“But which happened first?” said Sylvie, looking very much puzzled.

  The Professor examined the papers carefully. “They are not dated, I find,” he said with a slightly dejected air: “so I fear I can’t tell you. But they both happened: there’s no doubt of that. The Medicine’s the great thing, you know. The Diseases are much less important. You can keep a Medicine, for years and years: but nobody ever wants to keep a Disease! By the way, come and look at the platform. The Gardener asked me to come and see if it would do. We may as well go before it gets dark.”

  “We’d like to, very much!” Sylvie replied. “Come, Bruno, put on your hat. Don’t keep the dear Professor waiting!”

  “Can’t find my hat!” the little fellow sadly replied. “I were rolling it about. And it’s rolled itself away!”

  “Maybe it’s rolled in there,” Sylvie suggested, pointing to a dark recess, the door of which stood half open: and Bruno ran in to look. After a minute he came slowly out again, looking very grave, and carefully shut the cupboard-door after him.

  “It aren’t in there,” he said, with such unusual solemnity, that Sylvie’s curiosity was roused.

  “What is in there, Bruno?”

  “There’s cobwebs—and two spiders—” Bruno thoughtfully replied, checking off the catalogue on his fingers, “—and the cover of a picture-book—and a tortoise—and a dish of nuts—and an old man.”

  “An old man!” cried the Professor, trotting across the room in great excitement. “Why, it must be the Other Professor, that’s been lost for ever so long!”

  He opened the door of the cupboard wide: and there he was, the Other Professor, sitting in a chair, with a book on his knee, and in the act of helping himself to a nut from a dish, which he had taken down off a shelf just within his reach. He looked round at us, but said nothing till he had cracked and eaten the nut. Then he asked the old question. “Is the Lecture all ready?”

  “It’ll begin in an hour,” the Professor said, evading the question. “First, we must have something to surprise the Empress. And then comes the Banquet—”

  “The Banquet!” cried the Other Professor, springing up, and filling the room with a cloud of dust. “Then I’d better go and—and brush myself a little. What a state I’m in!”

  “He does want brushing!” the Professor said, with a critical air, “Here’s your hat, little man! I had put it on by mistake. I’d quite forgotten I had one on, already. Let’s go and look at the platform.”

  “And there’s that nice old Gardener singing still!” Bruno exclaimed in delight, as we went out into the garden. “I do believe he’s been singing that very song ever since we went away!”

  “Why, of course he has!” replied the Professor. “It wouldn’t be the thing to leave off, you know.”

  “Wouldn’t be what thing?” said Bruno: but the Professor thought it best not to hear the question. “What are you doing with that hedgehog?” he shouted at the Gardener, whom they found standing upon one foot, singing softly to himself, and rolling a hedgehog up and down with the other foot.

  “Well, I wanted fur to know what hedgehogs lives on: so I be a-keeping this here hedgehog—fur to see if it eats potatoes—”

  “Much better keep a potato,” said the Professor; “and see if hedgehogs eat it!”

  “That be the roight way, surely!” the delighted Gardener exclaimed. “Be you come to see the platform?”

  “Aye, aye!” the Professor cheerily replied. “And the children have come back, you see!”

  The Gardener looked round at them with a grin. Then he led the way to the Pavilion; and as he went he sang:—

  “He looked again, and found it was

  A Double Rule of Three:

  ‘And all its Mystery,’ he said,

  ‘Is clear as day to me!’ ”

  “You’ve been months over that song,” said the Professor. “Isn’t it finished yet?”

  “There be only one verse more,” the Gardener sadly replied. And, with tears streaming down his cheeks, he sang the last verse:—

  “He thought he saw an Argument

  That proved he was the Pope:

  He looked again, and found it was

  A Bar of Mottled Soap.

  ‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,

  ‘Extinguishes all hope!’ ”

  Choking with sobs, the Gardener hastily stepped on a few yards ahead of the party, to conceal his emotion.

  “Did he see the Bar of Mottled Soap?” Sylvie enquired, as we followed.

  “Oh, certainly!” said the Professor. “That song is his own history, you know.”

  Tears of an ever-ready sympathy glittered in Bruno’s eyes. “I’s welly sorry he isn’t the Pope!” he said. “Aren’t you sorry, Sylvie?”

  “Well—I hardly know,” Sylvie replied in the vaguest manner. “Would it make him any happier?” she asked the Professor.

  “It wouldn’t make the Pope any happier,” said the Professor. “Isn’t the platform lovely?” he asked, as we entered the Pavilion.

  “I’ve put an extra beam under it!” said the Gardener, patting it affectionately as he spoke. “And now it’s that strong, as—as a mad elephant might dance upon it!”

  “Thank you very much!” the Professor heartily rejoined. “I don’t know that we shall exactly require—but it’s convenient to know.” And he led the children upon the platform, to explain the arrangements to them. “Here are three seats, you see, for the Emperor and the Empress and Prince Uggug. But there must be two more chairs here!” he said, looking down at the Gardener. “One for Lady Sylvie, and one for the smaller animal!”

  “And may I help in the Lecture?” said Bruno. “I can do some conjuring-tricks.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly a conjuring lecture,” the Professor said, as he arranged some curious-looking machines on the table. “However, what can you do? Did you ever go through a table, for instance?”

  “Often!” said Bruno. “Haven’t I, Sylvie?”

  The Professor was evidently surprised, though he tried not to show it. “This must be looked into,” he muttered to himself, taking out a notebook. “And first—what kind of table?”

  “Tell him!” Bruno whispered to Sylvie, putting his arms round her neck.

  “Tell him yourself,” said Sylvie.

  “Can’t,” said Bruno. “It’s a bony word.”

  “Nonsense!” laughed Sylvie. “You can say it well enough, if you only try. Come!”

  “Muddle—” said Bruno. “That’s a bit of it.”

  “What does he say?” cried the bewildered Professor.

  “He means the multiplication-table,” Sylvie explained.

  The Professor looked annoyed, and shut up his notebook again. “Oh, that’s quite another thing,” he said.

  “It are ever so many other things,” said Bruno. “Aren’t it, Sylvie?”

  A loud blast of trumpets interrupted this conversation. “Why, the entertainment has begun!” the Professor exclaimed, as he hurried the children into the Reception-Saloon. “I had no idea it was so late!”

  A small table, containing cake and wine, stood in a corner of the Saloon; and here we found the Emperor and Empress waiting for us. The rest of the Saloon had been cleared of furniture, to make room for the guests. I was much struck by the great change a few months had made in the faces of the Imperial Pair. A vacant stare was now the Emperor’s usual expression; while over the face of the Empress there flitted, ever and anon, a meaningless smile.

  “So you’re come at last!” the Emperor sulkily remarked, as the Professor and the children took their places. It was evident that he was very much out of temper: and we were not long in learning the cause of this. He did not consider the preparations, made for the Imperial party, to be such as suited their rank. “A common mahogany table!” he growled, pointing to it contemptuously with his thumb. “Why wasn’t it made of gold, I should like to know?”

  “It would have taken a very long—” the Professor began, but the Emperor cut the sentence short.

  “Then the cake! Ordinary plum! Why wasn’t it made of—of—” He broke off again. “Then the wine! Merely old Madeira! Why wasn’t it—? Then this chair! That’s worst of all. Why wasn’t it a throne? One might excuse the other omissions, but I can’t get over the chair!”

  “What I can’t get over,” said the Empress, in eager sympathy with her angry husband, “is the table!”

  “Pooh!” said the Emperor.

  “It is much to be regretted!” the Professor mildly replied, as soon as he had a chance of speaking. After a moment’s thought he strengthened the remark. “Everything,” he said, addressing Society in general, “is very much to be regretted!”

  A murmur of “Hear, hear!” rose from the crowded Saloon.

  There was a rather awkward pause: the Professor evidently didn’t know how to begin. The Empress leant forwards, and whispered to him. “A few jokes, you know, Professor—just to put people at their ease!”

  “True, true, Madam!” the Professor meekly replied. “This little boy—”

  “Please don’t make any jokes about me!” Bruno exclaimed, his eyes filling with tears.

  “I won’t if you’d rather I didn’t,” said the kindhearted Professor. “It was only something about a Ship’s Buoy: a harmless pun—but it doesn’t matter.” Here he turned to the crowd and addressed them in a loud voice. “Learn your A’s!” he shouted. “Your B’s! Your C’s! And your D’s! Then you’ll be at your ease!”

  There was a roar of laughter from all the assembly, and then a great deal of confused whispering. “What was it he said? Something about bees, I fancy—.”

  The Empress smiled in her meaningless way, and fanned herself. The poor Professor looked at her timidly: he was clearly at his wits’ end again, and hoping for another hint. The Empress whispered again.

  “Some spinach, you know, Professor, as a surprise.”

  The Professor beckoned to the Head-Cook, and said something to him in a low voice. Then the Head-Cook left the room, followed by all the other cooks.

  “It’s difficult to get things started,” the Professor remarked to Bruno. “When once we get started, it’ll go on all right, you’ll see.”

  “If oo want to startle people,” said Bruno, “oo should put live frogs on their backs.”

  Here the cooks all came in again, in a procession, the Head-Cook coming last and carrying something, which the others tried to hide by waving flags all round it. “Nothing but flags, Your Imperial Highness! Nothing but flags!” he kept repeating, as he set it before her. Then all the flags were dropped in a moment, as the Head-Cook raised the cover from an enormous dish.

  “What is it?” the Empress said faintly, as she put her spyglass to her eye. “Why, it’s Spinach, I declare!”

  “Her Imperial Highness is surprised,” the Professor explained to the attendants: and some of them clapped their hands. The Head-Cook made a low bow, and in doing so dropped a spoon on the table, as if by accident, just within reach of the Empress, who looked the other way and pretended not to see it.

  “I am surprised!” the Empress said to Bruno. “Aren’t you?”

  “Not a bit,” said Bruno. “I heard—” but Sylvie put her hand over his mouth, and spoke for him. “He’s rather tired, I think. He wants the Lecture to begin.”

  “I want the supper to begin,” Bruno corrected her.

  The Empress took up the spoon in an absent manner, and tried to balance it across the back of her hand, and in doing this she dropped it into the dish: and, when she took it out again, it was full of spinach. “How curious!” she said, and put it into her mouth. “It tastes just like real spinach! I thought it was an imitation—but I do believe it’s real!” And she took another spoonful.

  “It won’t be real much longer,” said Bruno.

  But the Empress had had enough spinach by this time, and somehow—I failed to notice the exact process—we all found ourselves in the Pavilion, and the Professor in the act of beginning the long-expected Lecture.

  XXI

  The Professor’s Lecture

  “In Science—in fact, in most things—it is usually best to begin at the beginning. In some things, of course, it’s better to begin at the other end. For instance, if you wanted to paint a dog green, it might be best to begin with the tail, as it doesn’t bite at that end. And so—”

  “May I help oo?” Bruno interrupted.

  “Help me to do what?” said the puzzled Professor, looking up for a moment, but keeping his finger on the book he was reading from, so as not to lose his place.

  “To paint a dog green!” cried Bruno. “Oo can begin wiz its mouf, and I’ll—”

  “No, no!” said the Professor. “We haven’t got to the Experiments yet. And so,” returning to his notebook, “I’ll give you the Axioms of Science. After that I shall exhibit some Specimens. Then I shall explain a Process or two. And I shall conclude with a few Experiments. An Axiom, you know, is a thing that you accept without contradiction. For instance, if I were to say ‘Here we are!’, that would be accepted without any contradiction, and it’s a nice sort of remark to begin a conversation with. So it would be an Axiom. Or again, supposing I were to say ‘Here we are not!’ that would be—”

  “—a fib!” cried Bruno.

  “Oh, Bruno!” said Sylvie in a warning whisper. “Of course it would be an Axiom, if the Professor said it!”

  “—that would be accepted, if people were civil,” continued the Professor; “so it would be another Axiom.”

  “It might be an Axledum,” Bruno said: “but it wouldn’t be true!”

  “Ignorance of Axioms,” the Lecturer continued, “is a great drawback in life. It wastes so much time to have to say them over and over again. For instance, take the Axiom ‘Nothing is greater than itself’; that is, ‘Nothing can contain itself.’ How often you hear people say ‘He was so excited, he was quite unable to contain himself,’ Why, of course he was unable! The excitement had nothing to do with it!”

  “I say, look here, you know!” said the Emperor, who was getting a little restless. “How many Axioms are you going to give us? At this rate, we shan’t get to the Experiments till tomorrow-week!”

  “Oh, sooner than that, I assure you!” the Professor replied, looking up in alarm. “There are only,” (he referred to his notes again) “only two more, that are really necessary.”

  “Read ’em out, and get on to the Specimens,” grumbled the Emperor.

  “The First Axiom,” the Professor read out in a great hurry, “consists of these words, ‘Whatever is, is.’ And the Second consists of these words, ‘Whatever isn’t, isn’t.’ We will now go on to the Specimens. The first tray contains Crystals and other Things.” He drew it towards him, and again referred to his notebook. “Some of the labels—owing to insufficient adhesion—” Here he stopped again, and carefully examined the page with his eyeglass. “I can’t quite read the rest of the sentence,” he said at last, “but it means that the labels have come loose, and the Things have got mixed—”

  “Let me stick ’em on again!” cried Bruno eagerly, and began licking them, like postage-stamps, and dabbing them down upon the Crystals and the other Things. But the Professor hastily moved the tray out of his reach. “They might get fixed to the wrong Specimens, you know!” he said.

  “Oo shouldn’t have any wrong peppermints in the tray!” Bruno boldly replied. “Should he, Sylvie?”

  But Sylvie only shook her head.

  The Professor heard him not. He had taken up one of the bottles, and was carefully reading the label through his eyeglass. “Our first Specimen—” he announced, as he placed the bottle in front of the other Things, “is—that is, it is called—” here he took it up, and examined the label again, as if he thought it might have changed since he last saw it, “is called Aqua Pura—common water—the fluid that cheers—”

  “Hip! Hip! Hip!” the Head-Cook began enthusiastically.

  “—but not inebriates!” the Professor went on quickly, but only just in time to check the “Hooroar!” which was beginning.

  “Our second Specimen,” he went on, carefully opening a small jar, “is—” here he removed the lid, and a large beetle instantly darted out, and with an angry buzz went straight out of the Pavilion, “—is—or rather, I should say,” looking sadly into the empty jar, “it was—a curious kind of Blue Beetle. Did anyone happen to remark—as it went past—three blue spots under each wing?”

  Nobody had remarked them.

  “Ah, well!” the Professor said with a sigh. “It’s a pity. Unless you remark that kind of thing at the moment, it’s very apt to get overlooked! The next Specimen, at any rate, will not fly away! It is—in short, or perhaps, more correctly, at length—an Elephant. You will observe—.” Here he beckoned to the Gardener to come up on the platform, and with his help began putting together what looked like an enormous dog-kennel, with short tubes projecting out of it on both sides.

  “But we’ve seen Elephants before,” the Emperor grumbled.

  “Yes, but not through a Megaloscope!” the Professor eagerly replied. “You know you can’t see a Flea, properly, without a magnifying-glass—what we call a Microscope. Well, just in the same way, you can’t see an Elephant, properly, without a minimifying-glass. There’s one in each of these little tubes. And this is a Megaloscope! The Gardener will now bring in the next Specimen. Please open both curtains, down at the end there, and make way for the Elephant!”