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"Alice's Adventures Underground" was the original name of the story; later on it became "Alice's Hour in Elfland."
THE SILVER LOCKET
'Let me pause for a moment to say that I believe this thought, of the possibility of death--if calmly realised, and steadily faced would be one of the best possible tests as to our going to any scene of amusement being right or wrong. If the thought of sudden death acquires, for you, a special horror when imagined as happening in a theatre, then be very sure the theatre is harmful for you, however harmless it may be for others; and that you are incurring a deadly peril in going. Be sure the safest rule is that we should not dare to live in any scene in which we dare not die.'
~
The kitchen sat in sad disarray, silently calling for an occupant. It was supposed to be the holiday season, a time for decorating and baking and invitations and attendance at parties with friends and family.
Sylvie had been ill for days, days that turned into weeks confined to bed, while she wrestled with the dreams. Her children frequently tiptoed into the bedroom and attempted to rouse or comfort her, depending on their state of motherly need. She was oblivious to all. Christmas had been stolen away from her.
For Sylvie had entered into the theatre. She had always been a Thespian, having spent childhood constructing stages and costumes and playing various roles in the productions, and had acquired awards for roles. This manipulation of ordinary life into worldplays was hers by second nature, a secret she had kept from all.
Her children benefited from her stories of Itsy & Bitsy, the two spiders who were born under a mossy rock by a sparkling stream under the massive oak tree, the two spiders who went on innumerable amazing journeys with Puff the Magical Dragon. Ahh, Puff- he could fly you anywhere at a moment's notice! Itsy knew everyone, even King Arthur, and had done everything possible, including time travel.
Itsy served as a reminder to not be afraid of teeny tiny things that were barely visible to those who had naked eyes. Bitsy ran away one day to a best friend's home, and showed the children that friendship does not imply ownership and that all is but temporal.
She taught her children the secret of gaining warmth when cold- that all one needs do is close their eyes, lie on a beach, and FEEL the sunshine. Among other things....
One night that Sylvie entered the theatre extraordinaire she found that she was unable to leave, and that was the cause of her sleeping sickness. Even though she arose the next day she found that she remained 'locked in' to the presentation that she had devised in her boredom and appetite for the theatre.
Despite protestations to the contrary from her husband, Sylvie knew that there was someone else around somewhere who could take her there, instead of Sir Puff. So she had set out to find what she called "The One". She traveled through realms of thought that she thought were unique to her own kind, a kind based on love, and that was when she discovered the other kind- the kind that stand in opposition to her kind.
As the days passed the dream play became increasingly surreal. Sylvie found herself being poked with thorns and plied with evocative images. She saw words and pictures and items that had no meaning to the rational mind (one that she supposed she possessed) - that rationality that she was barely able to recall.
’Twas a perpetual torment, for which there was no sort of ending...The nights were the worst time for her, as her dream theatre had all of a sudden independently produced new actors, not casted, uncalled, unbidden. One night, wailing like a siren on a rock a little way out in the sea, her tears filled the basin of her depression.
She found that she had become some sort of animal (or had she always been such?) the type that someone said needed taming, and she was hobbled, tied up, and the knots were painfully tightened until she could no longer stand it and gave in to the captor.
A few weeks later, on St. Valentine's Day, she was given the silver locket.
'Sylvie whispered the words, several times over, with a thoughtful smile, and then made her decision. "It's very nice to be loved," she said: "but it's nicer to love other people! May I have the red one, Father?"
The old man said nothing: but I could see his eyes fill with tears, as he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long loving kiss. Then he undid the chain, and showed her how to fasten it round her neck, and to hide it away under the edge of her frock. "It's for you to keep you know," he said in a low voice, "not for other people to see. You'll remember how to use it?"
"Yes, I'll remember," said Sylvie.'
~~
Many months later, and many fancy flights later, was when she remembered this old saying:
~ To study philosophy is to learn to die. ~
QUOTE
The ever-present sense of this grim possibility has been, in all ages, an incubus that men have striven to shake off. Few more interesting subjects of enquiry could be found, by a student of history, than the various weapons that have been used against this shadowy foe. Saddest of all must have been the thoughts of those who saw indeed an existence beyond the grave, but an existence far more terrible than annihilation–an existence as filmy, impalpable, all but invisible spectres, drifting about, through endless ages, in a world of shadows, with nothing to do, nothing to hope for, nothing to love! In the midst of the gay verses of that genial ‘bon vivant’ Horace, there stands one dreary word whose utter sadness goes to one’s heart. It is the word ‘exilium’ in the well-known passage
Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium
Versatur urna serius ocius
Sors exitura et nos in aeternum
Exilium impositura cymbae.
Yes, to him this present life–in spite of all its weariness and all its sorrow–was the only life worth having: all else was ‘exile’! Does it not seem almost incredible that one, holding such a creed, should ever have smiled?
Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium
Versatur urna serius ocius
Sors exitura et nos in aeternum
Exilium impositura cymbae.
Yes, to him this present life–in spite of all its weariness and all its sorrow–was the only life worth having: all else was ‘exile’! Does it not seem almost incredible that one, holding such a creed, should ever have smiled?
And she recovered from the Sleeping Sickness, that very same mysterious malady that she had heard of in Tales of Wonder and Truth. The Locket of Silver was safely ensconced where it belonged, inside her heart, with clearly invisible seams.
________
eta link for the LC quotes & locket pic:
http://underthesun.cc/Classics/Carroll/sylvie/
