Chapter IX

A Bill for a Bombay Duck

“Well, well, well,” said the Wyvern, which was sitting on a little stool by the pier’s railing. The creature was carrying a large fishing-rod, and it was the line from this which currently wound its way around the girl. “What have we here?” the Wyvern continued, polishing its monocle. “It seems I have been able to help you once again.”

    “Thank you very much,” replied Alice, and indeed, she was very grateful for being saved from falling into the sea. However, she was currently rather perturbed by the buzzing, which still continued by her ear. Turning her head she found herself face-to-face with a small fly.

    “Indeed it is,” the Wyvern replied. “It is a marvel what one can catch when one is fly-fishing.” It turned back to Alice, and helped her to her feet (the fly, meanwhile, jumped down and began to wind the fishing-line in). “Come, my dear,” the Wyvern said to her. “Let us promenade a while.” So saying it took her by the arm, and led her away down the pier.

    “Have you had any luck?” it asked as they walked, “in finding the White Rabbit’s watch?”

    “I haven’t,” sighed Alice in reply. “I’m afraid to say that I am continually distracted from the goal, although I can’t help feeling that I’m a little closer than I was.”

    “That’s the ticket!” exclaimed the Wyvern heartily. “Never say die!”

    “Only, I am sure I shall be ever so late for the pantomime,” Alice continued. This was beginning to worry the girl a little, not just because she was missing the show, but also because she was certain the Edith would soon discover that she was not there, and begin to fret.

    “Never mind,” the Wyvern said. “There’s always time to get things done, if only one places the hours in the correct order. Why, all one need do is take those extra hours one has had to spend on a project, and place them before the deadline, and one finds that there is still time for tea, after all!” It was quite a coincidence that the creature should choose to say that just then, because they had come to stop directly outside one of the pier’s little tearooms. However, Alice was one of those people who are continually convinced that their lives are dogged by coincidence, so this was no surprise to her.

    “Coincidentally,” said the Wyvern, “I should love to take a cup just now. Would you care to join me?” As it happened, Alice had also decided that some refreshment was in order, so the Wyvern’s suggestion was most welcome. It held the door open for her, and she passed inside.

The tearoom was extremely small, and it turned out that there was only room inside for one table, which was already occupied.

    “Oh dear,” thought Alice. “I was so looking forward to having a cup of tea.” However, as she tried to turn and leave the Wyvern bustled past her.

    “What luck!” it cried. “Look, my dear, friends! We shall have company to sup with.” And it ran straight up to greet the three creatures sitting at the table.

    Alice recognised the first two straight away as a Camel and a Gypsy1. The Camel sat to the right of the table, and wore a long, black cloak and, on its head, a curious little hat. The hat had a large eye embroidered on its topknot, which more than made up for its lack of brim in Alice’s opinion. The Gypsy, sitting across from the Camel, had long, flowing red hair tied up in a scarf, and the most enormous pair of dangly earrings the girl had ever seen. The pair of them were busily sharing an enormous breakfast platter, piled high with bacon, sausage, egg and bean, while slurping noisily at large mugs of tea.

    The third creature sat between them2. It was leaning back slightly to avoid the barrage of elbows which occasionally came in its direction, while politely sipping from a bone-china saucer; since the creature appeared to be some kind of mallard, it was not finding this particularly easy. However, it was the most curious of ducks, if duck it were, for it did not have wings so much as fins, and it was covered from tip to tail with scales as well as feathers.

    The oddest thing of all about the creature was its beak, which seemed to have been sculpted from papier-maché. The duck was having a great deal of trouble drinking through it; indeed, after a number of fruitless attempts at sucking its tea up from the saucer, it declared: “Dash it all, this is too much of a nuisance!” and untied the ribbon which held the beak to its face in order to drink the tea properly. Alice was not in the least surprised at such things any longer; however, the poor duck looked so forlorn without its bill that, when finally it tied it back in place, the girl was quite relieved.

    “Why, how careless of me!” the Wyvern exclaimed all of a sudden. “You haven’t been introduced!” It pulled Alice by the hand to the table, and made her sit down, before pointing at the three in quick succession, and shouting the name of each at the top of its voice. “Alice, the Camel!” it cried, and the Camel nodded a curt hello in her direction. “Camel, Alice,” it went on (without giving the girl time for even the briefest of curtseys). “Alice, the Gypsy, Madame Gypsy, Alice. And last but not least, Alice, the Bombay Duck.”

    The Wyvern said ‘the Bombay Duck’ with such a pompous air that Alice only just managed to stop herself from giggling out loud. At its name the Duck stood up in its seat, and took a long and regal bow before extending a fin in Alice’s direction, for the most cursory of shakes. “It really is a haughty creature,” Alice thought to herself as she braved its slippery greeting. Indeed, the Duck did seem to enjoy the ceremony attached to the introduction, and having let go of the girl’s hand, it climbed up onto the table and took a bow. To Alice’s surprise, the Camel and the Gypsy, and even the Wyvern, applauded this. “Thank you, friends,” said the Duck. “Thank you,” it said once more, and it gave a final little bow before sitting down again.

    Alice began to sip tea from a china cup which had mysteriously appeared in front of her. Just as she was about to pour a little cream in, to cool it down, the Camel grasped her arm lightly with one of its forelegs, and whispered conspiratorially: “I wouldn’t do that, you know. It will make you turn red!” And the creature spoke with such conviction that Alice immediately put the jug down.

    “Are you sure?” the girl asked. “Cream has never done such a thing to me before.”

    “I’m as sure of it,” the Camel replied, “as I am sure that shoes lack souls. Why, I was discussing the very thing only last week, with my friend the Horse.”

    “With the Horse?” enquired Alice, wondering what view such a beast could have on dairy produce, or shoes for that matter.

    “Yes, indeed,” the Camel continued. “It was contending that everything has a soul. I simply pointed out that this cannot be true for shoes, citing Descartes.” The creature sighed her, and then went on: “Ah me! I continually put Descartes before the Horse, but the silly mare refuses to listen! If that is not proof that it comes from a donkey-well, I don’t know what is!”

    Alice had no idea what the Camel meant by this remark; but it seemed very sensitive about the jug of cream, so she thought it better to let the matter rest. Instead, she tried to move on to the matter of the watch.

    “Would you have seen the White Rabbit’s fob?” she asked. “I have to find it soon, you see, or I shall miss the second act also!”

    “Ah! The White Rabbit’s watch!” the Camel cried. “So it’s lost it again, has it? I knew it would, you know.” It laughed a dry little laugh, then said: “It was arguing with me one time, about the right to bare arms - it would stupidly insist on wearing short-sleeved shirts - and I knew then and there that everything would go wrong for it.” The Camel laughed again. “That only goes to show,” it said, “that the White Rabbit comes from a donkey-well also.”

    “Please, would you explain that?” Alice asked, once again a little bewildered by the creature. “You seem to think that everything in disagreement with you comes from a donkey-well.”

    “It invariably does!” the Camel replied angrily, and to the girl’s surprise, it threw down its cup and gave her a long, cold stare. Eventually it turned away, back to its sausages, and refused point-blank to be drawn on the subject any further.

    The Gypsy leaned across the table (accidentally dipping one of her earrings in the mustard) and gently scratched the Camel on the back of its neck, as if to soothe it. “There, there,” she said. “Don’t let it worry you, petal.” Then she turned back to Alice, who was not entirely sure what she had just done, to say: “And don’t you go worrying either, blossom. You have some cream if you want to; it’s only the Camel that it turns red.”

    (“Not so,” said the Camel grumpily; but no-one seemed to be listening.)

    “I should very much like to take some cream, thank you,” replied Alice, and she pulled the jug forward again. However, before she had had a chance to taste the tea, the Gypsy had grabbed the cup from her hand and thrown its contents over her shoulder. “Let’s see what’s in your tea-leaves!” she said, and started to prod around in the depths of Alice’s cup with a finger.

    “I see many things!” she cried at the top of her voice. “I see journeys to strange lands. I see wealth and health and happiness with short, pale strangers.”

    “Come,” exclaimed Alice. “Surely you cannot really see such things?”

    “Oh, but I can!” the Gypsy replied, and she beckoned Alice to come around the table to see for herself. “Look,” she continued, pointing: “There in the bottom of the cup.”

    To the girl’s astonishment, there really was something to be seen. The tea-leaves were dancing back and forth, to and fro, and forming as they went any number of fantastic scenes and images. “Look,” the Gypsy continued, “there’s a journey to France coming up.” And, indeed, some of the tea-leaves had formed themselves into a little tricouleur, while others were miming the actions of a boat.

    “Goodness,” Alice said. “Are all these things going to happen to me?”

    “Oh no, I shouldn’t think so,” the Gypsy replied. “Whatever gave you that idea? No, these things could happen to any of us. Or all of us. Or none of us, there really is no way of knowing.”

    As Alice watched the tea-leaves danced around again, until another image had been formed. This time it was a little animation of a piece of furniture which kept collapsing into its constituent parts, and then reforming. Alice could make neither head nor tale of this, so she asked the Gypsy: “Whatever are they showing now?”

    “Simple!” the Gypsy cried, and laughed her happy laugh again. “That means that any minute the Camel is going to leap upon one of the tables around here, and break it up in to tiny pieces.”

    “Why ever should it want to do that?” Alice asked.

    “To get the wood from which to build more furniture, of course,” the Gypsy replied. “Where do you think it comes from, child? Do you believe it grows on trees?” But before Alice had a chance to answer this, the Gypsy had started again. “The Camel is often doing such things, you know,” she said. “It will take any old piece of wood, and a little string and a nail or two, and before you can define ‘fictionary’ it’s knocked up the finest chair, or bed or box.”

    “How very clever of it,” Alice said, and turned to look into the teacup again. With a gasp she saw that this time the tea-leaves had formed the picture of a clock face, slowly ticking its way around to seventeen minutes past seven. “The Rabbit’s watch!” the girl declared. “I do believe it is showing the watch! Oh, I do hope so.”

    However, much to the girl’s dismay, just as the tea-leaves were forming themselves into the image, the Wyvern leaned across. “Hush now, you two, hush now,” it cried loudly. “The Bombay Duck has decided to give us a song!” And it snatched the cup from Alice’s hand, and quickly threw it out of the window.

    Alice was quite put out at this. “What a thing to do,” she declared; but, before she could address the creature, the Gypsy said: “Now, child, don’t complain so. It’s a great honour to hear one of the Duck’s songs.”

    “Why is that so?” Alice asked crossly. “It doesn’t look such an impressive creature to me. Why, it doesn’t even have a proper beak, and it flaps its fins so weakly. I don’t believe it knows whether to be a duck or a kipper!”

    “Oh, hush!” the Camel scolded severely. “That the Duck is neither fish nor fowl is hardly a concern of yours.” It sat back in its chair, and took a large puff at a cigar (which, for some reason, it had left unlit), and then continued: “The Bombay Duck has taken the trouble to swim all the way here from the depths of the Indian Ocean, and it has brought a beak specially, so as not to scare us. It is a most noble creature, and it’s song is well worth hearing; the least one can do is listen.”

    Suitably chastened, Alice sat humbly on her chair, and looked towards the Duck. It had been observing the girl’s conversations, and gave a condescending little snort (which only served to make her feel smaller than all the cakes she had ever eaten) before standing and climbing up onto it’s chair. It pulled a parchment from under its fin and, after untying its beak and placing it on the table, unrolled the scroll and coughed.

    Immediately the Wyvern, the Camel and the Gypsy started to clap for all they were worth, and Alice was about to join them when the Duck looked down and snapped: “I haven’t started yet.” The applause stopped as soon as it had started, and the Bombay Duck, bowing low, cleared its throat and shook its fins in preparation. Then it began to sing the first verse of its song in a weak and warbling voice, which was only just off-key3.

This is not a happy tale
But it must be told.
I’ll sing it loud, I’ll sing it clear,
I’ll sing it hot and cold,
And even if it’s far too long
I’ll sing it twice tenfold;
For, though it’s not a happy tale,
It really must be told.

The Wyvern and the Camel broke in to sing the chorus, which to Alice’s surprise seemed to have to be sung extremely loudly, with wild and rude gesticulation at the Duck:

Sing, why don't you?
TELL YOUR TALE!
SING YOUR SONG,
O FEATHER'D WHALE!

The Duck, unabashed, continued:

But this is quite a morbid song;
To sing it brings malaise,
And many of the nervous ills
Which plague our modern days.
Perhaps its poetry would be
Better paraphrased—
For this is a most morbid song
(Its verses are, leastways).

Once more the other creatures, now accompanied by the Gypsy also (who banged her plate on the table for all she was worth, and made even ruder gestures at the poor Duck), shrieked the chorus:

Sing your story!
MAKE IT HEARD!
SING, BY HEAVEN,
O SCALY BIRD!

This is not the final verse, (the Duck sang)
And so I’ll put it here.
To put it at the end would seem
Inordinately queer.
And anyway, my story has
Not yet begun, I fear—
So this is not the final verse,
And I shall put it here.

By now Alice felt she had grown used to the intricacies of the song, and was quite ready to join in with the chorus. She closed her eyes, and drew in a deep breath, and shouted for all she was worth: “SING!”

    However, to her surprise, the only voice she heard was her own; and opening her eyes she saw that she had been left quite alone. The tearoom was now entirely bare, save for Alice on her chair, and in the middle of the floor, the Bombay Duck’s papier-maché beak.

    “Where could they have got to?” Alice asked herself. “And if it isn’t the height of impertinence, to leave in the middle of a song. Evidently, it was the final verse.”

    The girl picked up the beak from the floor, and looked at it sadly. “And after everything else,” she concluded, “they seem to have left me with the bill.”

Chapter VIII - The Major and the Miner Chapter VIII - The Major and the Miner | Chapter X - Alice’s Assessment Chapter X - Alice’s Assessment