Listening to the Alice Books

Despite the ‘acoustic turn’ providing ‘a corrective to the visualist bias of much scholarship on modern and postmodern culture’, the Alice books and their author have been almost exclu-sively seen rather than heard by critics to date. Prompted by a collaboration with composer Paul Rissmann which resulted in a concert suite performed by the London Symphony Orchestra in 2015, in this article I undertake the first detailed exploration of the sonic dimension of these texts. This merits attention not only because of its very emphatic foregrounding within the frame narrative of Wonderland , but also because of authorial interests and preoccupations, and the quickly established and still enduring musical afterlife of the books. Although triggered in Wonderland by the pastoral and by the sounds of the natural world, a process of translation or transformation renders a very different sonic landscape within the narrative proper. The bucolic frames an often raucous modern core, with Carroll embedding not only catchy anodyne melodies but also the sounds of the everyday and of contemporary industry, transport, and material culture. Attending to the rich and varied soundscape of Carroll’s best-known works sheds new light on their widely examined images but also restores a key dimension of the texts, essential to their Victorian reception. The detailed exploration of the full range of sonic phenomena within the works, from music to noise, and spanning both sound and silence, opens up new relation-ships between Carroll and his Victorian contemporaries, as well as further reinforcing his status as a proto-modernist.

More elaborate and insistent foregrounding of the sonic is hard to imagine, and would in itself prompt a sustained and comprehensive examination of this dimension of the narrative proper as well as that of the subsequent Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There (1871). But the need for such an undertaking is further bolstered not only by the famed oral origins of the narrative, hammered out for the entertainment of the young Liddell sisters over a series of river outings in 1862, but also by hitherto neglected aspects of Carroll's life and approach to his most famous works. As well as having a lifelong interest in music, Carroll was adamant that the melodies he had in mind when writing the intercalated poems and songs of the books should be preserved in their subsequent adaptation to the stage. This is in sharp contrast with his considerably more relaxed approach to other aspects of the staging such as his heroine's appearance. The sonic afterlife of the books also underscores the importance of attending to their rich and varied soundscapes. Read not just silently but out loud, both in informal domestic settings and in public performances and recitations, their specifically musical potential was seized upon rapidly, and well before other adaptations began. William Boyd led the way with his music sheets (largely remembered now because they feature one of the earliest colourized versions of Tenniel's illustrations), published as early as 1870. To a much greater extent than other classic children's works of the period by the likes of Charles Kingsley and George MacDonald, which also combine illustration, verse and song, the Alice books have consistently inspired a vast array of musicians and composers. 2 The present article arises in large part from a collaboration with composer Paul Rissmann who created a concert suite based upon the refrains of a particular nineteenth-century music sheet, the arrangement of which enabled insight into how Victorians heard some of Carroll's key characters. 3 That project responded to John Picker's call for scholars to understand how the Victorians heard as well as saw themselves. 4 Rissmann's desire to pinpoint sounds within the narrative so as to incorporate them within his own music served as the catalyst to the approach adopted here, which listens as (much as) it reads.
Picker has been at the forefront of increased scholarly attentiveness to what he refers to as the 'varied and vast' Victorian soundscape. 5 This was, he argues, not only a period in which 'the gaze acquired a new degree of importance' but also one which 'experienced a rise in close listening ' . 6 Thanks to scientific and technological developments, formerly inaudible sounds emerged in highly suggestive, inspirational ways, for the first time. The speculations such as those of physicist William Hyde Wollaston, that 'a secret realm of sound might be lurking behind the everyday soundscape and that it might reveal alternate "modes of existence"' were grist to the mill of a vast range of Victorian writers. 7 In a masterly study which takes in both the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, Sam Halliday argues for the co-existence and interdependence of 'visual', 'verbal', and 'sounded' 'cultures of sound', bringing literature firmly within the purview of sound studies. 8 Like bodies in the nineteenth century, books are increasingly being recognized as being 'alive with sound' . 9 A number of scholars following the cues of Picker, Halliday and others, have shown how Victorian literature both 'absorbed' and contributed to 'auditory culture', 10 with attention increasingly paid not only to the music which has formed the backbone of traditional comparative literary and intermedial approaches, but also to a much broader and more varied spectrum of sound.
Yet despite what has been referred to as an 'acoustic turn' providing 'a corrective to the visualist bias of much scholarship on modern and postmodern culture', the Alice books and their author have been much more readily seen than heard by critics to date. 11 To be sure, inherently sonic aspects of the language of these texts -their wordplay, parody, oral genesis, narrative stance, and interactivity -have all been widely examined. Yet the author and his best-known works are still much more readily associated with image than with sound. Extensive interest in the author's highly acclaimed photographic output fosters an impression of Carroll as an accomplished conjuror of still, soundless images. By contrast, there is to date only one short published piece on Carroll's musical interests and undertakings. 12 With respect to the Alice books specifically, scholars have repeatedly pored over their many sets of illustrations, and especially those of Tenniel, as is reflected in, and perpetuated by, critical apparatuses. While Martin Gardner's go-to Annotated Alice not only cites Quinten Massys's 'Ugly Duchess' as a source for Tenniel but reproduces it in the margins, there is no such treatment of the songs carefully embedded within the narrative. And whereas critics (myself included) have been at pains to underline the role of the images to supplement the details Carroll does not include in the written text, there seems to have been an almost wilful failure to attend to the extensive and meticulous detailing of intonation, timbre, delivery, and pitch that he does, very abundantly, provide.
Some work nevertheless provides a useful starting point for moving beyond the ocularcentrism which has characterized Carrollian scholarship to date. Alexandre Révérend's 'Lewis Carroll et la musique' website constitutes a precious, if dated and not comprehensive, resource, offering as it does recordings of nineteenth-century musical adaptations of the songs and poems embedded within the Alice books. 13 More recently, in his short monograph, Richard Elliott examines the 'noisy writing' of Carroll alongside that of Lear and Joyce, probing the role of sound in the operation of nonsense and in the demarcation of realms of consciousness. 14 Meanwhile, Anna Kérchy's 'The Acoustics of Nonsense in Lewis Carroll's Alice Tales' provides a still more detailed exploration of language and wordplay in relation to sound. 15 But no critical work to date has ventured far beyond language or considered sound and music in relation to the Alice books together. Nor have their silences -which have been key to reflexions on, and renditions of, sound from Aristotle onwards -been adequately acknowledged. 16 Through its exploration of the music and noise, the sound and silences of the Alice books, whose 'total performance' depends on much more than the widely understood interrelation of text and image, 17 this article sets out to restore a key dimension of the texts which was readily apparent to a Victorian audience. Moreover, close attention to sound (and silence) actually helps us see their celebrated images afresh. Periodic comparison with key contemporary works by Charles Kingsley (The Water Babies, 1863) and George MacDonald (At the Back of the North Wind, 1871) which, as noted above, are akin to the Alice books in their intercalation of images, verse and song within the surrounding prose, serves to underscore Carroll's particular achievements and innovations in this regard.

THE S ENS E -SC A PE OF THE A LICE BO OK S
Originating in Antiquity, rankings of the senses remained 'a mainstay of much subsequent commentary' on the subject until at least the early nineteenth century. 18 Within the Alice books, the different senses hold varying levels of importance and can be similarly hierarchized. Thus, despite the prominence of gardens and flowers, readily associated not just with pleasing sights but sweet smells, the place of the olfactory is negligible at best. And although critics have made much of the role of food in the books, taste sensations are actually detailed only twice, albeit memorably in the case of the first shape-altering liquid imbibed, with its 'sort of mixed flavour of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast' (W, p. 17). Few, on the other hand, would notice, let alone remember, the intensely dry biscuit the Red Queen forces Alice to eat or the sensation of choking it triggers (LG, p. 175). Here, the emphasis is on how the biscuit feels rather than how it tastes, and physical sensation and touch do feature slightly more prominently than either smell or taste, especially in Looking-Glass. In the first book, physical contact between characters is rare, and although Alice holds various things, we rarely know what they feel like: a slippery table leg (W, p. 18), and the Duchess's sharp chin (W, p. 95) are the notable exceptions. In Looking-Glass, however, in accordance with the chess conceit which underpins Alice's progress and the characters she encounters in the narrative proper, handling and physical contact are more important. Indeed, in the opening chapter, Alice manifests herself through touch alone. The White King and Queen can neither see nor hear Alice, but, as she lifts them up, puts them down and dusts them off, they can certainly feel her.
It is the so-called distant, as opposed to proximate, senses of vision and hearing which are most closely and frequently delineated throughout the two works. Alice is under constant scrutiny in terms of her behaviour and physical appearance. The title of the second book of course foregrounds the visual, and in chapter five of that volume, in the scene which takes place in 'a little dark shop' (LG, p. 210), the focus is very much on looking at things, which here have the particularity of moving when they come under inspection. Moreover, in line with Halliday's observation that sound is 'not opposed to but harnessed with and ratcheted up by other forms of sensation' in literary works, seeing and hearing often work in tandem in the Alice books. 19 These two prime senses are repeatedly shown in conjunction and are, as 16 Halliday, Sonic Modernity, p. 21. Halliday remarks of Proust's À la recherche, 'cooperative and complementary ' . 20 As discussed in the opening of this article, Alice's sister both sees and hears the heroine in the imaginative recapitulation and projection of the frame narrative. Similarly, although less widely remarked upon, Alice is herself regularly engaged in close viewing and active listening. An attentive listener, she possesses what Schlauraff, via Picker, refers to as an important navigational skill of the Victorian age. 21 On the strength of a single hearing, Alice is able to recall and repeat part of Humpty Dumpty's verse in her subsequent discussions with the two Queens some three chapters and two chess moves later (LG, p. 269). Anticipating and embodying the '[e]ager eye and willing ear' of the very final epilogue poem, Alice simultaneously looks on and listens as the White Knight sings: 'all this she took in like a picture, as, with one hand shading her eyes, she leant against a tree, watching the strange pair, and listening, in a half-dream, to the melancholy music of the song' (LG,p. 256).
Alice is, of course, a child desirous of pictures and conversations in her own reading matter, and the texts in which she herself exists amply deliver both. Although Humpty Dumpty questions the possibility of visualizing song (''If you can see whether I'm singing or not, you've sharper eyes than most' (LG, p. 228)), the texts nevertheless endeavour to render sound and its effects visible in different ways via illustration, typography, and page layout. Tenniel shows several characters in the process of generating sound or responding to it. The White Rabbit, for instance is shown both in disarray crashing into the cucumber frame (AAIW48), 22 and, as a much more composed courtier, issuing three blasts on the trumpet to initiate the trial proceedings (AAIW166). In the second book, an eerie, flat, pattern-rich image, corresponding to the sonic dimension of the nursery rhyme which the narrative is literalizing, shows Alice covering her ears from the 'dreadful uproar' of the surrounding drums (TTLG156, Figure 1).
Elsewhere, with mouths wide open, characters are captured in the ungainly sonic acts of singing (AAIW103, Figure 2), bellowing (AAIW117, Figure 3; TTLG133, Figure 4), howling (AAIW81, Figure 5), or snoring (TTLG80, TTLG198). An absence of sound can be similarly rendered: the White King was 'far too much astonished to cry out, but his eyes and his mouth went on getting larger and larger; and rounder and rounder' (TTLG17, Figure 6; LG, pp. 152-53). The similarity of the orientation, expression, and positioning of hands in the images of howling baby and dumbstruck king suggests that Tenniel reworked the one in the creation of the other. Attending to sound reveals the previously unregistered visual connection between the seemingly diametrically opposed noisy infant, on the one hand, and silent grown-up, on the other.
Sound can be depicted in other interesting ways in these texts. In the case of the Mouse in the first book, the act of speech is marked not by an open mouth but by gesture and posture (AAIW29). Here, the reader has access to two versions of the same moment: Tenniel's illustration shows the speaker and his audience, whilst the typographical layout shows the sinuous formation of the words that Alice, prompted by the tail/tale homonym, sees as she listens. On one occasion, Carroll also avails himself of typography as an index to sound levels: the 'little voice' of the Gnat is rendered in a noticeably smaller font than the speech of his interlocutors Yet as Picker in his discussion of Hermann von Helmholtz and Eliot makes clear, hearing was sometimes elevated to pole position in the sensory rankings of the nineteenth century, and likewise at crucial points in the Alice books, it edges out in front of vision. 23 In key scenes, Alice's visual perception is curtailed or severely hampered, her senses limited entirely to what she can hear. Thus, it is too dark for her to see back up into the well down which she has fallen (W, p. 14) and, having grown exponentially, she cannot properly see her own feet (W, p. 20) or, later, anything but her serpentine neck (W, p. 56). When she finds herself wedged embryonically into the White Rabbit's house, hearing is the only sense available to her. We may see the rabbit crashing into the cucumber frame, but Alice can only hear the animals' attempts to oust her. She effectively navigates and interprets the silences, sounds and voices from beyond, defending herself from incursions and eventually freeing herself. Her expert manoeuvres demonstrate that sight is not everything, and that important events may occur 23 Picker, Victorian Soundscapes, pp. 84-89. Listening to Alice • 7 and be understood without necessarily being seen. This will eventually be confirmed by the frame narrative, which reveals the same overarching sensory reduction. But rather than curtailing or constricting, this instead seems to serve as creative constraint.

PER FOR M ATIVE OR IGINS A ND THE PL ACE OF MUS IC, SON G A ND R ECITATION WITHIN THE BO OK S
The images discussed above provide a clear and effective indication of the sheer variety of the soundscape of these books, ranging from melodious song to noisome din, and from loudness to silence. Sound played an important role in both the author's life and the genesis of the books. Music was central to Carroll's social and cultural activities; throughout his life he attended concerts, operas and theatrical performances heavily imbued with music and song. Donald B. Eperson argues that Carroll was far more discriminating than he himself sometimes professed and that by his early twenties he had already 'given considerable thought to the subject of music in general' . 24 References to, and reflexions on, music can be found within both his diaries and published works such as Sylvie and Bruno, and it formed an important part of his private exchanges and friendships. Music-related curios were amongst Carroll's extensive and varied repertoire of gifts and modes of entertainment and, as with other facets of surrounding material culture, these could provide grist to the mill of his absurdist humour and whimsy (for instance in an account of an orguinette going backwards and serving  25 Music was regularly performed in the course of his social visits to friends (including the Liddell sisters) and he himself wrote songs, often drawing parodically on existing melodies, for domestic entertainments.
In 1857 Carroll was elected a member of Oxford's Choral Society, which gave him access to concerts, and it was here that he met the talented singer Robinson Duckworth, who would become a regular member of some of the most famous boating parties in literary history. The oral origins of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland are now quasi-legendary but nevertheless worth recalling in the present context. The tale was elaborated over the course of several river outings for the three Liddell sisters conducted by Carroll, often with Duckworth and others in tow, involving singing by adults and children as well as storytelling and general conversation. These were, then, live performances, with the teller able to respond to the responses and interjections of his young, familiar audience. At Alice's behest, Carroll wrote the story down, the originally sung and spoken words becoming the handwritten words of the manuscript and eventually, after small-scale circulation and consultation, the typeset and published words of the books. This was by no means a linear process representing the obliteration of the spoken by the written word, but instead saw a regular to-and-fro between writing and performance 25 Isa Bowman, Lewis Carroll As I Knew Him (New York, NY: Dover, 1972[1899), pp. 21, 48. Listening to Alice • 9 (cf. the MacDonald family reading it out loud together). Moreover, the final works maintained much of the intimacy, direct address, shared jokes and allusions of the extempore tellings.
That music, song and voices of many descriptions find their way into the Alice books is therefore unsurprising. In line with the oneiric framework, the music of the texts is unconventional and fantastical: instruments are noisome rather than musical, while melodious sound and song issues forth from the natural world (LG,p. 191) or without any discernible source (LG, p. 273). As we will see, strange things happen to the lyrics of the songs in these books in their passage from the shared world of an initially tight-knit audience into the dream narrative. Because of the absence of notation, and the passage of time, the songs can evaporate altogether. But as Table 1 makes abundantly clear, Carroll plotted the four songs which feature in the second half of each of the two texts with great care.
As with Tenniel's images, the songs are no mere ornamental flourishes, but intrinsically connected to, and embedded within, the narrative. Thus, characters like the Mock Turtle, the White Knight and Humpty Dumpty feature implicitly or explicitly within the songs. Lyrics can serve to move the action on or otherwise relate to the specific narrative moment in which they occur. The Gryphon and the Mock Turtle sing about a forthcoming dance as they dance, and the song heralding the beginning of Queen Alice's party is an invitation to  Listening to Alice • 11 that very event. Several songs have a reflexive quality in that they are about tone of voice and about the act of (distracted) listening. The aged man heard sporadically at best by the White Knight has 'accents mild' (LG, p. 257) and speech that is 'slow' (LG, p. 259). In the first book, the Duchess's 'sort of lullaby' (W, p. 64) is based on a poem all about appropriate demeanour towards others, encapsulated in manner of address and tone of voice. Carroll sweeps away the 'accents soft and mild', low whispers of love, and the kind voice of affection, replacing the desirability of speaking 'gently' with that of speaking 'roughly' and 'severely' . Clashing not only with the poem on which it is based but also the music to which it is sung, the incongruity of the Duchess's 'sort of lullaby' is thus twofold.
As even the most cursory glance at contemporary children's books makes clear, Carroll was by no means alone in his incorporation of songs within his prose: Kingsley's Water Babies, which began publication in the very year of the river outings, begins with a song in each of its first two chapters and continues to feature several more throughout. Likewise, in MacDonald's At the Back of the North Wind, song plays an integral role, enabling and forging links to the idyllic otherworld realm at the text's core. Yet in neither work is there much or usually any indication at all as to the music behind these songs, and it is in this regard that Carroll's work differs substantially from that of his peers. We know from his correspondence with the likes of Arthur Sullivan no less, that Carroll had pre-existing tunes in mind for the songs of the Alice books. 26 Although specific versions still need to be excavated for some, we can nevertheless be fairly sure of their general nature, based on those we do know ('Beautiful Star' and 'Will you walk into my parlour?') and bearing in mind Carroll's general taste in music. 27 In correspondence with stage producer Henry Savile Clarke, he writes of the 'sweet old air' which is the basis of the Mock Turtle's first song. 28 We are not dealing here with the grand or elaborate -what Carroll refers to as 'first rate music' which generates 'a sense of anxiety and labour' -but instead the 'unsatisfactory music' which is more enjoyable and can be taken as it comes. 29 The music of the books is catchy, simple and regular, like the 'words of the old song' which ring through Alice's own head 'like the ticking of a clock' (LG, p. 189). These are songs familiar to Alice, whose schooling, we are told, incorp-  isn't his own invention . . . it's 'I give thee all, I can no more' (LG, p. 256). Familiar and accessible, the songs could be readily activated by contemporary readers for whom Alice is a surrogate, explaining in part the absence of notation, which would have been superfluous. Printed words are enough to 'trigger the melody of the song . . . in the reader's inner ear ' . 30 In his first letter to Savile Clarke, Carroll insists repeatedly upon the fact that these are old songs, which thus bring a sense of tradition and timelessness. 31 Alice might be a modern heroine wearing the latest fashions, but she nevertheless moves in a musical realm of venerability. Kingsley also repeatedly alludes to the same simple, archaic tradition in the Water Babies, but in marked difference to Carroll, he backs away from musical specifics, claiming that while the words or body of a song can be included, its 'sweet old air' or soul 'alas! one cannot put on paper' . 32 In the Alice books, Carroll begs to differ. In addition to, and often blurring with, the songs embedded within Carroll's texts are a number of other vocal performances. Certain chapters in the two books (namely, W chapter 10, LG chapters 4 and 9) are indeed intensely performative, incorporating as they do both verse recitation (or repetition which is Carroll's favoured term) and song ( Table 2). The two can be difficult to distinguish: they are presented identically in terms of typography and treated synonymously (when the White Knight offers to sing Alice a comforting 'song', she is less than enthusiastic, having 'heard a good deal of poetry that day' (LG, p. 255)). Subsequent adapters did indeed often treat the poems as such, setting them to music and thereby further increasing the musicality of the texts. Equally, though, from the 1870s onwards, the poems would also be widely recited without music in all manner of prize-givings, summer fêtes and evening soirées in venues across the world.
Within the texts, spoken performance builds narrative cohesion and layering as on several occasions there is a reference back to the previous instance of recitation, which itself draws on a pre-existing poem. As has been very widely remarked, many of the recitations are parodies of familiar household works, in which Alice is spoken through, like a diminutive clairvoyant. These are intensely unsettling, despair-inducing experiences for the heroine, light years away from the beneficial (non-parodic) nonsense produced by the divinely inspired Diamond in At the Back of the North Wind. In the Alice books, if the sonic skeleton -the rhythm and metre -of the original poems is retained and even strengthened, Carroll's new words evoke an entirely different scene (of, for example, predation rather than industry in both 'How doth the little crocodile' and ''Tis the voice of the lobster'). Yet over the course of the two books, there is a marked movement away from Alice as unwilling, unsuccessful performer to unwilling listener, and from parodies to original creations, as though Carroll becomes more confident but reluctant to associate his heroine with the less anchored products of his imagination. As with the songs discussed above, the poems declaimed are often about the process of communication and its inherent difficulties. Thus, like the White Knight's song, 'You are old, Father William' consists of a not wholly successful, and impatiently and abruptly curtailed, exchange between two characters: Similarly, Humpty's poem is all about messages and failed communication, instructions issued but not heeded: 'I told them once, I told them twice: | They would not listen to advice' . The messenger stolidly bears the sonic weight of his ire and frustration without giving way: I said to him, I said it plain, "Then you must wake them up again." I said it very loud and clear: I went and shouted in his ear. (LG,p. 229) Over the course of the two books, recitations featuring a single voice steadily give way to others characterized by interjection, interruption and commentary from others. As a result, in the scenes with the Mock Turtle and the Gryphon in Wonderland or with Humpty Dumpty in Looking-Glass, recitation and conversation (discussed below) start to blur.

S PEECH A ND OTHER VOICE SO UNDS
All of these important and relatively frequent vocal performances, present in nine out of 24 chapters, depend on some form of prior knowledge and memory, and reach backwards to pre-existing (or nominally pre-existing) works. But what dominates these texts are all the speech acts, from orders to threats to conversations, which happen 'live', in the present moment of the narrative and which depend on wit rather than recall, just as the original story was initially elaborated as an impromptu entertainment for the Liddell sisters. The books contain a great many voices with a range of different pitches and inflections -the tone being set, as it were, even in Wonderland's prefatory poem where 'imperious', 'gentler', 'happy' and 'weak' voices are set against each other (W, pp. 7-8). Statistically, and revealingly, the five most common word types in the books are 'voice' (86 instances), 'tone' (81), 'cried' (76), 'exclaimed' (74) and 'shouted' (13). Almost everyone and everything is endowed with human speech in these books. This includes inanimate objects (cards, chess pieces, foodstuffs) and living forms which are normally either silent (such as flowers) or inaccessible or incomprehensible to human ears. This generous bestowal of speech is informed both by literary convention stretching back to Aesop and beyond and by scientific possibility, at a time when interest in sense perception was enabling 'embodied subjects to experience themselves as objects, and objects reciprocally to function as subjects', leading to 'a mutual perviousness between self and world' . 33 Interestingly, with one fleeting exception, Carroll makes no effort to align speech to species. The appearance of the Sheep morphing out of the Queen does coincide with speech transformed into 'a long bleat': '"Oh much better!" cried the Queen, her voice rising into a squeak as she went on. "Much be-etter! Be-etter! Be-e-e-etter! Be-e-ehh!"' (LG, p. 210) But conversational abilities are then immediately assumed with the question, '"What is it you want to buy?"' This brief moment aside, and as opposed to Kingsley's concerted efforts to reproduce the sounds of cock-grouses and dragonflies, there is no miaowing or squawking or clucking; all the animals and objects sound just like humans.
But they are by no means the same for all that. Rather, Carroll stages an astonishing range of speakers, from the loquacious and verbose Pigeon and Humpty to the tight-lipped, blunt, and unexpansive Caterpillar. The texture of these multiple voices and their modes of delivery are delineated with enormous care and attention to detail. A lifelong and highly committed theatre-goer, Carroll proves himself a skilled dramatist, making use of a range of verbs, adjectives and adverbial tagging as well as metaphor and typographic emphasis. 34 Thus in a single chapter, Alice repeatedly 'cries' and 'says', her lines enlivened by exclamation marks and italics. But timbre, tempo, tonalities, inflections and pitch are also detailed via speech tags and adverbs: Alice cries 'hastily', calls 'softly' (W, pp. 26, 27), adopts 'a low and timid voice', and a 'soothing' or 'sorrowful' tone (W, pp. 22, 26, 27). In contrast, and in response, the Mouse's voice ranges from 'shrill' and 'passionate' to 'low trembling' (W, p. 28). Throughout these texts, with their decidedly script-like qualities, Carroll is at pains to help us hear not just what his characters say but how they say it, and thus to be better able to reproduce their speech, whether in our heads or out loud.
Characters, and especially Alice, happily and often extensively talk to themselves. But invariably unsatisfactory conversation with one or more interlocutors dominates and structures both texts. As Gillian Beer, in her detailed exploration of the dialogic dimension of different levels of the diegesis makes clear, the pages of the works are indeed 'scored for conversation ' . 35 It is quickly established that Alice will talk with whomsoever she meets, or will at least try toher initial attempt to engage the White Rabbit in conversation is entirely abortive. The rapid, quickfire exchanges, the thrusts and repartee, ensure pace and momentum. Although 'live' and improvised, such exchanges nevertheless draw upon an implicit, underlying script, familiar to the reader and to Alice -who know how conversations should unfold. Like the songs and recitations, however, these exchanges -or 'dissident dialogues' in Beer's pithy phrasedepart from the standard conversational script in significant ways. 36 This can be gestural and volume-related, as when a character shouts after elaborately adopting the posture of whispering (LG, p. 237). Characters can fail to listen, to answer, or simply to speak at all, leaving Alice at a loss and thrown back on her own resources. When conversation is underway it is frequently abrasive, hostile and combative, 'an obstacle to understanding rather than tending to resolution' , according to Beer. 37 In addition to, and compounding, the contrasting temperaments and motives of the characters, one of the major obstacles preventing satisfactory exchange is the slipperiness of language, the sound of words. Indeed, 'sounded', with its blurring of seeming and the sonic, is another of the most common word types in these books. Homonyms (axes/axis, flower/flour) breed obfuscation and confusion. Meaning can be wilfully jettisoned in favour of what 'sounded best' (W, p. 125), entirely flouting the Duchess's famous sound-shifting injunction, which switches the p's of the original saying, to 'Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves' (W, p. 96).
But these characters are highly versatile in their sound-making, and by no means reliant on words alone. Indeed, non-verbal sounds can in some cases be considerably more meaningful than words. The books are liberally peppered with ughs and ohs!, with panting, sobbing and shrieks. These express a wide range of emotions, from pleasure and amusement to -more often -sadness, pain, distaste, surprise and fear. Manners and politesse dictate that certain sounds be masked as others, thus Alice converts laughter into coughing (LG,p. 201 sound emptied of sense (W, p. 100). Alice cannot establish whether the baby is hurt by the various missiles launched at it by the cook since it 'was howling so much already' (W, p. 63). Sounds issuing from mouths unconsciously and involuntarily which are entirely outside the realm of signification also contribute to the soundscape of the works. Thus, as well as the sneezes which accompany and signal the arrival of the Cook, snores play an important role in the books. Edging into the bestial and mechanical, they can also morph into music and song.
Given Carroll's well-known aversion to coarseness, amply reflected in Tenniel's decorous images, involuntary physical sounds such as these might come as something of a surprise. But as in the best-known work of Kingsley, lead promulgator of 'muscular Christianity', the Alice books are in fact full of noises made by bodies and body parts, often evoked through lively and inventive use of onomatopoeia. Attendance to this sonic dimension of Carroll's work helps restore the fundamental physicality and mobility downplayed or erased by Tenniel's images. (Compare for instance Carroll's image of an energetic, zany Gryphon and Turtle, leaping into the air, with the earthbound, ponderous Tenniel equivalent.) Sounds issuing from bodies in the texts range in their resonance from heavy, dense thumps and crashes to lighter scratches, scrabbles and patters. Both the White Rabbit (as we have seen) and the Cook are granted signature physical sounds. At the end of chapter three, when Alice 'again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance' (W, p. 37), the attentive reader alerted by that 'again' will not need to turn the page to know this is the Rabbit whose 'little pattering of feet in the distance' (W, p. 21) was established in the previous chapter. Most recurrent and significant is the sound of falling bodies. The movement of Alice's body falling onto the ground ('thump! thump!' W, p. 14) or into water ('splash!' W, p. 24) generates some of the earliest sounds, giving onomatopoeic substance to -literally fleshing out -the oneiric realm. Several other characters also undergo noisy falls. The 'heavy crash' which 'shook the forest from end to end' (LG, p. 231) is Humpty's preordained destiny, while the White and Red Knights' repeated dismounts from their 'quiet' horses, sounds to Alice '[j]ust like a whole set of fire-irons falling into the fender! (LG, p. 246) 'What a noise they make when they tumble!' she exclaims to herself as she watches their battle from behind a tree.

SONIC E X TR E M E S A ND VA R I ATION
At the very beginning of that second narrative, in the opening frame section, Alice draws her kitten's attention to a very different kind of sound, that of 'the snow against the windowpanes' . 'How nice and soft it sounds!' she observes (LG,p. 146). Within the narrative proper, as we have seen, horses can be quiet and feet no more than pattering, but, on the whole, the soundscape of both books tends very much towards the strident and discordant -the collision of metal (fire-iron) on metal (fender) far more typical than the gentle embrace of snow on glass. The music embedded within the text may be anodyne and easy on the ear but this is offset and counterbalanced by the crashing of glasses, dishes and oversized animate eggs (W, pp. 42, 43, 60; LG, p. 231), squeaking of pencils (W, p. 115), rattling of pebbles (W, p. 45) and blasting of trumpets (W, p. 116). In terms of instruments, these are worlds of drums, trumpets and rattles, rather than flutes and cellos. The whole narrative is intra-and extradiegetically prompted by the pastoral and the sounds of the natural world so much the focus of Romantic sensibility and auditory attention, 38 and very much the overarching feature of a work like At the Back of the North Wind. Yet a process of translation or transformation renders a very different sonic landscape within the narrative proper of the Alice books, where the bucolic frames an oftenraucous modern core. Carroll draws extensively on the everyday and the mundane -what Charles Lamb earlier in the century referred to as 'honest, common-life sounds' -and on contemporary industry, transport and material culture. 39 The notoriously noisy emblem of the Victorian age, the steam engine, which Carroll used regularly in his journeys to London and elsewhere, is repeatedly invoked. It provides an analogy for the snorting of the pig baby (W, p. 65), while the snores of the Red King sound to Alice like the puffing of a train (LG,p. 197) and the screams of the White Queen are likened to its whistle (LG, p. 208).
In the latter case, the sound is so intense that ' Alice had to hold both of her hands over her ears' (LG, p. 208). As Elliott notes, these are indeed often cacophonous books, encompassing moments of 'dreadful uproar' (LG, p. 244). 40 As in Kingsley's Water Babies, sheer din and boisterousness characterize some of their best-known and most memorable scenes -in the pool of tears, the Duchess's kitchen, or on the croquet ground, in the railway carriage and at Alice's banquet. In Wonderland, the Duchess's house is defined by intense noise: Alice does not just hear a crash but a 'great crash' and the howling emitted by the baby is 'constant' (W, p. 60). With its slippage between human and animal, there is something distinctly primalscream-esque about the soundscape here. On the croquet ground, there is a general amplification of volume as characters including Alice struggle to make themselves heard. The Queen's initial shout sets off a chain of shouting by the soldiers, Alice and the Queen herself, culminating in a regal roar.
If Carroll can effectively turn up the volume, he can also turn it down, and use varying sound levels to comic effect. Wonderland's much-remarked shifts in physical scale and dimension are thus accompanied by variations in volume which also extend into the second book. Carroll sometimes simultaneously plays with size and volume together, as with the (smaller) talking flowers who so take the (larger) Alice's breath away that they speak louder than she does (LG, p. 166). Incongruent levels of sound can produce absurdity and comedy. In the Looking-Glass frame narrative we learn that Alice herself is by no means immune to noisy and somewhat sinister flights of fancy: 'once she had really frightened her old nurse by shouting suddenly in her ear, "Nurse! Do let's pretend that I'm a hungry hyaena, and you're a bone!"' (LG, p. 147) This clearly echoes the aforementioned scene in the narrative proper where the Messenger adopts the posture of someone about to whisper, before simply yelling in the King's ear. When the latter compares it to an earthquake, Alice observes that it 'would have to be a very tiny earthquake!' (LG, p. 237). These are books in which the paradoxical nature of a cry for silence -issued twice in the trial scene -becomes very much apparent (W, pp. 115, 125).
Indeed, alongside recognition of the rich, varied, noisiness of the texts, it is also vitally important to register their silences. Almost entirely overlooked by critics distracted by noisiness when they do occasionally consider sound, and generally crowded out in adaptations, silences are both frequent and significant. As a broad-brush indication, the words 'silent' and 'silence' are over four times more frequent than 'noise' or 'noisy' . Moments of silence occur throughout: when Alice is alone, but also during conversations and in social settings. They are interspersed in many of the loudest and most vocal scenes of the books, such as when Alice is trapped in the White Rabbit's house, the animals outside talk over each other on a range of topics, forming a cacophony nevertheless frequently punctuated by silence. At the tea party, all the characters are shown pausing to reflect (W, p. 74) and Alice later falls silent 39 Quoted in Picker, Victorian Soundscapes, p. 8. upon running out of ripostes. As here, silence in the books tends to be an absence of speech specifically and occurs in relation to the openings of, and protocol surrounding, conversation. This is particularly the case in Alice's encounter with the Caterpillar which begins with the pair eyeing each other up 'for some time in silence' (W, p. 49). When they do finally embark upon a conversation, the Caterpillar frequently clams up, whilst Alice waits patiently for him to continue. Similarly, the Mock Turtle takes so long to embark on his story that Alice is on the point of walking away. What results from all this is an acute awkwardness and sense of desolation which, as Kérchy also points out, Carroll, with his lifelong speech hesitation, must have known only too well. 41 Moreover, if, as Beer argues, 'talk is the life of the books', these conversational aporia clearly contribute to their morbid undertones. 42 Overall, silence is as noisome as extreme sound, a source of torment and irritation rather than relief or comfort: Alice is disconcerted and alarmed by the 'dead silence' she faces (LG,pp. 245,274).
In these works, silence and sound are not positioned at opposite ends of the spectrum but instead shown to be closely bound to each other. Taking place within dreams so that everything that so vividly occurs beyond the frame narrative does so within Alice's vivid, hyaenaproducing imagination, the books are an even more sustained reflection on the relationship between internal and external processes of perception, between mind and world, than those of Kingsley and MacDonald. What Carroll probes in particular is the complex intertwining of sounded speech and silent thought. In the closing paragraphs of Wonderland, sound is shown to move between the realms of mind and world and back, albeit undergoing creative transformation in the process, just as the passage from the spoken and sung river-trip version to the written manuscript and printed book preserves rather than dispenses with sound. In line with 'one of the major theories of dreaming' in the period, 'that sleep does not prevent perception, and that dreams are caused by sense-impressions reaching the mind from the external world during sleep', Alice converts external sensory stimulae into the sounds and episodes of her dream. 43 Her sister then performs a back translation, holding in her mind the sounds of Wonderland and her own world, revealing the correspondences between the two. Alice's sister first 'really' listens to the heroine's story of her adventures and then listens, so to speak, within her 'mind's ear' ('listened, or seemed to listen' (LG, p. 131)), remembering and reactivating Alice's narrative. In this closing scene, Carroll draws attention to the mind's roving ability to penetrate not only time but also other people's dreams and experiences. Similarly, at several points within the narratives of both texts, the distinction between internal thought and external speech seems to break down. Minds are frequently read -and not, as is standard, by the omniscient narrator but by characters as, for instance, in the exchange between Alice and the Caterpillar. Alice speaks her thoughts aloud, but she also thinks about speech (e.g., that of the White Rabbit, after the event), and 'I declare' can be thought rather than said (W, p. 24). In conversation with the Cheshire Cat, Alice declares that 'they all quarrel so dreadfully one ca'n't hear oneself speak' (W, p. 90), which makes more sense than the common phrase, and which, by bringing the other word to mind through its replacement, playfully connects speech and thought. The tight binding of thinking, speaking and dreaming is most readily apparent in the railway-carriage scene of Looking-Glass where Alice has access to the thoughts of the various disembodied voices of insects and vice versa. If, then, thought is made 41 Kérchy, 'The Acoustics of Nonsense ', p. 181. 42 Beer, Alice in Space, p. 109. 43 Nicola Bown, 'What is the stuff that dreams are made of?' , in The Victorian Supernatural, ed. by Nicola Bown, Carolyn Burdett and Pamela Thurschwell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 151-72 (p. 160).