Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole

Down the Rabbit-Hole

On a blazing summer afternoon, Alice sat beside her sister on the riverbank, thoroughly bored. The book her sister was reading had neither pictures nor conversations, and Alice considered this a fatal flaw. As she drowsily debated whether the pleasure of a daisy-chain could possibly justify the bother of rising to pick the flowers, a White Rabbit with pink eyes scurried past. This alone was not remarkable, nor was the Rabbit’s anxious muttering, “Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be late!” But when the creature drew a watch from its waistcoat-pocket and glanced at the time before hurrying on, Alice leaped to her feet. She had never seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket or a watch, and burning with curiosity, she darted across the field after it. She was just in time to see the Rabbit disappear down a large hole beneath the hedge.

Without a moment’s thought about how she might ever climb back out, Alice tumbled down after it.

The rabbit-hole ran straight like a tunnel, then plunged suddenly downward, and Alice found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. The descent was strangely slow, granting her ample time to study the cupboards and bookshelves lining the walls. She plucked a jar labelled “ORANGE MARMALADE” from a shelf, found it empty, and carefully tucked it into a cupboard as she passed, fearing she might brain some unfortunate soul below. She tried to gauge her depth—four thousand miles to the centre of the earth, perhaps?—and wondered whether she might fall clean through and greet the Antipathies, those people who walked with their heads downward. She tried to curtsey in midair, just in case, then thought of her cat Dinah at home and began puzzling, in a dreamy way, about whether cats ate bats, or whether bats ate cats.

Thump! She landed on a heap of sticks and dry leaves, unhurt, and was off again at once, chasing the distant Rabbit through a long passage into a low hall lit by a row of lamps hanging from the roof. Every door was locked. After trying each one in turn, Alice discovered a tiny golden key on a three-legged glass table, and behind a curtain a small door barely fifteen inches high. The key fitted it perfectly, and Alice knelt to peer through into the loveliest garden imaginable—beds of bright flowers, cool fountains, everything she longed for. But her head could not squeeze through, and wishing, quite absurdly, that she could fold up like a telescope, she wandered back to the table.

There she found a little bottle bearing a paper label that read “DRINK ME” in large letters. Being a well-brought-up child who remembered the lessons of stories about children who had ignored warnings about unmarked bottles, Alice checked carefully for the word “poison,” found none, and drank. The flavour was a delicious confusion of cherry-tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot buttered toast. She shrank down to ten inches, exactly the right size for the little door, only to realize with despair that she had left the golden key on the high table. A little glass box under the table yielded a cake marked “EAT ME” in currants. She ate the whole thing, hoping it would either shrink her further or grow her tall enough to reach the key.

The Pool of Tears

“Curiouser and curiouser!” cried Alice, opening out like the largest telescope ever made. She towered to nine feet and pressed her head against the ceiling of the hall. Lying on her side, she could barely peek through the little door with one eye. Overcome, she burst into tears and wept until a great pool, four inches deep and spreading halfway down the hall, soaked her feet.

A pattering of feet announced the White Rabbit, splendidly dressed and carrying white kid gloves and a fan. He was muttering anxiously about the Duchess. Alice, in desperation, addressed him timidly: “If you please, sir—” The Rabbit started violently, dropped his belongings, and bolted into the darkness.

Alice picked up the fan and gloves and fanned herself as she puzzled aloud over her strange condition. Was she still herself? She tested her knowledge—four times five is twelve, four times six is thirteen—and recited, in a hoarse voice, a verse about a crocodile welcoming little fishes with gently smiling jaws. When she glanced down she discovered she had somehow pulled on one of the Rabbit’s gloves. The fan, she realized with alarm, was shrinking her, and she dropped it just in time. But as she rushed back toward the garden door, her foot slipped, and splash!—she plunged up to her chin in salt water. It was the pool of her own tears, and she swam about trying to find an exit.

A small creature splashed nearby. Alice decided that, in this peculiar world, it was worth attempting conversation. She addressed a Mouse in careful Latin grammar fashion, then tried French: “Où est ma chatte?” The Mouse leaped, trembling. Alice had mentioned cats. The Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice, declared that its family had always hated cats—nasty, low, vulgar things. Alice, attempting to soothe the creature with talk of a sweet little terrier that killed rats, only made matters worse. The Mouse agreed to tell her history, but only once they reached the shore. By then the pool was crowded with a Duck, a Dodo, a Lory, an Eaglet, and other creatures, and Alice led them all to land.