Previous: Crossing the Line
Lewis Carroll's Sylvie and Bruno: Chapter 23
An Outlandish Watch.
As I entered the little town, I came upon two of the fishermen's wives
interchanging that last word "which never was the last":
and it occurred to me, as an experiment with the Magic Watch, to wait
till the little scene was over, and then to 'encore' it.
"Well, good night t'ye! And ye winna forget to send us word when your
"Nay, ah winna forget. An' if she isn't suited, she can but coom back.
Good night t'ye!"
A casual observer might have thought "and there ends the dialogue!"
That casual observer would have been mistaken.
"Ah, she'll like 'em, I war'n' ye! They'll not treat her bad, yer may
depend. They're varry canny fowk. Good night!"
"Ay, they are that! Good night!"
"Good night! And ye'll send us word if she writes?"
"Aye, ah will, yer may depend! Good night t'ye!"
And at last they parted. I waited till they were some twenty yards
apart, and then put the Watch a minute back. The instantaneous change
was startling: the two figures seemed to flash back into their former
"--isn't suited, she can but coom back. Good night t'ye!" one of them
was saying: and so the whole dialogue was repeated, and, when they had
parted for the second time, I let them go their several ways,
and strolled on through the town.
"But the real usefulness of this magic power," I thought,
"would be to undo some harm, some painful event, some accident--"
I had not long to wait for an opportunity of testing this property also
of the Magic Watch, for, even as the thought passed through my mind,
the accident I was imagining occurred. A light cart was standing at
the door of the 'Great Millinery Depôt' of Elveston, laden with
card-board packing-cases, which the driver was carrying into the shop,
one by one. One of the cases had fallen into the street,
but it scarcely seemed worth while to step forward and pick it up,
as the man would be back again in a moment. Yet, in that moment,
a young man riding a bicycle came sharp round the corner of the street
and, in trying to avoid running over the box, upset his machine,
and was thrown headlong against the wheel of the
The driver ran out to his assistance, and he and I together raised the
unfortunate cyclist and carried him into the shop. His head was cut and
bleeding; and one knee seemed to be badly injured; and it was speedily
settled that he had better be conveyed at once to the only Surgery in
the place. I helped them in emptying the cart, and placing in it some
pillows for the wounded man to rest on; and it was only when the driver
had mounted to his place, and was starting for the Surgery, that I
bethought me of the strange power I possessed of undoing all this harm.
"Now is my time!" I said to myself, as I moved back the hand of the
Watch, and saw, almost without surprise this time, all things restored
to the places they had occupied at the critical moment when I had first
noticed the fallen packing-case.
Instantly I stepped out into the street, picked up the box,
and replaced it in the cart: in the next moment the bicycle had spun
round the corner, passed the cart without let or hindrance, and soon
vanished in the distance, in a cloud of dust.
"Delightful power of magic!" I thought.
"How much of human suffering I have--not only relieved, but actually
annihilated!" And, in a glow of conscious virtue, I stood watching the
unloading of the cart, still holding the Magic Watch open in my hand,
as I was curious to see what would happen when we again reached the
exact time at which I had put back the hand.
The result was one that, if only I had considered the thing carefully,
I might have foreseen: as the hand of the Watch touched the mark, the
spring-cart--which had driven off, and was by this time half-way down
the street, was back again at the door, and in the act of starting,
while--oh woe for the golden dream of world-wide benevolence that had
dazzled my dreaming fancy!--the wounded youth was once more reclining
on the heap of pillows, his pale face set rigidly in the hard lines
that told of pain resolutely endured.
"Oh mocking Magic Watch!" I said to myself, as I passed out of the
little town, and took the seaward road that led to my lodgings.
"The good I fancied I could do is vanished like a dream: the evil of
this troublesome world is the only abiding reality!"
And now I must record an experience so strange, that I think it only
fair, before beginning to relate it, to release my
from any obligation he may feel to believe this part of my story.
I would not have believed it, I freely confess, if I had not seen it
with my own eyes: then why should I expect it of my reader, who, quite
possibly, has never seen anything of the sort?
I was passing a pretty little villa, which stood rather back from the
road, in its own grounds, with bright flower-beds in
wandering over the walls and hanging in festoons about the bow-windows--an
easy-chair forgotten on the lawn, with a newspaper lying near it--a
small pug-dog "couchant" before it, resolved to guard the treasure
even at the sacrifice of life--and a front-door standing invitingly
half-open. "Here is my chance," I thought, "for testing the reverse
action of the Magic Watch!" I pressed the 'reversal-peg' and walked in.
In another house, the entrance of a stranger might cause surprise--perhaps
anger, even going so far as to expel the said stranger with
violence: but here, I knew, nothing of the sort could happen.
The ordinary course of events--first, to think nothing about me;
then, hearing my footsteps to look up and see me; and then to wonder
what business I had there--would be reversed by the action of my Watch.
They would first wonder who I was, then see me, then look down,
and think no more about me. And as to being expelled with violence,
that event would necessarily come first in this case. "So, if I can
once get in," I said to myself, "all risk of expulsion will be over!"
The pug-dog sat up, as a precautionary measure, as I passed;
but, as I took no notice of the treasure he was guarding, he let me go
by without even one remonstrant bark. "He that takes my life,"
he seemed to be saying, wheezily, to himself, "takes trash: But he that
takes the Daily Telegraph----!" But this awful contingency I did not face.
The party in the drawing-room--I had walked straight in, you understand,
without ringing the bell, or giving any notice of my approach--consisted
of four laughing rosy children, of ages from about fourteen
down to ten, who were, apparently, all coming towards the door
(I found they were really walking backwards), while their mother,
seated by the fire with some needlework on her lap, was saying, just as
I entered the room, "Now, girls, you may get your things on for a walk."
To my utter astonishment--for I was not yet accustomed to the action of
the Watch "all smiles ceased", (as Browning says) on the four pretty
faces, and they all got out pieces of needle-work, and sat down.
No one noticed me in the least, as I quietly took a chair and sat down
to watch them.
When the needle-work had been unfolded, and they were all ready to
begin, their mother said "Come, that's done, at last! You may fold up
your work, girls." But the children took no notice whatever of the
remark; on the contrary, they set to work at once
sewing--if that is
the proper word to describe an operation such as I had never before
witnessed. Each of them threaded her needle with a short end of thread
attached to the work, which was instantly pulled by an invisible force
through the stuff, dragging the needle after it: the nimble fingers of
the little sempstress caught it at the other side, but only to lose it
again the next moment. And so the work went on, steadily undoing
itself, and the neatly-stitched little dresses, or whatever they were,
steadily falling to pieces. Now and then one of the children would
pause, as the recovered thread became inconveniently long, wind it on a
bobbin, and start again with another short end.
At last all the work was picked to pieces and put away, and the lady
led the way into the next room, walking backwards, and making the
insane remark "Not yet, dear: we must get the sewing done first."
After which, I was not surprised to see the children skipping backwards
after her, exclaiming "Oh, mother, it is such a lovely day for a walk!"
In the dining-room, the table had only dirty plates and empty dishes on it.
However the party--with the addition of a gentleman, as good-natured,
and as rosy, as the children--seated themselves at it very contentedly.
You have seen people eating cherry-tart, and every now and then
cautiously conveying a cherry-stone from their lips to their plates?
Well, something like that went on all through this
ghastly--or shall we
say 'ghostly'?--banquet. An empty fork is raised to the lips: there
it receives a neatly-cut piece of mutton, and swiftly conveys it to the
plate, where it instantly attaches itself to the mutton already there.
Soon one of the plates, furnished with a complete slice of mutton and
two potatoes, was handed up to the presiding gentleman, who quietly
replaced the slice on the joint, and the potatoes in the dish.
Their conversation was, if possible, more bewildering than their mode
of dining. It began by the youngest girl suddenly, and without
provocation, addressing her eldest sister.
"Oh, you wicked story-teller!" she said.
I expected a sharp reply from the sister; but, instead of this, she
turned laughingly to her father, and said, in a very loud stage-whisper,
"To be a bride!"
The father, in order to do his part in a conversation that seemed only
fit for lunatics, replied "Whisper it to me, dear."
But she didn't whisper (these children never did anything they were told):
she said, quite loud, "Of course not! Everybody knows what Dolly wants!"
And little Dolly shrugged her shoulders, and said, with a pretty
pettishness, "Now, Father, you're not to tease!
You know I don't want to be bride's-maid to anybody!"
"And Dolly's to be the fourth," was her father's idiotic reply.
Here Number Three put in her oar. "Oh, it is settled, Mother dear,
really and truly! Mary told us all about it. It's to be next Tuesday
four weeks--and three of her cousins are coming; to be bride's-maids--
"She doesn't forget it, Minnie!" the Mother laughingly replied.
"I do wish they'd get it settled! I don't like long engagements."
And Minnie wound up the conversation--if so chaotic a series of remarks
deserves the name--with "Only think! We passed the Cedars this
morning, just exactly as Mary Davenant was standing at the gate,
wishing good-bye to Mister--I forget his name. Of course we looked
the other way."
By this time I was so hopelessly confused that I gave up listening,
and followed the dinner down into the kitchen.
But to you, O hypercritical reader, resolute to believe no item of this
weird adventure, what need to tell how the mutton was placed on the
spit, and slowly unroasted--how the potatoes were wrapped in their
skins, and handed over to the gardener to be buried--how, when the
mutton had at length attained to rawness, the fire, which had gradually
changed from red-heat to a mere blaze, died down so suddenly that the
cook had only just time to catch its last flicker on the end of a
match--or how the maid, having taken the mutton off the spit, carried
it (backwards, of course) out of the house, to meet the butcher,
who was coming (also backwards) down the road?
The longer I thought over this strange adventure, the more hopelessly
tangled the mystery became: and it was a real relief to meet Arthur in
the road, and get him to go with me up to the Hall, to learn what news
the telegraph had brought. I told him, as we went, what had happened
at the Station, but as to my further adventures I thought it best, for
the present, to say nothing.
The Earl was sitting alone when we entered. "I am glad you are come in
to keep me company," he said. "Muriel is gone to bed--the excitement
of that terrible scene was too much for her--and Eric has gone to the
hotel to pack his things, to start for London by the early train."
"Then the telegram has come?" I said.
"Did you not hear? Oh, I had forgotten: it came in after you left the
Station. Yes, it's all right: Eric has got his commission; and, now
that he has arranged matters with Muriel, he has business in town that
must be seen to at once."
"What arrangement do you mean?" I asked with a sinking heart, as the
thought of Arthur's crushed hopes came to my mind. "Do you mean that
they are engaged?"
"They have been engaged--in a sense--for two years," the old man gently
replied: "that is, he has had my promise to consent to it, so soon as he could
secure a permanent and settled line in life. I could never be happy
with my child married to a man without an object to live for--without
even an object to die for!"
"I hope they will be happy," a strange voice said. The speaker was
evidently in the room, but I had not heard the door open, and I looked
round in some astonishment. The Earl seemed to share my surprise.
"Who spoke?" he exclaimed.
"It was I," said Arthur, looking at us with a worn, haggard face,
and eyes from which the light of life seemed suddenly to have faded.
"And let me wish you joy also, dear friend," he added, looking sadly at
the Earl, and speaking in the same hollow tones that had startled us so
"Thank you," the old man said, simply and heartily.
A silence followed: then I rose, feeling sure that Arthur would wish to
be alone, and bade our gentle host 'Good night': Arthur took his hand,
but said nothing: nor did he speak again, as we went home till we were
in the house and had lit our bed-room candles. Then he said more to
himself than to me "The heart knoweth its own bitterness.
I never understood those words till now."
The next few days passed wearily enough. I felt no inclination to call
by myself at the Hall; still less to propose that Arthur should go with
me: it seemed better to wait till Time--that gentle healer of our
bitterest sorrows--should have helped him to recover from the first
shock of the disappointment that had blighted his life.
Business however soon demanded my presence in town; and I had to
announce to Arthur that I must leave him for a while.
"But I hope to run down again in a month," I added. "I would stay now,
if I could. I don't think it's good for you to be alone."
"No, I ca'n't face solitude, here, for long," said Arthur. "But don't
think about me. I have made up my mind to accept a post in India, that
has been offered me. Out there, I suppose I shall find something to
live for; I ca'n't see anything at present. 'This life of mine I guard,
as God's high gift, from scathe and wrong, Not greatly care to lose!'"
"Yes," I said: "your name-sake bore as heavy a blow, and lived through it."
"A far heavier one than mine," said Arthur.
"The woman he loved proved false. There is no such cloud as that on my
memory of--of----" He left the name unuttered, and went on hurriedly.
"But you will return, will you not?"
"Yes, I shall come back for a short time."
"Do," said Arthur: "and you shall write and tell me of our friends.
I'll send you my address when I'm settled down."
Next: The Frogs' Birthday-Treat