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 youinstance, 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 things inhowling alternately without a moment’s pause. The only things 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 of what work it would make with the day and