The atmosphere was as noticeable as the noise when Alice got in, and seemed to be heavily charged with pepper. There was a faint whiff of burning incense, and some candles that had just been put out were smouldering unpleasantly. Quite a number of Articles were strewn about on the floor, some of them more or less broken. The Duchess was seated in the middle of the kitchen, holding, as well as she could, a very unmanageable baby that kept wriggling itself into all manner of postures and uncompromising attitudes. At the back of the kitchen a cook was busily engaged in stirring up a large cauldron, pausing every now and then to fling a reredos or half a rubric at the Duchess, who maintained an air of placid unconcern in spite of the combined fractiousness of the baby and cook and the obtrusiveness of the pepper.
“Your cook seems to have a very violent temper,” said Alice, as soon as a lull in the discord enabled her to make herself heard.
THE DUCHESS, THE BABY, AND THE COOK.
(With apologies to Sir John Tenniel.)
“Drat her!” said the Duchess.
“I beg your pardon,” said Alice, not quite sure whether she had heard aright; “your Grace was remarking——”
“Pax vobiscum, was what I said,” answered the Duchess; “there’s nothing like a dead language when you’re dealing with a live volcano.”
“But aren’t you going to do something to set matters straight a bit?” asked Alice, dodging a whole set of Ornaments that went skimming through the air, and watching with some anxiety the contortions of the baby, which was getting more difficult to hold every moment.
“Of course something must be done,” said the Duchess, with decision, “but quietly and gradually—the leaden foot within the velvet shoe, you know.”