscious celebration. I am no doctor, I replied. Do I look so like one? Or what makes you think it? She pointed to the book I had been reading, which was so lying that its title, Diseases of the Heart, was plainly visible. One needed to be a doctor, I said, to take an interest in medical books. There's another class of readers who are yet deeply interested. You mean the patients, she interrupted, while a look of the tender pity gave new sweetness to her face. But, with an evident wish to avoid a possibly painful topic, one needed to be either to take an interest in books of science. Which contain the greatest amounts of science do you think the books are the minds? Rather a profound question for a lady, I said to myself, holding with her the conceit so natural to a man, that women's project is essentially shallow. And I considered a minute before replying. If you mean living minds, I don't think it's possible to decide. There's so much written science that no living person has ever read, and there's so much thought out science that hasn't yet been written. But if you mean the whole human race, then I think the minds have it. Everything recorded in books must have been written in some mind, you know. Isn't that rather like one of the rules in Algebra, my lady inquired? Algebra too, I thought, with increasing wonder. I mean, if we consider thoughts as factors, may we not say that the least common multiple of all the minds contains that of all the books, but not the other way? Certainly we may, I replied, delighted with the illustration. And what a grand thing it would be, I went undreamily, thinking aloud rather than talking, if we could only apply that rule to books. You know, in finding the least common multiple we strike out a quantity from where it is raised to its highest power. So we should have to erase every recorded thought except in the sentence where it is expressed with the greatest intensity. My lady laughed merrily. Some books would be reduced to blank paper, I'm afraid, she said. They would, most libraries would be terribly diminished in bulk, but just think what they would gain in quality. When will it be done? she eagerly asked. If there's any chance of it in my time, I think I'll leave off reading it. Well, perhaps in another thousand years or so. Then there's no use waiting, said my lady. Let's sit down. Uggug, my pet, come and sit by me. Anywhere but by me, growled the subwarden. The little wretch always manages to upset his coffee. I guessed it once, as perhaps the reader will also have guessed. If like myself he is very clever at drawing conclusions, that my lady was the subwarden's wife and that Uggug, a hideous fat boy about the same age as Sylvie, with the expression of a prized pig, was their son. Sylvie and Bruna, with the Lord Chancellor, made up a party of seven. And you actually got a plunge bath every morning, said the subwarden, seemingly in continuation of a conversation with the professor. Even at the little roadside ins? Oh, certainly, certainly the professor replied with a smile on his jolly face. Allow me to explain. It is in fact a very simple problem in hydrodynamics. That means a combination of water and strength. If we take a plunge bath and a man of great strength, such as myself, about to plunge into it, we have a perfect example of the science. I am bound to admit, the professor continued in a lower tone and with downcast eyes, that we need a man of remarkable strength. He must be able to spring from the floor to about twice his own height, gradually turning over as he rises, so as to come down again headfirst. While you need a flea, not a man, exclaimed the subwarden. Pardon me, said the professor. This particular kind of bath is not adapted for a flea, let us suppose he continued folding his table napkin into a graceful festoon. That this represents what is perhaps the necessity of this age, the active tourist's portable bath. You may describe it briefly if you like, looking at the chancellor by the letters A-T-P-B. The chancellor, much disconcerted finding everybody looking at him, could only murmur in a shy whisper. Precisely so. One great advantage of this plunge bath continued the professor, is that it requires only half a gallon of water. I don't call it a plunge bath, his subexcellency remarked, unless your active tourist goes right under. But he does go right under, the old man gently replied. The A-T hangs up the P-B on a nail, thus he then empties the water jug into it, places the empty jug below the bag, leaps into the air, descends head first into the bag, the water rises round him to the top of the bag, and there you are. He triumphantly concluded. The A-T is as much underwater as if he'd gone a mile or two down into the Atlantic. And he's drowned, let us say, in about four minutes. By no means the professor answered with a proud smile. After about a minute he quietly turns a tap at the lower end of the P-B. All the water runs back into the jug, and there you are again. But how in the world is he to get out of the bag again? That, I take it, said the professor, is the most beautiful part of the whole invention. All the way up the P-B inside are loops for the thumbs, so it's something like going upstairs, only perhaps less comfortable, and by the time the A-T has risen out of the bag, all but his head he's sure to topple over one way or the other. The law of gravity secures that. And there he is on the floor again. A little bruised perhaps? Well, yes, a little bruised, but having had his plunge bath, that's the great thing. Wonderful, it's almost beyond belief, murmured the sub-warden. The professor took it as a compliment and bowed with a gratified smile. Quite beyond belief, my lady added, meaning no doubt to be more complimentary still. The professor bowed, but he didn't smile this time. I can assure you, he said earnestly, that provided the bath was made, I used it every morning. I certainly ordered it, that I am clear about. My only doubt is whether the man ever finished making it. It's difficult to remember after so many years. At this moment the door, very slowly and creakingly, began to open, and Sylvie and Bruno jumped up and ran to meet the well-known footsteps. End of Chapter 2 L'Amie incognue Recording by Claire Gauget Chapter 3 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 Claire Gauget Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 3 Birthday Presence It's my brother, the sub-warden exclaimed in a warning whisper, speak out and be quick about it. The appeal was evidently addressed to the Lord Chancellor, who instantly replied in a shrill monotone like a little boy repeating the alphabet. As I was remarking your sub-excellency, this portentuous movement, you began too soon, the other interrupted, scarcely able to restrain himself to a whisper, so great was his excitement. He couldn't have heard you. Begin again. As I was remarking, chanted the obedient Lord Chancellor, this portentious movement has already assumed the dimensions of a revolution. And what are the dimensions of a revolution? The voice was pale and mellow, and the face of the tall, dignified old man who had just entered the room, leading Sylvie by the hand, and with Bruno riding triumphantly on his shoulder was too noble and gentle to have scared a less guilty man. But the Lord Chancellor turned pale instantly, and could hardly articulate the words. The dimensions your high excellency, I scarcely comprehend. Well, the length, breadth, and width, if you like it better. And the old man smiled half contemptuously. The Lord Chancellor recovered himself with a great effort and pointed to the open window. If your high excellency will listen for a moment to the shouts of the exasperated populace, sub-ward and repeated in a louder tone, as the Lord Chancellor, being in a state of abject terror, had dropped almost into a whisper, you will understand what it is they want. And at that moment they're urged into the room a hoarse confused cry in which the only clearly audible words were, less bread, more taxes. The old man laughed heartily. What in the world he was beginning, but the Chancellor heard him not. Some mistake he muttered hurrying to the window from which he shortly returned with an air of relief. Now listen, he exclaimed holding up his hand impressively, and now the words came quite distinctly with the regularity of a ticking of a clock. More bread, less taxes. More bread, the warden repeated in astonishment. Why, the new government bakery was opened only last week, and I gave orders to sell the bread at cost price during the present scarcity. What can they expect more? The bakeries closed, Your Highness, the Chancellor said, more loudly and clearly than he had spoken yet. He was emboldened by the consciousness of evidence to produce, and he placed in the warden's hands a few printed notices that were lying ready with some open ledgers on a side table. Yes, yes, I see the warden muttered, glancing carelessly through them. Order countermanded by my brother and supposed to be my doing. Rather sharp practice. It's all right, he added in a louder tone. My name is signed to it, so I take it on myself. But what do you mean by less practices? How can they be less? I abolished the last of them a month ago. It's been put on again, Your Highness, and by Your Highness's own orders. And other printed notices were submitted for inspection. The warden whilst looking them over glanced once or twice at the sub-warden, who had seated himself before one of the open ledgers, and was quite absorbed in adding it up. But he merely repeated. It's all right, I accept it as my doing. I do say, the Chancellor went on sheepishly, looking much more like a convicted thief than an officer of the State, that a change of government by the abolition of the sub-warden, I mean, he hastily added, on seeing the warden's look of astonishment, the abolishment of the office of sub-warden, and giving the present holder the right to act as vice-warden whenever the warden is absent, would appease all this seedling discontent. I mean, he added, glancing at a paper he held in his hand, all this seething discontent. For fifteen years, put in a deep but very harsh voice, my husband has been acting as sub-warden. It is too long, it is much too long. My lady was a vast creature at all times, but when she frowned and folded her arms as now, she looked more gigantic than ever, and made one try to fancy what a haystack would look like if out of temper.  There has been no such vice in Outland for many a long year as he would be. What course would you suggest, sister, the warden mildly inquired? My lady stamped, which was undignified, and snorted, which was ungraceful. This is no jesting matter, she bellowed. I will consult my brother, said the warden. Brother! And seven makes and ninety-four, which is sixteen and two pence, the sub-warden replied. Put down two, and carry sixteen. The chancellor raised his hands and eyebrows, lost in admiration. Such a man of business, he murmured. Brother, could I have a word with you in my study? The warden said in a louder tone. The sub-warden rose with alacrity, and the two left the room together. My lady turned to the professor, who had uncovered the urn, and was taking its temperature in a pocket thermometer. Professor, she began so loudly and suddenly that even a gug, who had gone to sleep in his chair, left off snoring and opened one eye. The professor pocketed his thermometer in a moment, clasped his hands, and put his head on one side with a meek smile. You were teaching my son before breakfast, I believe, my lady loftily remarked. I hope he strikes you as having talent. Oh, very much so indeed, my lady, the professor hastily replied, unconsciously rubbing his ear, while some painful recollection seemed to cross his mind. I was very forcibly struck by his magnificence, I assure you. He is a charming boy, my lady exclaimed. Even his snores are more musical than those of other boys. If that were so, the professor seemed to think the snores of other boys must be something too awful to be endured. But he was a cautious man, and he said nothing. My lady continued, no one will enjoy your lecture more. By the way, have you fixed the time for it yet? You've never given one you know, and it was promised years ago before you, yes, yes, my lady, I know, perhaps next Tuesday or Tuesday week. That will do very well, said my lady graciously. Of course you will let the other professor lecture as well. I think not, my lady, the professor said with some hesitation. You see, he always stands with his back to the audience. It does very well for reciting, but for lecturing. You are quite right, said my lady. And now I come to think of it, there would hardly be time for more than one lecture. And it will go off all the better if we begin with a banquet, and a fancy-dressed bowl. It will indeed the professor cried with enthusiasm. I shall come as a grasshopper, my lady calmly proceeded. What shall you come as, professor? The professor smiled feebly. I shall come as early as I can, my lady.  I can't, said the professor. Excuse me a moment. As this is Lady Sylvie's birthday, I would like to, and he rushed away. Bruno began feeling in his pockets, looking more and more melancholy as he did so. Then he put his thumb in his mouth, and considered for a moment. Then he quietly left the room. And so before the professor was back again, quite out of breath.  Allow me to give you a birthday present. It's a second-hand pin-cushed, my dear, and it only costs four pence half-penny. Thank you, it's very pretty, and Sylvie rewarded the old man with a hearty kiss. And the pins they gave me for nothing, the professor added in high glee, fifteen of them, and only one bent. I'll make the bent one into a hook, said Sylvie, to catch Bruno with when he runs away from his lessons. You can't guess what my present is at a gug who had taken the butter-dish from the table, and was standing behind her with a wicked leer on his face. No, I can't guess, Sylvie said without looking up, she was still examining the professor's pin-cushion. It's this, cried the bad boy, exultingly as he emptied the dish over her, and then, with a grin of delight at his own cleverness, looked round for applause. Sylvie colored crimson, as she took off the butter from her frock, but she kept her lips tight shut and walked away to the window where she stood looking out and trying to recover her temper. Uggug's triumph was a very short one. The sub-warden had returned just in time to be a witness of this dear child's playfulness, and in another moment his eyes on the ear had changed his grin of delight into a howl of pain.  Did they box his ears for nothing, a precious pet? It's not for nothing, growled the angry father. Are you aware, madam, that I pay the house bills out of a fixed annual sum? The loss of all that wasted butter falls on me. My darling! The sub-warden was a very good hand, changing a subject. He walked across to the window. My dear, he said, is that a pig that I see down below rooting about among your flowerbeds? A pig! shrieked my lady, rushing in to the window. My darling! The sub-warden was a very good hand, changing a subject. He walked across to the window. A pig! shrieked my lady, rushing madly to the window, and almost pushing her husband out in her anxiety to see for herself. Whose pig is that? How did it get in? Where's that crazy gardener gone? At this moment Bruno re-entered the room, and passing Uggug, who was blubbering his loudest in the hope of attracting notice. As if he was quite used to that sort of thing, he ran up to Sylvie and threw his arms around her. A beautiful face. To see if there is something for a present for Uggug, and there isn't nothing. It's all broken, every one, and I haven't got no money left to buy you a birthday present, and I can't give Uggug nothing but this. This was a very earnest hug and a kiss. Oh, thank you, darling, cried Sylvie. I like your present best of all. But if so, why did she give it back so quickly? His sub-excellency turned and patted the two children on the head with his long, lean hands. Go away, dears, he said. There's no business to talk over. Sylvie and Bruno went away hand in hand. But on reaching the door, Sylvie came back again and went up to Uggug timidly. I don't mind about the butter, she said, and I—I'm sorry, he hurt you. And she tried to shake hands with the little ruffian, but Uggug only blubbered louder and wouldn't make friends. Sylvie left the room with a sigh. He was very angrily at his weeping son. Leave the room, sirrah, he said, as loud as he dared. His wife was still leaning out of the window and kept repeating, I can't see that pig, where is it? It's moved to the right. Now it's gone a little to the left, said the sub-warden. But he had his back to the window and was making signals to the Lord Chancellor pointing to Uggug in the door with many a cunning nod and wink. The Chancellor caught his meaning at last by that interesting child by the ear. The next moment he and Uggug were out of the room, and the door shut behind them, but not before one piercing yell had rung through the room and reached the ears of the fond mother. What is that hideous noise, she fiercely asked, turning upon her startled husband? It's some hyena or other, replied the sub-warden, looking vaguely up to the ceiling, as if that was where they usually were to be found. Let us do business, my dear, from the warden. And he picked up from the floor a wandering scrap of manuscript on which I just caught the words. After which election, Dooley Holden, the said cibimet and Tabacat, his wife, may at their pleasure assume imperial before with a guilty look he crumpled it up in his hand. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Sylveon 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 Emily Whitworth Sylveon Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 4 A Cunning Conspiracy The warden entered at this moment and close behind him came the Lord Chancellor, a little flushed and out of breath and adjusting his wig which appeared to have been dragged partly off his head. But where is my precious child? The lady inquired, as the four took their seats at the small side table devoted to ledgers and bundles and bills. He left the room a few minutes ago with the Lord Chancellor, the sub-warden briefly explained. Ah! said my lady, graciously smiling on that high official. Your lordship has a very taking way with children. I doubt if anyone could gain the ear of my darling Uggug so quickly as you can.  The Chancellor bowed but with a very uneasy air. I think the warden was about to speak. He remarked, evidently anxious to change the subject. But my lady would not be checked. He is a clever boy. She continued with enthusiasm. But he needs a man like your lordship to draw him out. The Chancellor bit his lip and was silent.  He might have spared himself all anxiety. Whatever accidental meaning her words might have she herself never meant anything at all. It's all settled, the warden announced, wasting no time over preliminaries. The sub-wardenship is abolished and my brother is appointed to act as vice-warden whenever I am absent. So as I am going abroad for a while he will enter on his new duties at once. And there will really be a vice after all, my lady inquired. I hope so, the warden smilingly replied. My lady looked much pleased and tried to clap her hands and knocked two feather beds together for any noise it made. When my husband is a vice, she said it will be the same as if we had a hundred vices. Hear, hear, replied the sub-warden. You seem to think it very remarkable, my lady replied with some severity that your wife should speak the truth. No, no, not remarkable at all, her husband anxiously explained. Nothing is remarkable that you say, sweet one. My lady smiled approval of the sentiment and went on. And am I vice-warden-ness? If you choose to use that title, said the warden, but your excellency will be the proper style of address. And I trust that both his excellency and her excellency will observe the agreement I have drawn up. The provision I am most anxious about is this. He enrolled a large parchment scroll and read aloud the words, item that we will be kind to the poor. He understood it for me. He added glancing at that great functionary. I suppose now that word item has some deep legal meaning. Undoubtedly, replied the Chancellor, as articulately as he could with a pen between his lips. He was nervously rolling and unrolling several other scrolls and making room among them for the one the warden had just handed to him. These are merely the rough copies, he explained. And as soon as I put in the final corrections, there was no question among the different parchments, a semicolon or two that I have accidentally admitted. Here he darted about, pen in hand from one part of the scroll to another, spreading sheets of blotting paper over his corrections. I'll be ready for signing. Should it not be read out first, my lady inquired. No need, no need. The sub-warden and the Chancellor exclaimed at the same moment with feverish eagerness. No need at all, the warden gently and I have gone through it together. It provides that he shall exercise the full authority of warden, and shall have the disposal of the annual revenue attached to the office until my return, or failing that until Bruno comes of age, and that he shall then hand over to myself what a Bruno as the case may be, the wardenship, the unspent revenue, and the contents of the treasury which are to be preserved intact under his guardianship. All this time the sub-warden was busy with the help, shifting the papers from side to side and pointing out to the warden a place where he was to sign. He then signed it himself, and my lady and the Chancellor added their names as witnesses. Short partings are best, said the warden. All is ready for my journey. My children are waiting below to see me off. He gravely kissed my lady, shook hands with his brother and a Chancellor, and left the room. All three waited in silence till the sound of wheels announced that the warden was out of hearing. Then, to my surprise, they broke into peals of uncontrollable laughter.  My lady was too dignified to skip, but she laughed like the naeing of a horse and waved her handkerchief above her head. It was clear to her very limited understanding that something very clever had been done, but what it was she had yet to learn. You said that I should hear all about it when the warden had gone, she remarked as soon as she could make herself heard. And so you shall, Tabby. Her husband graciously replied as he removed the blotting paper and showed the two parchment lying side by side. This is the one he read but didn't sign. And this is the one he signed but didn't read. You see, it was all covered up except the place for the signing of names. Yes, yes, my lady interrupted eagerly. And began comparing the two agreements. Hytom, that he shall exercise the authority of warden in the warden's absence. Why, that's been changed into shall be absolute governor for life with the title of Emperor if elected to that office by the people. What are you, Emperor, darling? Not yet, dear. The vice-warden replied, it won't do to let this paper be seen just a present all in good time. My lady nodded and read on. Hytom, that he shall exercise the authority of warden in the warden's absence. Why, that's admitted and read on. Hytom, that we will be kind to the poor. Why, that's admitted altogether. Of course it is, said her husband. We're not to bother about those wretches. Good, said my lady, with emphasis and read on again. Hytom, that the contents of the treasury may be preserved intact. Why, that's altered into shall be at the absolute disposal of the vice-warden. Well, silly, that was a clever trick. All the jewels only think. Hytom on directly. Well, not just yet, lovey. Her husband uneasily replied. You see, the public mind isn't quite right for that yet. We must feel our way. Of course we'll have the coach in four out at once. And I'll take the title of Emperor as soon as we can safely hold an election. But they'll hardly stand our using the jewels as long as they know the warden's alive. We must spread a report of his death. A little conspiracy. A conspiracy! A delighted lady, clapping her hands. Of all things, I do like a conspiracy. It is so interesting. The vice-warden and the chancellor interchanged a wink or two. Let her conspire to her heart's content. The cunning chancellor whispered, it'll do no harm. And when will the conspiracy- Shhh! Her husband hastily interrupted her as the door opened. And Sylvie and Bruno came in with their arms twined lovingly around each other. Bruno sobbing convulsingly with his face hidden on his sister's shoulder. And Sylvie, more of grave and quiet but with her tears streaming down her cheeks. Mustn't cry like that. The vice-warden said sharply but without any effect on the weeping children. Tear him up a bit. He hinted to my lady. Cake! My lady muttered to herself with great decision, crossing the room and opening a cupboard from which she presently returned with two slices of plum cake. They were short in simple orders and the poor children sat down side by side but seemed in no mood for eating. For the second time the door opened or was rather burst open this time as Uggug rushed violently into the room shouting, old beggars come again! He's not to have any food the vice-warden was beginning but the chancellor interrupted him. It's all right he said in a low voice servants have their orders. Uggug said who had gone to the window and was looking down into the courtyard. Where am I, darling? said his fond mother flinging her arms around the neck of the little monster. All of us, except Sylveon Bruno who took no notice of what was going on followed her to the window. The old beggar looked up at us with hungry eyes.  He was a fine old man but looked sadly ill and worn. A crust of bread is what I crave, he repeated.  Here's some water, drink this! Uggug bellowed, emptying a jug of water over his head. Well done, my boy! cried the vice-warden. That's the way to settle such folk. Clever boy! the warden has chimed in. Hasn't he good spirits? Take a stick to him! shouted the vice-warden as the old beggar shook the water from his ragged cloak and again gazed meekly upward. There was no red-hot poker to him, my lady again chimed in. Possibly there was no red-hot poker handy, but some sticks were forthcoming in a moment and threatening faces surrounded the poor old wanderer who waved him back with quiet dignity. No need to break my old bones, he said. I'm going, not even a crust.  Bruno was out the window trying to throw out his slice of plum-cake, but Sylvie held him back. You should have my cake! Bruno cried, passionately struggling out of Sylvie's arms. Yes, darling, yes, Sylvie gently pleaded, but don't throw it out. He's gone away, don't you see? Let's go after him. And she let him out of the room, unnoticed by the rest of the party who were wholly absorbed in watching the old beggar. The conspirators resumed their seats and continued their conversation in an undertone so as not to be heard by Agog who was still standing at the window. By the way, there was something about Bruno succeeding in the warden-ship, said my lady. How does that stand in the new agreement? The chancellor chuckled just the same word for word, he said, with one exception, my lady. Instead of Bruno, I have taken a liberty to put in, he dropped his voice to a whisper, to put in Agog, you know. Indeed, I exclaimed, in a burst of indignation I could no longer control. To bring out even that one word seemed a gigantic effort, but the cry once uttered all effort ceased at once. A sudden gust swept away the whole scene and I found myself sitting up, staring at the young lady in the opposite corner of the carriage who had now thrown back her veil and was looking at me with an expression of amused surprise. Chapter 4 A Cunning Conspiracy Recording by Emily Whitworth Chapter 5 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 Emily Whitworth Sylvie and Bruno By Lewis Carroll Chapter 5 A Beggar's Palace Chapter 6 I hope I didn't frighten you. I stammered out at last. I have no idea what I said. I was dreaming. You said, a gug indeed, the young lady replied, with grivering lips that would curve themselves into a smile in spite of all of her efforts to look grave. At least I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to say. I don't know what efforts to look grave. At least you didn't say it. You shouted it. I am very sorry, was all I could say, feeling very penitent and helpless. She has Sylvie's eyes, I thought to myself, half doubting whether even now I were fairly awake. And that sweet look of innocent wonder is all Sylvie's too. But Sylvie hasn't got that calm, resolute mouth nor that far away look of dreamy sadness, like one that has had some deep sorrow very long ago. And the thick-coming fancies almost prevented my hearing the lady's next words. If you had a shilling dreadful in your hand, she proceeded, something about ghosts or dynamite or midnight murder, one could understand it. Those things aren't worth the shilling unless they give one a nightmare. But really, with only a medical treatise, you know? And she glanced with a pretty shrug of content at the book over which I had fallen asleep.  I guessed her at scarcely over twenty, all was the innocent frankness of some angelic visitant new to the ways of earth and the conventionalisms, or, if you will, the barbarisms of society. Even so, I'm used, will Sylvie look and speak in another ten years. You don't care for ghosts then, I venture to suggest, unless they are really terrifying. Quite so, the lady ascended. The regular railway ghosts I mean the ghosts of ordinary railway literature are very poor fares. I feel inclined to say, with Alexander Selkirk, their tameness is shocking to me. They never do any midnight murders. They couldn't welter and gore to save their lives. Weltering and gore is a very expressive phrase, certainly. Can it be done in any fluid, I wonder? I think not, the lady replied readily, quite as if she had thought it out long ago. It has to be something thick. For instance, you might welter in bread-sauce that, being white, would be a more suitable for a ghost, supposing it wished to welter. You have a real good terrifying ghost in that book, I hinted. How could you guess? She exclaimed with a most engaging frankness, and placed the volume in my hands. I opened it eagerly, with not an unpleasant thrill like what a good ghost story gives one, at the uncanny coincidence of my having so unexpectedly divined the subject of her studies. It was a book of domestic cookery, open at the article Bread-sauce. I returned the book, looking, I suppose, a little blank, as the lady laughed merrily at my discomforture. It's far more exciting than some of the modern ghosts, I assure you. Now, there was a ghost last month. I don't mean a real ghost in the super-nature, but in the magazine. It wasn't a ghost. It wasn't a ghost that one would even offer a chair to. Three score, years and ten. Baldness and spectacles have their advantages after all, I said to myself. Instead of a bashful youth and maiden gasping out monosyllables at awful intervals, here we have an old man and a child, quiet at their ease, talking as if they had known each other for years. Then you think, I continued aloud, that we ought sometimes to ask a ghost to come down. But have we any authority for it? In Shakespeare, for instance, there are plenty of ghosts there, does Shakespeare ever give the stage directions, hand to chair to ghost? The lady looked puzzled and thoughtful for a moment, and she almost clapped her hands. Yes, yes, he does, she cried. He makes Hamlet say, rest, rest, perturbed spirit. And that, I suppose, means an easy chair. An American rocking chair, I think. They feel junction, and the lady changed for Elbsdon. The guard announced, flinging open the door of the carriage, and we soon found ourselves with all of our portable property around us on the platform. The accommodation provided for passengers waiting at this junction was distinctly inadequate, a single wooden bench, apparently intended for three-sitters only, and even this was already partially occupied by a very old man in a smock frock who sat with rounded shoulders and head, and with hands clasped on the top of his stick so as to make a sort of pillow for that wrinkled face with its look of patient weariness. Come, you be off, the station master roughly accosted the poor old man. You be off and make way for your betters. This way, my lady, he added in a perfectly different tone. If your lady's ship will take a seat, the train will be up in a few minutes. The cringing servility of his manner was due no doubt to the address which announced their owner to be Lady Muriel Orm, passenger to Elston via Fairfield Junction. As I watched the old man slowly rise to his feet and hobble a few paces down the platform, the lines came to my lips. From sack cloth couch the monk arose, with toil his stiffened limbs he reared. A hundred years had flung their snows on his thin locks and floating beard. But the lady scarcely noticed the little incident. After one glance at the banished man who stood tremulously leaning on his stick, she turned to me. This is not an American rocking chair by any means, yet may I say slightly changing her place so as to make room for me beside her. May I say in Hamlet's words rest rest, she broke off with a silvery laugh. For turbid spirit, I finished the sentence for her. Yes, that describes a railway traveler exactly. And here is an instance of it, I added, as the tiny local train drew up along the platform. And the porters bustled about, opening carriage doors, one of them helping the poor old man to hoist himself into a third-class carriage, while another of them obsequiously conducted the lady and myself into a first class. She paused before following him to watch the progress of the other passenger. Poor old man, she said, how weak was ashamed to let him be turned away like that. I'm very sorry. At this moment it dawned on me that these words were not addressed to me, but that she was unconsciously thinking aloud. I moved away a few steps and waited to follow her into the carriage, where I resumed the conversation. Shakespeare must have traveled by trail if only in a dream. Praturbid spirit is such a happy phrase. Praturbid referring, no doubt, she rejoined to the sensational booklets peculiar to the tale. If steam has done nothing else, it has at least added a whole new species to the English literature. No doubt of it, I echoed, the true origin of all our medical books and all our cookery books. No, no, she broken merely. I didn't mean our literature. We're quite abnormal, but the booklets, the little thrilling romances where the murder comes at page 15 and the wedding at page 40, surely they're due to steam. And when we travel by electricity, if I turn to develop your theory, we shall have leaflets instead of booklets, and the murder and wedding shall come on the same page. A development worthy of Darwin, the lady exclaimed enthusiastically, only you reverse the theory. Instead of developing a mouse into an elephant, he would develop an elephant into a mouse. But here we were plunged into a tunnel and I leaned back and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to recall a few of the incidents of my recent dream. I thought I saw, I murmured sleepily, and then the phrase insisted on conjugating itself and ran into you thought you saw, he thought he saw and then it suddenly went off into a song. He thought he saw an elephant that practiced on a fife. He looked again and found it was a letter from his wife. At length I realized he said the bitterness of life. And what a wild being it was who sang these wild words. A gardener he seemed to be yet surely a mad one. By the way he brandished his rake by the matter, by the way he broke ever and anon into a frantic jig madest of all by the shriek in which he brought out the last words of the stanza. It was so far a description of himself that he had the feet of an elephant but the rest of him was skin and bone and the wisps of loose straw that bristled all about him suggested that he had been originally stuffed with it and that nearly all the stuffing had come out. Sylvie and Bruno rated patiently until the end of the first verse. Then Sylvie advanced alone Bruno having suddenly turned shy and timidly introduced herself with the words, Please, I'm Sylvie. And who's that other thing? said the gardener. What thing? said Sylvie looking round. Oh, that's Bruno. He's my brother. Was he your brother yesterday? the gardener anxiously inquired. Of course I were. cried Bruno who had gradually crept near and didn't like it all being talked about without having to share in the conversation. Ah, well. the gardener said with a kind of groan. Things change so here whenever I look again it's sure to be something different. Yet I does my duty. I get up regularly at five. I was ooh, said Bruno. I wouldn't wiggle so early.  He added in an undertone to Sylvie. But you shouldn't be lazy in the morning Bruno, said Sylvie. Remember, it's the early bird that picks up the worm. It may if it likes. Bruno said with a slight yawn. I don't like eating worms one bit. I always stop in bed until the early bird has picked them up. I wonder you've the face to tell me such verbs. cried the gardener to which Bruno wisely replied. What doesn't want a face to tell Fibsworth?  Sylvie discreetly changed the subject. And did you plant all these flowers? she said. What a lovely garden you've made. Do you know I'd like to live here always? In the winter night the gardener was beginning. But I'd nearly forgotten what we came about, Sylvie interrupted. Would you please let us through into the road? There's a poor old beggar just gone out, and he's very hungry, and Bruno wants to give him his cake, you know. It's as much as my place is worth, the gardener muttered, taking a key from his pocket and beginning to unlock the door in the garden wall. How much is it woof? Bruno innocently inquired. But the gardener only grinned. That's a secret, he said. Mind you, come back quick. He called after the children as they passed out into the road. I had just time to follow them before he shut the door again. We hurried down the road, and very soon caught sight of the old beggar about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, and the children at once set off running to overtake him. Lightly and swiftly they skimmed over the ground, and I could not in the least understand how it was I kept up with him so easily. But the unsolved problem did not worry me so much, as at another time it might have done. There were so many other things to attend to. The old beggar must have been very deaf, as he paid no attention whatsoever to Bruno's eager shouting, but trudged wearily on, never pausing until the child got in front of him and held up the slice of cake. The poor little fellow was quite out of breath, and could only utter the one word cake, not with a gloomy decision with which her excellency had so lately pronounced it, but with a sweet childish schmiddity, looking up into the great old man's face through the eyes that loved all things, both great and small. The old man snatched it from him and devoured it greedily, as some hungry wild beast might have done, but never a word of thanks did he give his little benefactor, only growled, More, more! and glared at the half-rightened children. There is no more, Sylvie said with tears in her eyes, I'd eaten mine. It was a shame to let you be turned away like that, I'm very sorry. I lost the rest of the sentence, and it recurred with a great shock of surprise to the Lady Muriel Orm, who had so lately uttered these very same words of Sylvie's. Yes, and in Sylvie's own voice, and with Sylvie's gentle, pleading eyes. Follow me, with the next words I heard, as the old man waved his hand with a dignified grace that ill-suited his ragged dress over a bush that stood in the roadside, which began instantly to sink into the earth. At another time I might have doubted the evidence of my eyes, at least I felt some astonishment, but in this strange scene, my whole being seemed absorbed in as strong curiosity as to what would happen next. When the bush had sunk quite out of our sight, marble steps were seen, leading downwards into darkness. The old man led the way, and we eagerly followed. The staircase was so dark at first, that I could only just see the forms of the children, as hand in hand they groped their way down after their guide. But it got lighter every moment, a strange silvery brightness that seemed to exist in the air, as there were no lamps visible, and when at last we reached the level floor, the room in which we found ourselves was almost as light as day. It was eight-sided, having in each angle a slender pillar, round which silken draperies were twined. The wall between the pillars was entirely covered to the height of six or seven feet, with creepers from which hung quantities of ripe fruits and brilliant flowers that almost hid the leaves. In another place, perchance, I might have wondered to see fruit and flowers growing together. Here, my chief wonder was that neither fruit nor flowers were such as I had ever seen before. Higher up, each wall contained a circular window of colored glass, and all over was an arched roof that seemed to be spangled all over with jewels. With hardly less wonder, I turned this way, and that, trying to make out how in the world we came in. But there was no door, and all the walls were thickly covered with the lovely creepers.  Sylvie drew back hastily with an offended air, but in another moment with a glad cry of, Why, it's Father! she had run into his arms. Father, Father! Bruno repeated, and while the happy children were hugged and kissed, I could but rub my eyes and say, Where, then, how are the rags gone to? For the old man was now dressed in royal robes that glittered with jewels and gold and embroidery and wore a circlet of gold around his head. End of Chapter 5 A beggar's palace Chapter 6 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 Emily Whitworth Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 6 The Magic Locket Where are we, Father? Sylvie whispered, with her arms twined closely around the old man's neck and with her rosy cheek lovingly pressed to his. In Elfland, darling, it's one of the provinces of Fairyland. But I thought Elfland was ever so far from Elfland, and we've come such a tiny little way. You came by the royal road, sweet one. Only those of royal blood can travel along it, but you've been royal ever since I was made king of Elfland, and that's nearly a month ago. They sent two ambassadors to make sure that their invitation to me to be their new king should reach me. One was a prince, so he was able to come by the royal road and to come invisibly to all but me. The other was a baron, so he had to come by the common road, and I daresay he hasn't even arrived yet. Then how far have we come, Sylvie inquired? Just a thousand miles, sweet one, since the gardener unlocked that door for you. A thousand miles, Bruno repeated. And may I eat one?  No, Cepuno.  Yes, child, to his father. And then you shall find out what pleasure is like, the pleasure we all seek so madly and enjoy so mournfully. Bruno ran eagerly to the wall and picked a fruit that was shaped something like a banana but had the colour of a strawberry. He ate it with beaming looks that became gradually more gloomy than a very blank indeed by the time he had finished. I hasn't got no taste at all, he complained. I couldn't feel nothing in my mouth. It's a—it's a hard word, Sylvie. It was a flits, Sylvie bravely replied. But they all like that, Father. They're all like that to you, darling, because you don't belong to Elfland yet. But to me they are real. Bruno looked puzzled. I'll try another kind of fruits, he said, and jumped down off the king's knee. There's some lovely striped ones just like a rainbow. And off he ran. Meanwhile the fairy king and Sylvie were talking together but in such low tones that I could not catch the words so I followed Bruno who was picking and eating other kinds of fruits in the vain hope of finding something that had a taste. I tried to pick some myself but it was like grasping air and I soon gave up the attempt and returned to Sylvie. Look well at it, my darling, the old man was saying. And tell me how you like it. It's just lovely, cried Sylvie, delightedly. Bruno, come and look. And she held up so that he might see the light shine through it. A heart-shiped locket, apparently cut out of a single jewel of a rich blue color with this londor gold chain attached to it. It's a really pretty, Bruno more so blue remarked, and he began spelling out some of the words inscribed on it. All will love Sylvie, he made them out at last. And so they do, he cried, clasping his arms round her neck. Everybody loves Sylvie. But we love her best, don't we, Bruno, said the old king, as he took possession of the locket. Now Sylvie, look at this. And he showed her, lying on the palm of his hand, a locket of a deep crimson color, the same shape as the blue one and like it, attached to a slender golden chain. Oh, lovelier and lovelier exclaimed Sylvie, clasping her hands in ecstasy. Look, Bruno. And as what's on this one too, said Bruno, Sylvie will love all. Now you see the difference, said the old man, different colors and different words. Choose one of them, darling. I'll give you whichever you like the best. Sylvie whispered the words several times over with a thoughtful smile and then made her decision. It's very nice to be loved, she said. But it's nicer to love other people. May I have the red one, Father? The old man said nothing, but I could see his eyes filled with tears as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long, loving kiss. Then he undid the chain and showed her how to fasten it round her neck and hide it away under the edge of a frock. It's for you to keep, you know, he said in a low voice. Not for other people to see. You'll remember how to use it. Yes, I'll remember, said Sylvie. And now, darlings, it's time for you to go back or they'll be missing you and then that poor gardener will get into trouble. It's more a feeling of wonder grows in my mind as to how in the world we were to get back again since I took it for granted that wherever the children went I was to go. But no shadow of doubt seemed to cross their minds as they hugged and kissed him murmuring over and over again, goodbye, darling Father. And then suddenly and swiftly the darkness of midnight seemed to close in upon us and through the darkness harshly rang a strange, wild song. He thought he saw a buffalo upon a chimney piece he looked again and found it was his sister's husband's niece unless you live this house, he said. I'll send it for the police. That was me, he added, looking out at us through the half-opened door as we stood waiting in the road. And that's what I'd have done as sure as potatoes aren't radishes if she hadn't have taken herself off. But I always love my parents like anything. Whoa, parents, said Bruno. Them is parent for me, of course, the gardener applied. You can come in now if you like. He flung the door open as he spoke and we got out, a little dazzled and stupefied, at least I felt so, at the sudden transition from the half-darkness of the railway carriage to the brilliantly lighted platform of Elston Station. A footman in handsome livery came forward and respectfully touched his hat. The carriage is here, my lady, he said, taking from her the wraps and small articles she was carrying. And Lady Muriel, after shaking hands and bidding me goodnight with a pleasant smile, followed him. It was with a somewhat blank and lonely feeling that I putook myself to the van, from which the luggage was being taken out, and after giving directions to have my boxes sent after me, I made my way on foot to Arthur's lodgings, and soon lost my lonely feeling in the hearty welcome my old friend gave me, and the cozy warmth and cheerful light of this little sitting-room into which he led me. Little, as you see, but quite enough for us, too. Now take your easy, chair-old fellow and let's have another look at you. Ah, you do look a bit pulled down, and he put on a solemn professional air. I prescribe ozone, quant, saff, social dissipation, diant, piroulai, quom, plurimai, to be taken, feasting, three times a day. The doctor, I remonstrated, decided he doesn't receive three times a day. That's all you know about it, young doctor Gagley replied, at home, long tennis, three p.m. at home, kettle drum, five p.m. at home, music, Elfston doesn't give dinners. Eight p.m., carriage is at ten. There you are. It sounded very pleasant. I was obliged to admit. And I know some of the Lady Society already, I added. One of them came in the same carriage with me. What was she like? Then perhaps I can identify her. The name was Lady Muriel Orm. As to what she looked like, well, I thought her very beautiful. Do you know her? Yes. Yes, I do know her. And the grave doctor colored slightly as he added, Yes, I agree with you. She's beautiful. I quite lost my heart to her. I went on mischievously. We talked. Have some supper!" Arthur interrupted with an air of relief as the maid entered with a tray. And he steadily resisted all my attempts to return to the subject of Lady Muriel until the evening had almost worn itself away. Then, as we sat gazing into the fire and conversation was lapsing into silence, he made a hurried confession. I hadn't meant to tell you anything about her, he said, naming no names as if there were only one she in the world. So you had seen more of her and formed your own judgment of her. But somehow you surprised it out of me and I have not breathed a word of it to anyone else. But I can trust you with a secret, old friend. Yes, it is true of me what I suppose you said in jest. In the mirrors jest, believe me, I said earnestly. Why, man, I'm three times her age. But if she is your choice, then I'm sure she's all that is good and sweet, Arthur went on, and pure and self-denying and true-hearted, and he broke off hastily as if he could not trust himself to say any more on a subject so sacred and so precious. Silence followed, and I leaned back drowsily in my easy chair filled with bright and beautiful imaginings of Arthur and his lady-love and of all the peace and happiness in store for them. I pictured them to myself walking together, lingeringly and lovingly, under arching trees in a sweet garden of their own and welcomed back by their faithful gardener on their return from some brief excursion. It seemed natural enough that the gardener should be filled with exuberant delight at the return of so gracious a master and mistress. How strangely childlike they looked I could have taken them for Sylvie and Bruno. Less natural, but he should show it by such wild dances, such crazy songs. He thought he saw a rattlesnake that questioned him in Greek. He looked again and frowned at was the middle of next week. The one thing I regret, he said, is that it cannot speak. Least natural of all that the vice warden and my lady should be standing close by me, discussing an open letter, which had just been handed to him by the professor, who stood meekly waiting a few yards off. It were not for those two brats, I heard a mutter, glancing savagely at Sylvie and Bruno, who were courteously listening to the gardener's song. There would be no difficulty whatever. Let's hear a bit of that letter again, said my lady, and the vice warden read it aloud. And we therefore entreat your graciously to accept the kingship, to which you have been unanimously elected by the council of Elfland, and that you will allow your son Bruno of whose goodness, cleverness, and beauty reports have reached us to be regarded as heir apparent. But what's the difficulty, said my lady? Why don't you see? The ambassador that brought this is waiting in the house, and he's sure to see Sylvie and Bruno. And then, when he sees Agog, and remembers all that about goodness, cleverness, and beauty, why he's sure to put where will you find such a better boy than Agog? My lady indignantly interrupted. Or a wittier, or a lovelier. To all of which the vice warden simply replied, Don't you be a great blathering goose. Our only chance is to keep those two brats out of sight. If you can manage that, you may leave the rest to me. And I may, I can believe Agog, to be a model of cleverness and all that. You must change his name to Bruno, of course, said my lady. The vice warden rubbed his chin. Hmm. No, he said musingly. Wouldn't do.    You're right, my dear. The vice warden soothingly replied. He isn't indeed. My lady was appeased. Let's go in and receive the ambassador, she said, and beckons to the professor. Which room is he waiting in, she inquired. In the library, then. And what did you say his name was, said the vice warden. The professor referred to a card he held in his hand. His adiposity the baron doppelgeist. Why does he come with such a funny name, said my lady? He couldn't well change it on the journey, the professor meekly replied, because of the luggage. You go and receive him, my lady said, to vice warden, and I'll attend to the children. End of Chapter 6 The Magic Locket Recording by Emily Whitworth Chapter 7 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 Recorded by Gazina Sylvie and Bruno by Lewis Carroll Chapter 7 The Baron's Embassy I was following the vice warden, but on second thoughts went after my lady, being curious to see how she would manage to keep the children out of sight. I found her holding Sylvie's hand, and with her other hand stroking Bruno's hair in a most tender and motherly fashion. Both children were looking bewildered and half frightened. My own darlings, she was saying, I've been planning a little treat for you. The professor shall take you for a long walk into the woods this beautiful evening, and you shall take a basket of food with you and have a little picnic down by the river. Bruno jumped and clapped his hands. That are nice, he cried. Aren't it, Sylvie?  Thank you very much, she said honestly.  Little simpletons, she muttered to herself as she marched up to the house. I followed her in. Quite so, Your Excellency, the Baron was saying as we entered the library. All the infantry were under my command. He turned and was duly presented to my lady. A military hero, said my lady.  Well, yes, he replied, modestly casting down his eyes. My ancestors were all famous for military genius. My lady smiled graciously. It often runs in families, she remarked, just as a love for pastry does. The Baron looked slightly offended and the Vice Warden discreetly changed the subject. Dinner will soon be ready, he said. May I have the honour of conducting your adiposity to the guest chamber? Certainly, certainly, the Baron eagerly assented. It would never do to keep dinner waiting. And he almost trotted out of the room after the Vice Warden. He was back again so speedily that the Vice Warden had barely time to explain to my lady that her remark about a love of pastry was unfortunate. You might have seen with half an eye, he added, that that's his line. Military genius indeed. Poo! Dinner ready yet? The Baron inquired as he hurried into the room. We'll be in a few minutes, the Vice Warden replied. Meanwhile, let's take a turn in the garden. You were telling me, he continued, as the trio left the house, something about a great battle in which you had the command of the infantry. True, said the Baron, the enemy, as I was saying, far outnumbered us, and I marched my men right into the middle of... What's that? The military hero exclaimed in agitated tones, drawing back behind the Vice Warden as a strange creature rushed wildly upon them, brandishing a spade. It's only the gardener, the Vice Warden replied in an encouraging tone. Quite harmless, I assure you. Hark! He is singing. It's his favourite amusement. And once more those shrill discordant tones rang out. He thought he saw a banker's clerk descending from the bus. He looked again and found it was a hippopotamus. If this should stay to dine, he said, there won't be much for us. Throwing away the spade, he broke into a frantic jig, snapping his fingers and repeating again and again, there won't be much for us. There won't be much for us. Once more the Baron looked slightly offended, but the Vice Warden hastily explained that the song had no allusion to him and in fact had no meaning at all. You didn't mean anything by it now, did you? He appealed to the gardener who had finished his song and stood, balancing himself on one leg and looking at them with his mouth open. I never means nothing, said the gardener, and the gurgle luckily came up at the moment and gave the conversation a new turn. Allow me to present my son, said the Vice Warden, adding in a whisper, one of the best and cleverest boys that ever lived. I'll contrive for you to see some of his cleverness. He knows everything that other boys don't know and an archery in fishing, in painting, and in music. His skill is, but you shall judge for yourself. You see that target over there? He shall shoot an arrow at it. Dear boy, he went on aloud, his adiposity would like to see you shoot. Bring his highness bow and arrows. A gurgle looked very sulky as he received the bow and arrow and prepared to shoot. Just as the arrow left the bow, the Vice Warden trod heavily on the toe of the baron who yelled with a pain. Ten thousand pardons, he exclaimed, I stepped back in my excitement. See, it's a bull's eye. The baron gazed in astonishment. He held the bow so awkwardly, it seemed impossible, he muttered. But there was no room for doubt. There was the arrow right in the centre of the bull's eye. The lake is close by, continued the Vice Warden. Bring his highness's fishing rod. And a gurgle most unwillingly held the rod and dangled the fly over the water. A beetle on your arm, cried my lady, pinching the poor baron's arm worse than if ten lobsters had seized it at once. That kind is poisonous, she explained. But what a pity, you missed seeing the fish pulled out. An enormous dead codfish was lying on the bank with a hook in its mouth. I had always fancied, the baron faltered, that cod were saltwater fish. Not in this country, said the Vice Warden. Shall we go in? Ask my son some question on the way, any subject you like. And the salky boy was violently shoved forwards to walk at the baron's side. Could your highness tell me, the baron cautiously began, how much seven times nine would come to? Turn to the left, cried the Vice Warden, hastily stepping forwards to show the way, so hastily that he ran against his unfortunate guest, who fell heavily on his face. So sorry, my lady exclaimed, as she and her husband helped him to his feet again. My son was in the act of saying sixty-three as you fell. The baron said nothing. He was covered with dust and seemed much hurt, both in body and mind. However, when they had got him into the house and given him a good brushing, matters looked a little better. Dinner was served in due course, and every fresh dish seemed to increase the number of the baron, but all efforts to get him to express his opinion as to a gug's cleverness were in vain, until that interesting youth had left the room and was seen from the open window, prowling about the lawn with a little basket, which he was filling with frogs. So fond of natural history he is, dear boy, said the doting mother. Now do tell us, baron, what you think of him. To be perfectly candid, said the cautious baron, I would like a little more evidence. I think you mentioned his skill in music, said the vice warden. Why, he's simply a prodigy. You shall hear him play the piano, and he walked to the window. Erg, I mean my boy, come in for a minute and bring the music master with you. To turn over the music for him, he added as an explanation. A gug, having filled his basket with frogs, had no objection to obey and soon appeared in the room followed by a fierce-looking little man who asked the vice warden, What music will you have? The sonata that his highness plays so charmingly, said the vice warden. His highness have not, the music master began, as sharply stopped by the vice warden. Silence, sir. Go and turn over the music for his highness. My dear, to the wardeness, will you show him what to do? And meanwhile, baron, I'll just show you a most interesting map we have of Outland and Fairyland and that sort of thing. By the time my lady had returned from explaining things to the music master, the map had been hung up and the baron was already much bewildered by the vice warden's habit of pointing to one place while he shouted out the name of another. My lady joining in, pointing out other places and shouting other names, only made matters worse, and at last the baron, in despair, took to pointing out places for himself and feebly asked, Is that great yellow splotch Fairyland? Yes, that's Fairyland, said the vice warden, and you might as well give him a hint. He muttered to my lady about going back to Morrow.  It would hardly do for me to mention it. His wife caught the idea and at once began giving hints of the most subtle and delicate kind. Just see what a short way it is back to Fairyland. Why, if you started tomorrow morning, you'd get there in a very little more than a week. The baron looked incredulous. It took me a full month to come, he said. But it's ever so much shorter going back, you know. The baron looked appealingly to the vice warden who chimed in readily. He can go back five times in the time it took you to come here once if you start tomorrow morning. All this time the sonata was peeling through the room. The baron could not help admitting to himself that it was being magnificently played, but he tried in vain to get a glimpse of the youthful performer. Every time he had nearly succeeded in catching sight of him, either the vice warden or his wife was sure to get in the way, pointing out some new place on the map and deafening him with some new name. He gave in at last, wished a hasty good night and left the room while his host and hostess interchanged looks of triumph. Deftly done, cried the vice warden, craftily contrived. But what means all that tramping on the stairs? He half opened the door, looked out and added in a tone of dismay, the baron's boxes are being carried down. And what means all that rumbling of wheels? cried my lady. She peeped through the window curtains. The baron's carriage has come round, she groaned.  And the door closed again. And still the noble sonata was peeling through the room, but it was Arthur's masterly touch that roused the echoes and thrilled my very soul with the tender music of the immortal sonata patitique. And it was not till the last tone that he had died away that the tired but happy traveller could bring himself to utter the words good night, and to seek his much needed pillow. End of Chapter 7 The Baron's Embassy Recorded by Gazina