Through the Looking-Glass
In another moment Alice was through the glass, and had jumped lightly
down into the Looking-glass room. The very first thing she did was to
look whether there was a fire in the fireplace, and she was quite
pleased to find that there was a real one, blazing away as brightly as
the one she had left behind. “So I shall be as warm here as I was in
the old room,” thought Alice: “warmer, in fact, because there’ll be no
one here to scold me away from the fire. Oh, what fun it’ll be, when
they see me through the glass in here, and can’t get at me!”
Then she began looking about, and noticed that what could be seen from
the old room was quite common and uninteresting, but that all the rest
was as different as possible. For instance, the pictures on the wall
next the fire seemed to be all alive, and the very clock on the
chimney-piece (you know you can only see the back of it in the
Looking-glass) had got the face of a little old man, and grinned at
her.
“They don’t keep this room so tidy as the other,” Alice thought to
herself, as she noticed several of the chessmen down in the hearth
among the cinders: but in another moment, with a little “Oh!” of
surprise, she was down on her hands and knees watching them. The
chessmen were walking about, two and two!
“Here are the Red King and the Red Queen,” Alice said (in a whisper,
for fear of frightening them), “and there are the White King and the
White Queen sitting on the edge of the shovel—and here are two castles
walking arm in arm—I don’t think they can hear me,” she went on, as she
put her head closer down, “and I’m nearly sure they can’t see me. I
feel somehow as if I were invisible—”
Here something began squeaking on the table behind Alice, and made her
turn her head just in time to see one of the White Pawns roll over and
begin kicking: she watched it with great curiosity to see what would
happen next.
“It is the voice of my child!” the White Queen cried out as she rushed
past the King, so violently that she knocked him over among the
cinders. “My precious Lily! My imperial kitten!” and she began
scrambling wildly up the side of the fender.
“Imperial fiddlestick!” said the King, rubbing his nose, which had been
hurt by the fall. He had a right to be a _little_ annoyed with the
Queen, for he was covered with ashes from head to foot.
Alice was very anxious to be of use, and, as the poor little Lily was
nearly screaming herself into a fit, she hastily picked up the Queen
and set her on the table by the side of her noisy little daughter.
The Queen gasped, and sat down: the rapid journey through the air had
quite taken away her breath and for a minute or two she could do
nothing but hug the little Lily in silence. As soon as she had
recovered her breath a little, she called out to the White King, who
was sitting sulkily among the ashes, “Mind the volcano!”
“What volcano?” said the King, looking up anxiously into the fire, as
if he thought that was the most likely place to find one.
“Blew—me—up,” panted the Queen, who was still a little out of breath.
“Mind you come up—the regular way—don’t get blown up!”
Alice watched the White King as he slowly struggled up from bar to bar,
till at last she said, “Why, you’ll be hours and hours getting to the
table, at that rate. I’d far better help you, hadn’t I?” But the King
took no notice of the question: it was quite clear that he could
neither hear her nor see her.
So Alice picked him up very gently, and lifted him across more slowly
than she had lifted the Queen, that she mightn’t take his breath away:
but, before she put him on the table, she thought she might as well
dust him a little, he was so covered with ashes.
She said afterwards that she had never seen in all her life such a face
as the King made, when he found himself held in the air by an invisible
hand, and being dusted: he was far too much astonished to cry out, but
his eyes and his mouth went on getting larger and larger, and rounder
and rounder, till her hand shook so with laughing that she nearly let
him drop upon the floor.
“Oh! _please_ don’t make such faces, my dear!” she cried out, quite
forgetting that the King couldn’t hear her. “You make me laugh so that
I can hardly hold you! And don’t keep your mouth so wide open! All the
ashes will get into it—there, now I think you’re tidy enough!” she
added, as she smoothed his hair, and set him upon the table near the
Queen.
The King immediately fell flat on his back, and lay perfectly still:
and Alice was a little alarmed at what she had done, and went round the
room to see if she could find any water to throw over him. However, she
could find nothing but a bottle of ink, and when she got back with it
she found he had recovered, and he and the Queen were talking together
in a frightened whisper—so low, that Alice could hardly hear what they
said.
The King was saying, “I assure you, my dear, I turned cold to the very
ends of my whiskers!”
To which the Queen replied, “You haven’t got any whiskers.”
“The horror of that moment,” the King went on, “I shall never, _never_
forget!”
“You will, though,” the Queen said, “if you don’t make a memorandum of
it.”
Alice looked on with great interest as the King took an enormous
memorandum-book out of his pocket, and began writing. A sudden thought
struck her, and she took hold of the end of the pencil, which came some
way over his shoulder, and began writing for him.
The poor King looked puzzled and unhappy, and struggled with the pencil
for some time without saying anything; but Alice was too strong for
him, and at last he panted out, “My dear! I really _must_ get a thinner
pencil. I can’t manage this one a bit; it writes all manner of things
that I don’t intend—”
“What manner of things?” said the Queen, looking over the book (in
which Alice had put “_The White Knight is sliding down the poker. He
balances very badly_”) “That’s not a memorandum of _your_ feelings!”
There was a book lying near Alice on the table, and while she sat
watching the White King (for she was still a little anxious about him,
and had the ink all ready to throw over him, in case he fainted again),
she turned over the leaves, to find some part that she could read,
“—for it’s all in some language I don’t know,” she said to herself.
It was like this.
.YKCOWREBBAJ
sevot yhtils eht dna, gillirb sawT’
ebaw eht ni elbmig dna eryg diD
,sevogorob eht erew ysmim llA
.ebargtuo shtar emom eht dnA
She puzzled over this for some time, but at last a bright thought
struck her. “Why, it’s a Looking-glass book, of course! And if I hold
it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again.”
This was the poem that Alice read.
JABBERWOCKY.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“It seems very pretty,” she said when she had finished it, “but it’s
_rather_ hard to understand!” (You see she didn’t like to confess, even
to herself, that she couldn’t make it out at all.) “Somehow it seems to
fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what they are!
However, _somebody_ killed _something_: that’s clear, at any rate—”
“But oh!” thought Alice, suddenly jumping up, “if I don’t make haste I
shall have to go back through the Looking-glass, before I’ve seen what
the rest of the house is like! Let’s have a look at the garden first!”
She was out of the room in a moment, and ran down stairs—or, at least,
it wasn’t exactly running, but a new invention of hers for getting down
stairs quickly and easily, as Alice said to herself. She just kept the
tips of her fingers on the hand-rail, and floated gently down without
even touching the stairs with her feet; then she floated on through the
hall, and would have gone straight out at the door in the same way, if
she hadn’t caught hold of the door-post. She was getting a little giddy
with so much floating in the air, and was rather glad to find herself
walking again in the natural way.
CHAPTER II.
The Garden of Live Flowers
“I should see the garden far better,” said Alice to herself, “if I
could get to the top of that hill: and here’s a path that leads
straight to it—at least, no, it doesn’t do that—” (after going a few
yards along the path, and turning several sharp corners), “but I
suppose it will at last. But how curiously it twists! It’s more like a
corkscrew than a path! Well, _this_ turn goes to the hill, I
suppose—no, it doesn’t! This goes straight back to the house! Well
then, I’ll try it the other way.”
And so she did: wandering up and down, and trying turn after turn, but
always coming back to the house, do what she would. Indeed, once, when
she turned a corner rather more quickly than usual, she ran against it
before she could stop herself.
“It’s no use talking about it,” Alice said, looking up at the house and
pretending it was arguing with her. “I’m _not_ going in again yet. I
know I should have to get through the Looking-glass again—back into the
old room—and there’d be an end of all my adventures!”
So, resolutely turning her back upon the house, she set out once more
down the path, determined to keep straight on till she got to the hill.
For a few minutes all went on well, and she was just saying, “I really
_shall_ do it this time—” when the path gave a sudden twist and shook
itself (as she described it afterwards), and the next moment she found
herself actually walking in at the door.
“Oh, it’s too bad!” she cried. “I never saw such a house for getting in
the way! Never!”
However, there was the hill full in sight, so there was nothing to be
done but start again. This time she came upon a large flower-bed, with
a border of daisies, and a willow-tree growing in the middle.
“O Tiger-lily,” said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving
gracefully about in the wind, “I _wish_ you could talk!”
“We _can_ talk,” said the Tiger-lily: “when there’s anybody worth
talking to.”
Alice was so astonished that she could not speak for a minute: it quite
seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went
on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice—almost in a whisper.
“And can _all_ the flowers talk?”
“As well as _you_ can,” said the Tiger-lily. “And a great deal louder.”
“It isn’t manners for us to begin, you know,” said the Rose, “and I
really was wondering when you’d speak! Said I to myself, ‘Her face has
got _some_ sense in it, though it’s not a clever one!’ Still, you’re
the right colour, and that goes a long way.”
“I don’t care about the colour,” the Tiger-lily remarked. “If only her
petals curled up a little more, she’d be all right.”
Alice didn’t like being criticised, so she began asking questions.
“Aren’t you sometimes frightened at being planted out here, with nobody
to take care of you?”
“There’s the tree in the middle,” said the Rose: “what else is it good