The E. Nesbit Megapack: 26 Classic Novels and Stories

by E. Nesbit

‘Good gracious!’ said Anthea.

  ‘Look here,’ said the child, jumping up, ‘it’s nearly four. The expelledness only lasts till then. Come home with me. Mother will tell you all about everything.’

  ‘Will your mother like you taking home strange children?’ asked Anthea.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the child, settling his leather belt over his honey-coloured smock and stepping out with hard little bare feet. ‘Come on.’

  So they went.

  The streets were wide and hard and very clean. There were no horses, but a sort of motor carriage that made no noise. The Thames flowed between green banks, and there were trees at the edge, and people sat under them, fishing, for the stream was clear as crystal. Everywhere there were green trees and there was no smoke. The houses were set in what seemed like one green garden.

  The little boy brought them to a house, and at the window was a good, bright mother-face. The little boy rushed in, and through the window they could see him hugging his mother, then his eager lips moving and his quick hands pointing.

  A lady in soft green clothes came out, spoke kindly to them, and took them into the oddest house they had ever seen. It was very bare, there were no ornaments, and yet every single thing was beautiful, from the dresser with its rows of bright china, to the thick squares of Eastern-looking carpet on the floors. I can’t describe that house; I haven’t the time. And I haven’t heart either, when I think how different it was from our houses. The lady took them all over it. The oddest thing of all was the big room in the middle. It had padded walls and a soft, thick carpet, and all the chairs and tables were padded. There wasn’t a single thing in it that anyone could hurt itself with.

  ‘What ever’s this for?—lunatics?’ asked Cyril.

  The lady looked very shocked.

  ‘No! It’s for the children, of course,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me that in your country there are no children’s rooms.’

  ‘There are nurseries,’ said Anthea doubtfully, ‘but the furniture’s all cornery and hard, like other rooms.’

  ‘How shocking!’ said the lady; ‘you must be very much behind the times in your country! Why, the children are more than half of the people; it’s not much to have one room where they can have a good time and not hurt themselves.’

  ‘But there’s no fireplace,’ said Anthea.

  ‘Hot-air pipes, of course,’ said the lady. ‘Why, how could you have a fire in a nursery? A child might get burned.’

  ‘In our country,’ said Robert suddenly, ‘more than 3,000 children are burned to death every year. Father told me,’ he added, as if apologizing for this piece of information, ‘once when I’d been playing with fire.’

  The lady turned quite pale.

  ‘What a frightful place you must live in!’ she said. ‘What’s all the furniture padded for?’ Anthea asked, hastily turning the subject.

  ‘Why, you couldn’t have little tots of two or three running about in rooms where the things were hard and sharp! They might hurt themselves.’

  Robert fingered the scar on his forehead where he had hit it against the nursery fender when he was little.

  ‘But does everyone have rooms like this, poor people and all?’ asked Anthea.

  ‘There’s a room like this wherever there’s a child, of course,’ said the lady. ‘How refreshingly ignorant you are!—no, I don’t mean ignorant, my dear. Of course, you’re awfully well up in ancient History. But I see you haven’t done your Duties of Citizenship Course yet.’

  ‘But beggars, and people like that?’ persisted Anthea ‘and tramps and people who haven’t any homes?’

  ‘People who haven’t any homes?’ repeated the lady. ‘I really don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It’s all different in our country,’ said Cyril carefully; and I have read it used to be different in London. Usedn’t people to have no homes and beg because they were hungry? And wasn’t London very black and dirty once upon a time? And the Thames all muddy and filthy? And narrow streets, and—’

  ‘You must have been reading very old-fashioned books,’ said the lady. ‘Why, all that was in the dark ages! My husband can tell you more about it than I can. He took Ancient History as one of his special subjects.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any working people,’ said Anthea.

  ‘Why, we’re all working people,’ said the lady; ‘at least my husband’s a carpenter.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Anthea; ‘but you’re a lady!’

  ‘Ah,’ said the lady, ‘that quaint old word! Well, my husband will enjoy a talk with you. In the dark ages everyone was allowed to have a smoky chimney, and those nasty horses all over the streets, and all sorts of rubbish thrown into the Thames. And, of course, the sufferings of the people will hardly bear thinking of. It’s very learned of you to know it all. Did you make Ancient History your special subject?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Cyril, rather uneasily. ‘What is the Duties of Citizenship Course about?’

  ‘Don’t you really know? Aren’t you pretending—just for fun? Really not? Well, that course teaches you how to be a good citizen, what you must do and what you mayn’t do, so as to do your full share of the work of making your town a beautiful and happy place for people to live in. There’s a quite simple little thing they teach the tiny children. How does it go…?

  ‘I must not steal and I must learn,

  Nothing is mine that I do not earn.

  I must try in work and play

  To make things beautiful every day.

  I must be kind to everyone,

  And never let cruel things be done.

  I must be brave, and I must try

  When I am hurt never to cry,

  And always laugh as much as I can,

  And be glad that I’m going to be a man

  To work for my living and help the rest

  And never do less than my very best.’

  ‘That’s very easy,’ said Jane. ‘I could remember that.’

  ‘That’s only the very beginning, of course,’ said the lady; ‘there are heaps more rhymes. There’s the one beginning—

  ‘I must not litter the beautiful street

  With bits of paper or things to eat;

  I must not pick the public flowers,

  They are not mine, but they are ours.’

  ‘And “things to eat” reminds me—are you hungry? Wells, run and get a tray of nice things.’

  ‘Why do you call him “Wells”?’ asked Robert, as the boy ran off.

  ‘It’s after the great reformer—surely you’ve heard of him? He lived in the dark ages, and he saw that what you ought to do is to find out what you want and then try to get it. Up to then people had always tried to tinker up what they’d got. We’ve got a great many of the things he thought of. Then “Wells” means springs of clear water. It’s a nice name, don’t you think?’

  Here Wells returned with strawberries and cakes and lemonade on a tray, and everybody ate and enjoyed.

  ‘Now, Wells,’ said the lady, ‘run off or you’ll be late and not meet your Daddy.’

  Wells kissed her, waved to the others, and went.

  ‘Look here,’ said Anthea suddenly, ‘would you like to come to our country, and see what it’s like? It wouldn’t take you a minute.’

  The lady laughed. But Jane held up the charm and said the word.

  ‘What a splendid conjuring trick!’ cried the lady, enchanted with the beautiful, growing arch.

  ‘Go through,’ said Anthea.

  The lady went, laughing. But she did not laugh when she found herself, suddenly, in the dining-room at Fitzroy Street.

  ‘Oh, what a horrible trick!’ she cried. ‘What a hateful, dark, ugly place!’

  She ra
n to the window and looked out. The sky was grey, the street was foggy, a dismal organ-grinder was standing opposite the door, a beggar and a man who sold matches were quarrelling at the edge of the pavement on whose greasy black surface people hurried along, hastening to get to the shelter of their houses.

  ‘Oh, look at their faces, their horrible faces!’ she cried. ‘What’s the matter with them all?’

  ‘They’re poor people, that’s all,’ said Robert.

  ‘But it’s not all! They’re ill, they’re unhappy, they’re wicked! Oh, do stop it, there’s dear children. It’s very, very clever. Some sort of magic-lantern trick, I suppose, like I’ve read of. But do stop it. Oh! their poor, tired, miserable, wicked faces!’

  The tears were in her eyes. Anthea signed to Jane. The arch grew, they spoke the words, and pushed the lady through it into her own time and place, where London is clean and beautiful, and the Thames runs clear and bright, and the green trees grow, and no one is afraid, or anxious, or in a hurry. There was a silence. Then—

  ‘I’m glad we went,’ said Anthea, with a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll never throw paper about again as long as I live,’ said Robert.

  ‘Mother always told us not to,’ said Jane.

  ‘I would like to take up the Duties of Citizenship for a special subject,’ said Cyril. ‘I wonder if Father could put me through it. I shall ask him when he comes home.’

  ‘If we’d found the Amulet, Father could be home now,’ said Anthea, ‘and Mother and The Lamb.’

  ‘Let’s go into the future again,’ suggested Jane brightly. ‘Perhaps we could remember if it wasn’t such an awful way off.’

  So they did. This time they said, ‘The future, where the Amulet is, not so far away.’

  And they went through the familiar arch into a large, light room with three windows. Facing them was the familiar mummy-case. And at a table by the window sat the learned gentleman. They knew him at once, though his hair was white. He was one of the faces that do not change with age. In his hand was the Amulet—complete and perfect.

  He rubbed his other hand across his forehead in the way they were so used to.

  ‘Dreams, dreams!’ he said; ‘old age is full of them!’

  ‘You’ve been in dreams with us before now,’ said Robert, ‘don’t you remember?’

  ‘I do, indeed,’ said he. The room had many more books than the Fitzroy Street room, and far more curious and wonderful Assyrian and Egyptian objects. ‘The most wonderful dreams I ever had had you in them.’

  ‘Where,’ asked Cyril, ‘did you get that thing in your hand?’

  ‘If you weren’t just a dream,’ he answered, smiling, you’d remember that you gave it to me.’

  ‘But where did we get it?’ Cyril asked eagerly.

  ‘Ah, you never would tell me that,’ he said, ‘You always had your little mysteries. You dear children! What a difference you made to that old Bloomsbury house! I wish I could dream you oftener. Now you’re grown up you’re not like you used to be.’

  ‘Grown up?’ said Anthea.

  The learned gentleman pointed to a frame with four photographs in it.

  ‘There you are,’ he said.

  The children saw four grown-up people’s portraits—two ladies, two gentlemen—and looked on them with loathing.

  ‘Shall we grow up like that?’ whispered Jane. ‘How perfectly horrid!’

  ‘If we’re ever like that, we sha’n’t know it’s horrid, I expect,’ Anthea with some insight whispered back. ‘You see, you get used to yourself while you’re changing. It’s—it’s being so sudden makes it seem so frightful now.’

  The learned gentleman was looking at them with wistful kindness. ‘Don’t let me undream you just yet,’ he said. There was a pause.

  ‘Do you remember when we gave you that Amulet?’ Cyril asked suddenly.

  ‘You know, or you would if you weren’t a dream, that it was on the 3rd December, 1905. I shall never forget that day.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cyril, earnestly; ‘oh, thank you very much.’

  ‘You’ve got a new room,’ said Anthea, looking out of the window, ‘and what a lovely garden!’

  ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I’m too old now to care even about being near the Museum. This is a beautiful place. Do you know—I can hardly believe you’re just a dream, you do look so exactly real. Do you know…’ his voice dropped, ‘I can say it to you, though, of course, if I said it to anyone that wasn’t a dream they’d call me mad; there was something about that Amulet you gave me—something very mysterious.’

  ‘There was that,’ said Robert.

  ‘Ah, I don’t mean your pretty little childish mysteries about where you got it. But about the thing itself. First, the wonderful dreams I used to have, after you’d shown me the first half of it! Why, my book on Atlantis, that I did, was the beginning of my fame and my fortune, too. And I got it all out of a dream! And then, “Britain at the Time of the Roman Invasion”—that was only a pamphlet, but it explained a lot of things people hadn’t understood.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Anthea, ‘it would.’

  ‘That was the beginning. But after you’d given me the whole of the Amulet—ah, it was generous of you!—then, somehow, I didn’t need to theorize, I seemed to know about the old Egyptian civilization. And they can’t upset my theories’—he rubbed his thin hands and laughed triumphantly—‘they can’t, though they’ve tried. Theories, they call them, but they’re more like—I don’t know—more like memories. I know I’m right about the secret rites of the Temple of Amen.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re rich,’ said Anthea. ‘You weren’t, you know, at Fitzroy Street.’

  ‘Indeed I wasn’t,’ said he, ‘but I am now. This beautiful house and this lovely garden—I dig in it sometimes; you remember, you used to tell me to take more exercise? Well, I feel I owe it all to you—and the Amulet.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ said Anthea, and kissed him. He started.

  ‘That didn’t feel like a dream,’ he said, and his voice trembled.

  ‘It isn’t exactly a dream,’ said Anthea softly, ‘it’s all part of the Amulet—it’s a sort of extra special, real dream, dear Jimmy.’

  ‘Ah,’ said he, ‘when you call me that, I know I’m dreaming. My little sister—I dream of her sometimes. But it’s not real like this. Do you remember the day I dreamed you brought me the Babylonish ring?’

  ‘We remember it all,’ said Robert. ‘Did you leave Fitzroy Street because you were too rich for it?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ he said reproachfully. ‘You know I should never have done such a thing as that. Of course, I left when your old Nurse died and—what’s the matter!’

  ‘Old Nurse dead?’ said Anthea. ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s the common lot. It’s a long time ago now.’

  Jane held up the Amulet in a hand that twittered.

  ‘Come!’ she cried, ‘oh, come home! She may be dead before we get there, and then we can’t give it to her. Oh, come!’

  ‘Ah, don’t let the dream end now!’ pleaded the learned gentleman.

  ‘It must,’ said Anthea firmly, and kissed him again.

  ‘When it comes to people dying,’ said Robert, ‘good-bye! I’m so glad you’re rich and famous and happy.’

  ‘Do come!’ cried Jane, stamping in her agony of impatience. And they went. Old Nurse brought in tea almost as soon as they were back in Fitzroy Street. As she came in with the tray, the girls rushed at her and nearly upset her and it.

  ‘Don’t die!’ cried Jane, ‘oh, don’t!’ and Anthea cried, ‘Dear, ducky, darling old Nurse, don’t die!’

  ‘Lord, love you!’ said Nurse, ‘I’m not agoin’ to die yet a while, please Heaven! Whatever on earth’s the matter with the chicks?’

  ‘N
othing. Only don’t!’

  She put the tray down and hugged the girls in turn. The boys thumped her on the back with heartfelt affection.

  ‘I’m as well as ever I was in my life,’ she said. ‘What nonsense about dying! You’ve been a sitting too long in the dusk, that’s what it is. Regular blind man’s holiday. Leave go of me, while I light the gas.’

  The yellow light illuminated four pale faces. ‘We do love you so,’ Anthea went on, ‘and we’ve made you a picture to show you how we love you. Get it out, Squirrel.’

  The glazed testimonial was dragged out from under the sofa and displayed.

  ‘The glue’s not dry yet,’ said Cyril, ‘look out!’

  ‘What a beauty!’ cried old Nurse. ‘Well, I never! And your pictures and the beautiful writing and all. Well, I always did say your hearts was in the right place, if a bit careless at times. Well! I never did! I don’t know as I was ever pleased better in my life.’

  She hugged them all, one after the other. And the boys did not mind it, somehow, that day.

  ‘How is it we can remember all about the future, now?’ Anthea woke the Psammead with laborious gentleness to put the question. ‘How is it we can remember what we saw in the future, and yet, when we were in the future, we could not remember the bit of the future that was past then, the time of finding the Amulet?’

  ‘Why, what a silly question!’ said the Psammead, ‘of course you cannot remember what hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘But the future hasn’t happened yet,’ Anthea persisted, ‘and we remember that all right.’

  ‘Oh, that isn’t what’s happened, my good child,’ said the Psammead, rather crossly, ‘that’s prophetic vision. And you remember dreams, don’t you? So why not visions? You never do seem to understand the simplest thing.’

  It went to sand again at once.

  Anthea crept down in her nightgown to give one last kiss to old Nurse, and one last look at the beautiful testimonial hanging, by its tapes, its glue now firmly set, in glazed glory on the wall of the kitchen.

  ‘Good-night, bless your loving heart,’ said old Nurse, ‘if only you don’t catch your deather-cold!’