VI
Pig & Pepper
For a minute or two she stood looking at the
house, and wondering what to do next, when suddenly a footman in
livery came running out of the wood—(she considered him to be a
footman because he was in livery: otherwise, judging by his face
only, she would have called him a fish)—and rapped loudly at the
door with his knuckles. It was opened by another footman in livery,
with a round face, and large eyes like a frog; and both footmen,
Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all over their heads.
She felt very curious to know what it was all about, and crept a
little way out of the wood to listen.
The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his
arm a great letter, nearly as large as himself, and this he handed
over to the other, saying, in a solemn tone, “For the Duchess. An
invitation from the Queen to play croquet.” The Frog-Footman
repeated, in the same solemn tone, only changing the order of the
words a little, “From the Queen. An invitation for the Duchess to
play croquet.”
Then they both bowed low, and their curls got
entangled together.
Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run
back into the wood for fear of their hearing her; and, when she
next peeped out, the Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was
sitting on the ground near the door, staring stupidly up into the
sky.
Alice went timidly up to the door, and
knocked.
“There’s no sort of use in knocking,” said the
Footman, “and that for two reasons. First, because I’m on the same
side of the door as you are: secondly, because they’re making such
a noise inside, no one could possibly hear you.” And certainly
there was a most extraordinary noise going on within—a
constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then a great
crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces.
“Please, then,” said Alice, “how am I to get
in?”
“There might be some sense in your knocking,” the
Footman went on, without attending to her, “if we had the door
between us. For instance, if you were inside, you might
knock, and I could let you out, you know.” He was looking up into
the sky all the time he was speaking, and this Alice thought
decidedly uncivil. “But perhaps he ca’n’t help it,” she said to
herself; “his eyes are so very nearly at the top of his
head. But at any rate he might answer questions.—How am I to get
in?” she repeated, aloud.
“I shall sit here,” the Footman remarked, “till
to-morrow——”
At this moment the door of the house opened, and a
large plate came skimming out, straight at the Footman’s head: it
just grazed his nose, and broke to pieces against one of the trees
behind him.
“——or next day, maybe,” the Footman continued in
the same tone, exactly as if nothing had happened.
“How am I to get in?” asked Alice again, in a
louder tone.
“Are you to get in at all?” said the
Footman. “That’s the first question, you know.”
It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be
told so. “It’s really dreadful,” she muttered to herself, “the way
all the creatures argue. It’s enough to drive one crazy!”
The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity
for repeating his remark, with variations. “I shall sit here,” he
said, “on and off, for days and days.”
“But what am I to do?” said Alice.
“Anything you like,” said the Footman, and began
whistling.
“Oh, there’s no use in talking to him,” said Alice
desperately: “he’s perfectly idiotic!” And she opened the door and
went in.
The door led right into a large kitchen, which was
full of smoke from one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on
a three-legged stool in the middle, nursing a baby: the cook was
leaning over the fire, stirring a large cauldron which seemed to be
full of soup.
“There’s certainly too much pepper in that soup!”
Alice said to herself, as well as she could for sneezing.
There was certainly too much of it in the
air. Even the Duchess sneezed occasionally; and as for the
baby, it was sneezing and howling alternately without a moment’s
pause. The only two creatures in the kitchen, that did not
sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat, which was lying on the
hearth and grinning from ear to ear.
“Please would you tell me,” said Alice, a little
timidly, for she was not quite sure whether it was good manners for
her to speak first, “why your cat grins like that?”
“It’s a Cheshire-Cat,” said the Duchess, “and
that’s why. Pig!”
She said the last word with such sudden violence
that Alice quite jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was
addressed to the baby, and not to her, so she took courage, and
went on again:—
“I didn’t know that Cheshire-Cats always grinned;
in fact, I didn’t know that cats could grin.”
“They all can,” said the Duchess; “and most of ’em
do.”
“I don’t know of any that do,” Alice said very
politely, feeling quite pleased to have got into a
conversation.
“You don’t know much,” said the Duchess; “and
that’s a fact.”
Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark,
and thought it would be as well to introduce some other subject of
conversation. While she was trying to fix on one, the cook took the
cauldron of soup off the fire, and at once set to work throwing
everything within her reach at the Duchess and the baby—the
fire-irons came first; then followed a shower of saucepans, plates,
and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of them even when they hit
her; and the baby was howling so much already, that it was quite
impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.
“Oh, please mind what you’re doing!” cried
Alice, jumping up and down in an agony of terror. “Oh, there goes
his precious nose!”, as an unusually large saucepan flew
close by it, and very nearly carried it off.
“If everybody minded their own business,” the
Duchess said, in a hoarse growl, “the world would go round a deal
faster than it does.”
“Which would not be an advantage,” said
Alice, who felt very glad to get an opportunity of showing off a
little of her knowledge. “Just think what work it would make with
the day and night! You see the earth takes twenty-four hours to
turn round on its axis——”
“Talking of axes,” said the Duchess, “chop off her
head!”
Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see
if she meant to take the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the
soup, and seemed not to be listening, so she went on again:
“Twenty-four hours, I think; or is it twelve? I——”
“Oh, don’t bother me! ” said the Duchess. “I
never could abide figures!” And with that she began nursing her
child again, singing a sort of lullaby to it as she did so, and
giving it a violent shake at the end of every line:—
“Speak roughly to your little boy,
And beat him when he sneezes:
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.”
CHORUS.
And beat him when he sneezes:
He only does it to annoy,
Because he knows it teases.”
CHORUS.
(in which the cook and the baby joined):—
“Wow! Wow! Wow!”
While the Duchess sang the second verse of the
song, she kept tossing the baby violently up and down, and the poor
little thing howled so, that Alice could hardly hear the
words:—
“I speak severely to my boy,
I beat him when he sneezes;
For he can thoroughly enjoy
The pepper when he pleases!”
CHORUS.
I beat him when he sneezes;
For he can thoroughly enjoy
The pepper when he pleases!”
CHORUS.
“Wow! Wow! Wow!”
“Here! You may nurse it a bit, if you like!” the
Duchess said to Alice, flinging the baby at her as she spoke. “I
must go and get ready to play croquet with the Queen,” and she
hurried out of the room. The cook threw a frying-pan after her as
she went, but it just missed her.
Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it
was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs
in all directions, “just like a star-fish,” thought Alice. The poor
little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it,
and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so
that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she
could do to hold it.
As soon as she had made out the proper way of
nursing it (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then
keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent
its undoing itself), she carried it out into the open air. “If I
don’t take this child away with me,” thought Alice, “they’re sure
to kill it in a day or two. Wouldn’t it be murder to leave it
behind?” She said the last words out loud, and the little thing
grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). “Don’t
grunt,” said Alice; “that’s not at all a proper way of expressing
yourself.”
The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very
anxiously into its face to see what was the matter with it. There
could be no doubt that it had a very turn-up nose, much more
like a snout than a real nose: also its eyes were getting extremely
small for a baby: altogether Alice did not like the look of the
thing at all. “But perhaps it was only sobbing,” she thought, and
looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any tears.
No, there were no tears. “If you’re going to turn
into a pig, my dear,” said Alice, seriously, “I’ll have nothing
more to do with you. Mind now!” The poor little thing sobbed again
(or grunted, it was impossible to say which), and they went on for
some while in silence.
Alice was just beginning to think to herself, “Now,
what am I to do with this creature, when I get it home?” when it
grunted again, so violently, that she looked down into its face in
some alarm. This time there could be no mistake about it: it
was neither more nor less than a pig, and she felt that it would be
quite absurd for her to carry it any further.
So she set the little creature down and felt quite
relieved to see it trot away quietly into the wood. “If it had
grown up,” she said to herself, “it would have made a dreadfully
ugly child: but it makes rather a handsome pig, I think.” And she
began thinking over other children she knew, who might do very well
as pigs, and was just saying to herself “if one only knew the right
way to change hem——” when she was a little startled by seeing the
Cheshire-Cat sitting on a bough of a tree a few yards off.
The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked
good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and
a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with
respect.
“Cheshire-Puss,” she began, rather timidly, as she
did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it
only grinned a little wider. “Come, it’s pleased so far,” thought
Alice, and she went on. “Would you tell me, please, which way I
ought to go from here?”
“That depends a good deal on where you want to get
to,” said the Cat.
“I don’t much care where——” said Alice.
“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the
Cat.
“——so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added
as an explanation.
“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you
only walk long enough.”
Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she
tried another question. “What sort of people live about
here?”
“In that direction,” the Cat said, waving
its right paw round, “lives a Hatter: and in that
direction,” waving the other paw, “lives a March Hare. Visit either
you like: they’re both mad.”
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice
remarked.
“Oh, you ca’n’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re
all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have
come here.”
Alice didn’t think that proved it at all: however,
she went on: “And how do you know that you’re mad?”
“To begin with,” said the Cat, “a dog’s not mad.
You grant that?”
“I suppose so,” Alice.
“Well, then,” the Cat went on, “you see a dog
growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now
I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry.
Therefore I’m mad.”
“I call it purring, not growling,” said
Alice.
“Call it what you like,” said the Cat. “Do you play
croquet with the Queen to-day?”
“I should like it very much,” said Alice, “but I
haven’t been invited yet.”
“You’ll see me there,” said the Cat, and
vanished.
Alice was not much surprised at this, she was
getting so well used to queer things happening. While she was still
looking at the place where it had been, it suddenly appeared
again.
“By-the-bye, what became of the baby?” said the
Cat. “I’d nearly forgotten to ask.”
“It turned into a pig,” Alice answered very
quietly, just as if the Cat had come back in a natural way.
“I thought it would,” said the Cat, and vanished
again.
Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it
again, but it did not appear, and after a minute or two she walked
on in the direction in which the March Hare was said to live. “I’ve
seen hatters before,” she said to herself: “the March Hare will be
much the most interesting, and perhaps, as this is May, it wo’n’t
be raving mad—at least not so mad as it was in March.” As she said
this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a
branch of a tree.
“Did you say ‘pig’, or ‘fig’?” said the Cat.
“I said ‘pig’,” replied Alice; “and I wish you
wouldn’t keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one
quite giddy!”
“All right,” said the Cat; and this time it
vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and
ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it
had gone.
“Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,”
thought Alice;
“but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious
thing I ever saw in all my life!”
She had not gone much farther before she came in
sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the
right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the
roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did
not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the
left-hand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet
high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to
herself “Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish
I’d gone to see the Hatter instead!”