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I’m sure any Lecture you give us will be a treat!’ said the Other Professor, who had been standing with his back to us all this time, occupying himself in taking the books out, one by one, and turning them upside-down. An easel, with a black board on it, stood near him: and, every time that he turned a book upside-down, he made a mark on the board with a piece of chalk.
‘And as to the “Pig-Tale”—which you have so kindly promised to give us—’ the Professor went on, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. ‘I think that had better come at the end of the Banquet: then people can listen to it quietly.’
‘Shall I sing it?’ the Other Professor asked, with a smile of delight.
‘If you can,’ the Professor replied, cautiously.
‘Let me try,’ said the Other Professor, seating himself at the pianoforte. ‘For the sake of argument, let us assume that it begins on A flat.’ And he struck the note in question. ‘La, la, la! I think that’s within an octave of it.’ He struck the note again, and appealed to Bruno, who was standing at his side. ‘Did I sing it like that, my child?’
‘No, oo didn’t,’ Bruno replied with great decision. ‘It were more like a duck.’
‘Single notes are apt to have that effect,’ the Other Professor said with a sigh. ‘Let me try a whole verse.
There was a Pig, that sat alone,
Beside a ruined Pump.
By day and night he made his moan:
It would have stirred a heart of stone
To see him wring his hoofs and groan,
Because he could not jump.
Would you call that a tune, Professor?’ he asked, when he had finished.
The Professor considered a little. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘some of the notes are the same as others—and some are different—but I should hardly call it a tune.’
‘Let me try it a bit by myself,’ said the Other Professor. And he began touching the notes here and there, and humming to himself like an angry bluebottle.
‘How do you like his singing?’ the Professor asked the children in a low voice.
‘It isn’t very beautiful,’ Sylvie said, hesitatingly.
‘It’s very extremely ugly!’ Bruno said, without any hesitation at all.
‘All extremes are bad,’ the Professor said, very gravely. ‘For instance, Sobriety is a very good thing, when practised in moderation: but even Sobriety, when carried to an extreme, has its disadvantages.’
‘What are its disadvantages?’ was the question that rose in my mind—and, as usual, Bruno asked it for me. ‘What are its lizard bandages?’
‘Well, this is one of them,’ said the Professor. ‘When a man’s tipsy (that’s one extreme, you know), he sees one thing as two. But, when he’s extremely sober (that’s the other extreme), he sees two things as one. It’s equally inconvenient, whichever happens.’
‘What does “illconvenient” mean?’ Bruno whispered to Sylvie.
‘The difference between “convenient” and “inconvenient” is best explained by an example,’ said the Other Professor, who had overheard the question. ‘If you’ll just think over any Poem that contains the two words—such as—’
The Professor put his hands over his ears, with a look of dismay. ‘If you once let him begin a Poem,’ he said to Sylvie, ‘he’ll never leave off again! He never does!’
‘Did he ever begin a Poem and not leave off again?’ Sylvie enquired.
‘Three times,’ said the Professor.
Bruno raised himself on tiptoe, till his lips were on a level with Sylvie’s ear. ‘What became of them three Poems?’ he whispered. ‘Is he saying them all, now?’
‘Hush!’ said Sylvie. ‘The Other Professor is speaking!’
‘I’ll say it very quick,’ murmured the Other Professor, with downcast eyes, and melancholy voice, which contrasted oddly with his face, as he had forgotten to leave off smiling. (‘At least it wasn’t exactly a smile,’ as Sylvie said afterwards: ‘it looked as if his mouth was made that shape.’) ‘Go on then,’ said the Professor. ‘What must be must be.’
‘Remember that!’ Sylvie whispered to Bruno, ‘It’s a very good rule for whenever you hurt yourself.’
‘And it’s a very good rule for whenever I make a noise,’ said the saucy little fellow. ‘So you remember it too, Miss!’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ said Sylvie, trying to frown, a thing she never managed particularly well.
‘Oftens and oftens,’ said Bruno, ‘haven’t oo told me “There mustn’t be so much noise, Bruno!” when I’ve tolded oo “There must!” Why, there isn’t no rules at all about “There mustn’t!” But oo never believes me!’
‘As if any one could believe you, you wicked wicked boy!’ said Sylvie. The words were severe enough, but I am of opinion that, when you are really anxious to impress a criminal with a sense of his guilt, you ought not to pronounce the sentence with your lips quite close to his cheek—since a kiss at the end of it, however accidental, weakens the effect terribly.
Chapter 11
Peter and Paul
‘As I was saying,’ the Other Professor resumed, ‘if you’ll just think over any Poem, that contains the words—such as
“Peter is poor,” said noble Paul,
“And I have always been his friend:
And, though my means to give are small,
At least I can afford to lend.
How few, in this cold age of greed,
Do good, except on selfish grounds!
But I can feel for Peter’s need,
And I WILL LEND HIM FIFTY POUNDS!”
How great was Peter’s joy to find
His friend in such a genial vein!
How cheerfully the bond he signed,
To pay the money back again!
“We ca’n’t,” said Paul, “be too precise:
’Tis best to fix the very day:
So, by a learned friend’s advice,
I’ve made it Noon, the Fourth of May.”
“But this is April!” Peter said.
“The First of April, as I think.
Five little weeks will soon be fled:
One scarcely will have time to wink!
Give me a year to speculate—
To buy and sell—to drive a trade—”
Said Paul “I cannot change the date.
On