by E. Nesbit
“Take my groat,” said Dick, “and give me the cat”
“No,” answered Madge, “I will not take your money; but you may have the cat if you give me that bunch of roses in your cap.”
That, then, was how Dick got his famous cat; and now you will see why I said this was the most important thing that ever happened to him; for quite a short time afterwards Master Fitzwarren called all his servants together, and said to them:
“I am sending out one of my ships to trade in a far country, and if each of you will give me something of your own I will tell the captain to exchange it with the merchants of that country, and bring back to you whatever he gets for it.”
All the servants were delighted at this chance of making a little money, and every one of them brought something to be traded with except poor Dick, who had not a penny in the world, and no belongings except the clothes he wore and—his cat.
“Please,” he said, very sorrowfully, “I have nothing of my own except a cat, and I suppose that is no good to anybody.”
But Master Fitzwarren thought it would be a good joke to send the cat and see what could be got for it, so he laughed and told Dick to bring it along; and Dick fetched pussy, though he felt sad at parting from her. And the captain and the cat sailed away down the Thames and out over the blue sea, and Dick made up his mind it was no good thinking about that business any more, and went back to his drudgery in the kitchen.
But there things gradually got worse and worse; for the cook had noticed that Miss Alice was kind to the boy, and she was jealous; so she managed to set all the other servants against him, and he got nothing but kicks and blows the whole day long, till at last he felt he could bear it no longer. So one morning, very early indeed, he tied up his clothes in a handkerchief, and crept out silently, and made off towards Highgate. You can go to Highgate now in a motor-bus or an underground tube, whichever you like, but Dick had only one way of going, and that was on his two legs, so that presently he began to be tired, and sat down on a stone to rest. And that stone to this day is called “Whittington’s Stone.” Suddenly as he sat there the bells of Bow Church in Cheapside began to ring; and as their chimes were borne to him on the still, clear air of early morning there came up before his mind his old dream of London as a city of silver and gold and flags and sweet-sounding bells, and it seemed to him that there was a mist before his eyes, and the bells seemed to come from a great way off, and to have words fitted to the tune of them. What they sang was this:
“Turn again, Whittington!
Whittington, turn again!
Turn again, Whittington,
Lord Mayor of London!”
And he believed the bells, and got up from the stone, and ran home as fast as he could, and was back in the kitchen at Master Fitzwarren’s before the cook came down—which was very lucky for him, as is plain if you consider what was meanwhile happening to the ship that had gone on its voyage, and to the captain, and the cat. For the ship, which was trying to get to Italy, was caught in a storm, and lost its bearings. The rain blinded the sailors, and the waves washed over their decks, and a great wind blew and blew and blew till it landed them high and dry on a big bank of sand. When the storm died away and they could look about them they saw that the natives of the place, who came down to them, were Moors; and the captain, who had once travelled in Asia, talked to one of the chiefs of these natives in Arabic, and, very fortunately, found that he was understood.
Now the name of this place was Barbary. The Moors were kind and hospitable to the shipwrecked mariners, and willing to give them all sorts of precious merchandise in exchange for the knives and scissors and other things they had brought from England. Moreover, the King of Barbary himself entertained the captain at a great banquet, where all the dishes were of gold and silver and clear crystal, and all the foods and drinks more delicious than anything you ever had even at a birthday party.
But—a strange and terrible thing came to pass, which astonished the captain beyond measure. As soon as ever the servants began to bring in the food and set it before the guests hundreds of rats and mice darted out from every quarter of the room, and splashed in the gravy and gnawed the food and spoilt the whole delightful feast. The King, nearly crying with vexation, turned to the captain and exclaimed:
“This has been the worry of my life ever since I and my people came to this country. We have tried everything we can think of, and none is any good. I would give untold treasure to the man who should rid me of this plague.”
Of course the captain thought at once of Dick Whittington’s cat; and he said to the King:
“If you will allow me to send to my ship, I think I can show you a beast that will put an end to your troubles by killing the rats and mice.”
The King was overjoyed to hear this, and ordered a strong bodyguard to go to the ship for the cat; for he fancied that a beast which could destroy his enemies must be very great and terrible indeed.
You can imagine his surprise when the soft, sleek, purring pussy-cat was brought before him.
“Can this amiable animal really assist us?” he asked.
“You shall see,” said the captain.
He asked that a new banquet should be spread, and as soon as it appeared out came the rats and the mice in their hundreds, waggling their whiskers and their tails; and down on them came the cat, all teeth and claws, and killed and killed and killed until the floor was covered with the dead, and all the rats and mice that weren’t dead had run away. Then the King was as good as his word, and bought the cat for plates of gold and bars of silver, heaps of woven cloths, and boxes upon boxes of precious stones. And of course all these belonged to Dick Whittington, because he had been promised that he should have whatever price his cat might bring.
So when the captain, after a safe voyage home, had told the whole wonderful story to Master Fitzwarren, Dick was sent for and told the splendid story of his cat’s success. And he ceased to be a scullery-boy, and became rich and important all in a moment. The news took his breath away and left him speechless with joy.
But gradually as the days went by he began to get accustomed to the change, and to plan what he would do with all his wealth; and I will tell you two of the things he did. One of them, of course, was to marry Miss Alice, whom he had worshipped all the years that he was only a poor scullery-boy; and the other, which did not happen till after many years of work, and thought, and good deeds, when he was a great merchant, was to become Lord Mayor of London, just as the bells had told him he would. And he was Lord Mayor not only once, but three times; and he did good, and cared for the poor, and built a hospital and an almshouse, and took thought how he might lessen all the poverty he saw round him; for he remembered what it was like to be penniless, and hungry, and out of work, and to find that the streets were not paved with gold nor the houses roofed with silver. And if only people who are rich now thought half as much as he did about the poor, what a much pleasanter place the world would be!
THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD
WHENEVER YOU GIVE a christening party you must always remember to ask all the most disagreeable people you know. It is very dangerous to neglect this simple precaution. Nearly all the misfortunes which happen to princesses come from their relations having forgotten to invite some nasty old fairy or other to their christenings. This was what happened in the case of the Sleeping Beauty.
She was not called the Sleeping Beauty at her christening, of course; for though she was certainly a beauty even then, she did not sleep more than any other little baby. She was called Benevola, after the most powerful of the seven good fairies who were invited to her christening. And because one name is never enough for a princess, she had six other names, which were the names of the other six fairies.
It was a charming christening party. The Queen had never had a baby of her own before, and she wished the christening party to be one of those parties that people remember and talk of for a long time afterwards. Well, she had her wish; for though this all
happened hundreds of years ago, that party has never been forgotten—and here we are talking about it now!
The Queen insisted that the party should not be given in the town palace, but in the beautiful country palace where the Court usually spent the summer. It was a lovely place, with gardens and terraces, and peacocks, and fountains and goldfish; and all round it was a park, and round the park was a wood, and the palace itself was old and grey and beautiful, with big towers like beer-mugs, and little turrets like pepper-pots, and a dovecot like a great round cheese with holes in it, and a lawn in the courtyard that was like a green velvet table-cover.
And here the christening feast was given. Everything was pink and white. The walls were hung with white satin looped up with festoons of pink roses; the Queen wore a white dress and a pink velvet mantle; the baby had white cambric robes tied up at the sleeves with pink ribbon (because it was a girl; if it had been a boy the ribbons would have had to be blue, and I don’t know how the Court decorators would have managed about the roses, for blue roses are very uncommon). There were strawberry and lemon ices—pink and white—and pink and white blancmange; and the christening cake was covered with white icing, with “Benevola! Bless her!” on it in pink letters; and the very tablecloths were white, and the very toes of the baby the prettiest pink you ever saw.
After dinner the fairies all gave their christening presents to the little Princess, beginning with the youngest. They gave her beauty and grace, and wit and loving-kindness, and the sense of humour, and the sense of honour. What princess could wish for more?
“And now, Benevola dear,” said the happy mother Queen, turning to the eldest good fairy, “I’m just dying to know what your present is. I know it’ll be something perfectly lovely. Oh!”
The last word was nearly a scream; and every one else screamed too, though, as a rule, screaming is not allowed at Court. But on an occasion like this no one was shocked. It was, people agreed afterwards, enough to make anybody scream. For quite suddenly, with a clap of thunder and a nasty flash of forked lightning, the fairy Malevola dropped through the ceiling, and stood with her ugly flat feet firmly planted on the white and pink rose-leaves that were heaped round the baby’s cradle.
“How do you do?” said the King, breaking the dreadful silence.
“So pleased you were able to come,” twittered the Queen. “Most kind of you to drop in like this.”
Malevola scowled and spoke. “You didn’t ask me to this christening party.”
The King murmured something about having lost her address.
“You never looked for my address; you didn’t want my address. You didn’t ask me to your party. No one ever does ask me to their parties.”
“And I don’t wonder,” whispered the youngest lady-in-waiting. Malevola, indeed, did not look exactly the sort of person to be the life and soul of a party. She had a cruel, ugly, yellow face, shiny bat’s wings, which she pretended were a fashionable cloak, and a bonnet trimmed with live snakes. Her scarf was tied together with a bunch of earthworms, and she wore a live toad for a brooch.
“However,” she went on, “I’m not offended. I’ve brought your dear daughter a little present.”
“Now that’s really charming of you,” said the poor Queen, looking round for Benevola. But Benevola had disappeared.
“Such a nice present,” said the wicked fairy. “Benevola you’ve called her, have you? Sweet little pet! Well, Benevola darling, you shall prick your hand with a spindle and die of the wound. Won’t that be nice?”
And with that, and another clap of thunder, Malevola vanished.
The Queen caught up the baby, and Benevola crept cautiously out from behind the white velvet window curtains.
“Is she gone?” she asked. “Cheer up, dear Queen. I’m glad I kept my gift to the last.”
“Then you can undo Malevola’s wicked work,” cried the Queen, smiling through her tears.
“No, not that; but I can change it. My little goddaughter must prick her hand with a spindle, but she shall not die of it. She shall only sleep for a hundred years.”
“That’s just as bad for me,” said the Queen, hugging her baby.
“Not quite, dear,” said Benevola kindly. “You’ll see.”
“In the meantime,” said the King, who had been very busy with his tablets, “Heaven helps those who help themselves. I’ve made a new law. Shall I recite it?”
“Oh, do, your Majesty!” said everybody; and the youngest lady-in-waiting whispered, “His Majesty does write such sweet, pretty laws.”
“The law is,” said the King, “‘No spindles allowed in my kingdom, on pain of death.’ “
Every one clapped their hands, and the Queen dried her eyes and kissed the baby.
Princess Benevola grew up a perfect dear, and her parents loved her more and more, and when she asked if she mightn’t keep her eighteenth birthday at the country palace they saw no reason why she shouldn’t.
That business of Malevola had almost been forgotten. No spindles were ever seen in that country, and where there are no spindles it is impossible to prick yourself with them.
So the birthday party was given in the same hall that had been hung with white and pink for the christening party, and now the festoons of roses were red and white, and pink and yellow; “For,” said Benevola, “I love them all.”
On the day after the party the Princess explored the castle, and she and her maids had a good game of hide-and-seek. When it was the Princess’s turn to hide she thought it would be amusing to hide in one of the little round turrets that were like pepper-pots. So she opened the door of one, and there sat an old woman doing something so interesting that the Princess at once forgot all about the hide-and-seek.
“What are you doing, good dame?” the Princess asked.
“Spinning flax, child,” said the old woman. And she was—the shining, polished spindle twirled round and round in her fingers.
“It’s pretty work,” said the Princess. “Do you think I could do it?”
“You can try, and welcome,” said the old woman. “Sit in my chair, and take the spindle in your hand.”
Benevola did as she was told; but as she sat down one pointed end of the spindle knocked against the arm of the chair, and the other pointed end ran into the palm of her hand. The blood started out on her white gown, and Benevola fell to the ground in a swoon.
“Ha, ha!” said the old woman, and turned into Malevola before the Princess’s eyes (only those eyes were shut). “Ha, ha! Your father never thought how easily I could make a spindle when the time came.” And with that and the usual clap of thunder she vanished.
And so when the Princess’s ladies burst into the room in their game of hide-and-seek, all laughing and chattering like a cageful of bright-coloured parrots, they found the Princess lying flat on the floor, as white as a snowdrop and as still as death.
The ladies ran screaming to tell the King and Queen, and when they climbed the turret stairs and lifted their dear lifeless daughter between them the spindle fell out of the folds of her dress and rattled and spun on the bare floor.
So then they knew.
“Send for Benevola,” moaned the Queen. “Oh, send for Benevola—do!” And the King tried to drown his grief by giving orders about the bed his child was to lie on during her long sleep, as many another father has done before and since.
They laid the white Princess on a bed of carved ebony hung with curtains of silver cloth, and over her body they laid a coverlet of cloth of gold that fell to the ground on both sides in folds that looked like folds carved in the solid metal. And they put a pink rose and a white rose and a yellow rose on her breast, and crossed her hands above them; and over all they laid a veil of white gauze that covered her from head to feet, and they shut the door and went away and left her.
And then Benevola came. The poor Queen rushed down the throne steps and along the great hall to meet her, and—
“Oh, my girl!” she cried. “Oh, my pretty little baby! She
will sleep for a hundred years, and I shall be dead long, long years before she wakes up, and I shall never see her pretty eyes or her dear smile or hear her call me mother ever again.”
And with that she broke once more into wild weeping. Benevola put her arms round the Queen’s neck and kissed her.
“You poor dear!” she said. “Don’t grieve so. Your daughter must sleep for a hundred years. But what of that? So shall you. Yes, and the King her father, and all the courtiers and waiting-maids, and knights and men-at-arms—and the very dogs and cats. And when she wakes you shall all waken too, and, in the light of the happiness you will know when you feel her loving arms round you again all this present sorrow will be to you as a dream is when one wakes to see the brave sun shining.”
“You are sure she will wake?” said the mother Queen, clinging to her.
“When the hundred years are over a prince shall come and wake her,” said the fairy. “He will love her very much, and he shall be her husband.”
“Then I shall lose her anyway,” sighed the Queen.
“That’s what mothers are born to,” said the fairy. “Come, eat and drink a little, all of you, before you go to sleep.”
So the tables were set, and every one ate and drank, though it was with a heavy heart. And as the dinner was drawing to an end the fairy suddenly spoke the spell, and everyone in the palace fell asleep in his place. The King and Queen at the high table, the page filling the wine cup, the butler carrying fruit on a salver, the servants cleaning pots in the kitchen, the huntsman feeding his hounds, the hounds leaping round him, the cat basking on the terrace, the pigeons cuddled on the roof tiles—all were struck into sleep just as they were, so that the palace looked as though it were peopled with waxworks instead of living folk.
The fairy sighed and smiled, and sighed again. Then she laid a spell on the place so that no dust or decay should come near it in those hundred long years. And she laid a spell on the gardens, that no weeds should grow, and that all the flowers should stay just as they were, to the last least leaf or bud. The wood, too, she laid a spell on, and at once the branches grew thick and many, the briars and creepers wound in and out among the branches, and in a moment there was a thicket round the garden as tough and unpassable as any old quickset hedge.
