Complete Novels of E Nesbit

by Edith Nesbit

  ‘But we want the money now,’ said Dicky, ‘and you can go on writing just the same. It will come in some time or other.’

  ‘There’s poetry in newspapers,’ said Alice. ‘Down, Pincher! you’ll never be a clever dog, so it’s no good trying.’

  ‘Do they pay for it?’ Dicky thought of that; he often thinks of things that are really important, even if they are a little dull.

  ‘I don’t know. But I shouldn’t think any one would let them print their poetry without. I wouldn’t I know.’ That was Dora; but Noel said he wouldn’t mind if he didn’t get paid, so long as he saw his poetry printed and his name at the end.

  ‘We might try, anyway,’ said Oswald. He is always willing to give other people’s ideas a fair trial.

  So we copied out ‘The Wreck of the Malabar’ and the other six poems on drawing-paper — Dora did it, she writes best — and Oswald drew a picture of the Malabar going down with all hands. It was a full-rigged schooner, and all the ropes and sails were correct; because my cousin is in the Navy, and he showed me.

  We thought a long time whether we’d write a letter and send it by post with the poetry — and Dora thought it would be best. But Noel said he couldn’t bear not to know at once if the paper would print the poetry, So we decided to take it.

  I went with Noel, because I am the eldest, and he is not old enough to go to London by himself. Dicky said poetry was rot — and he was glad he hadn’t got to make a fool of himself. That was because there was not enough money for him to go with us. H. O. couldn’t come either, but he came to the station to see us off, and waved his cap and called out ‘Good hunting!’ as the train started.

  There was a lady in spectacles in the corner. She was writing with a pencil on the edges of long strips of paper that had print all down them. When the train started she asked —

  ‘What was that he said?’

  So Oswald answered —

  ‘It was “Good hunting” — it’s out of the Jungle Book!’ ‘That’s very pleasant to hear,’ the lady said; ‘I am very pleased to meet people who know their Jungle Book. And where are you off to — the Zoological Gardens to look for Bagheera?’

  We were pleased, too, to meet some one who knew the Jungle Book.

  So Oswald said —

  ‘We are going to restore the fallen fortunes of the House of Bastable — and we have all thought of different ways — and we’re going to try them all. Noel’s way is poetry. I suppose great poets get paid?’

  The lady laughed — she was awfully jolly — and said she was a sort of poet, too, and the long strips of paper were the proofs of her new book of stories. Because before a book is made into a real book with pages and a cover, they sometimes print it all on strips of paper, and the writer make marks on it with a pencil to show the printers what idiots they are not to understand what a writer means to have printed.

  We told her all about digging for treasure, and what we meant to do. Then she asked to see Noel’s poetry — and he said he didn’t like — so she said, ‘Look here — if you’ll show me yours I’ll show you some of mine.’ So he agreed.

  The jolly lady read Noel’s poetry, and she said she liked it very much. And she thought a great deal of the picture of the Malabar. And then she said, ‘I write serious poetry like yours myself; too, but I have a piece here that I think you will like because it’s about a boy.’ She gave it to us — and so I can copy it down, and I will, for it shows that some grown-up ladies are not so silly as others. I like it better than Noel’s poetry, though I told him I did not, because he looked as if he was going to cry. This was very wrong, for you should always speak the truth, however unhappy it makes people. And I generally do. But I did not want him crying in the railway carriage. The lady’s piece of poetry:

  Oh when I wake up in my bed

  And see the sun all fat and red,

  I’m glad to have another day

  For all my different kinds of play.

  There are so many things to do —

  The things that make a man of you,

  If grown-ups did not get so vexed

  And wonder what you will do next.

  I often wonder whether they

  Ever made up our kinds of play —

  If they were always good as gold

  And only did what they were told.

  They like you best to play with tops

  And toys in boxes, bought in shops;

  They do not even know the names

  Of really interesting games.

  They will not let you play with fire

  Or trip your sister up with wire,

  They grudge the tea-tray for a drum,

  Or booby-traps when callers come.

  They don’t like fishing, and it’s true

  You sometimes soak a suit or two:

  They look on fireworks, though they’re dry,

  With quite a disapproving eye.

  They do not understand the way

  To get the most out of your day:

  They do not know how hunger feels

  Nor what you need between your meals.

  And when you’re sent to bed at night,

  They’re happy, but they’re not polite.

  For through the door you hear them say:

  ‘He’s done his mischief for the day!’

  She told us a lot of other pieces but I cannot remember them, and she talked to us all the way up, and when we got nearly to Cannon Street she said —

  ‘I’ve got two new shillings here! Do you think they would help to smooth the path to Fame?’

  Noel said, ‘Thank you,’ and was going to take the shilling. But Oswald, who always remembers what he is told, said —

  ‘Thank you very much, but Father told us we ought never to take anything from strangers.’

  ‘That’s a nasty one,’ said the lady — she didn’t talk a bit like a real lady, but more like a jolly sort of grown-up boy in a dress and hat—’a very nasty one! But don’t you think as Noel and I are both poets I might be considered a sort of relation? You’ve heard of brother poets, haven’t you? Don’t you think Noel and I are aunt and nephew poets, or some relationship of that kind?’

  I didn’t know what to say, and she went on —

  ‘It’s awfully straight of you to stick to what your Father tells you, but look here, you take the shillings, and here’s my card. When you get home tell your Father all about it, and if he says No, you can just bring the shillings back to me.’

  So we took the shillings, and she shook hands with us and said, ‘Good-bye, and good hunting!’

  We did tell Father about it, and he said it was all right, and when he looked at the card he told us we were highly honoured, for the lady wrote better poetry than any other lady alive now. We had never heard of her, and she seemed much too jolly for a poet. Good old Kipling! We owe him those two shillings, as well as the Jungle books!

  CHAPTER 5. THE POET AND THE EDITOR

  It was not bad sport — being in London entirely on our own hook. We asked the way to Fleet Street, where Father says all the newspaper offices are. They said straight on down Ludgate Hill — but it turned out to be quite another way. At least we didn’t go straight on.

  We got to St Paul’s. Noel would go in, and we saw where Gordon was buried — at least the monument. It is very flat, considering what a man he was.

  When we came out we walked a long way, and when we asked a policeman he said we’d better go back through Smithfield. So we did. They don’t burn people any more there now, so it was rather dull, besides being a long way, and Noel got very tired. He’s a peaky little chap; it comes of being a poet, I think. We had a bun or two at different shops — out of the shillings — and it was quite late in the afternoon when we got to Fleet Street. The gas was lighted and the electric lights. There is a jolly Bovril sign that comes off and on in different coloured lamps. We went to the Daily Recorder office, and asked to see the Editor. It is a big office, very bright, with brass and mahogany and elec
tric lights.

  They told us the Editor wasn’t there, but at another office. So we went down a dirty street, to a very dull-looking place. There was a man there inside, in a glass case, as if he was a museum, and he told us to write down our names and our business. So Oswald wrote —

  OSWALD BASTABLE

  NOEL BASTABLE

  BUSINESS VERY PRIVATE INDEED

  Then we waited on the stone stairs; it was very draughty. And the man in the glass case looked at us as if we were the museum instead of him. We waited a long time, and then a boy came down and said —

  ‘The Editor can’t see you. Will you please write your business?’ And he laughed. I wanted to punch his head.

  But Noel said, ‘Yes, I’ll write it if you’ll give me a pen and ink, and a sheet of paper and an envelope.’

  The boy said he’d better write by post. But Noel is a bit pig-headed; it’s his worst fault. So he said—’No, I’ll write it now.’ So I backed him up by saying —

  ‘Look at the price penny stamps are since the coal strike!’

  So the boy grinned, and the man in the glass case gave us pen and paper, and Noel wrote. Oswald writes better than he does; but Noel would do it; and it took a very long time, and then it was inky.

  DEAR MR EDITOR, I want you to print my poetry and pay for it,

  and I am a friend of Mrs Leslie’s; she is a poet too.

  Your affectionate friend,

  NOEL BASTABLE.

  He licked the envelope a good deal, so that that boy shouldn’t read it going upstairs; and he wrote ‘Very private’ outside, and gave the letter to the boy. I thought it wasn’t any good; but in a minute the grinning boy came back, and he was quite respectful, and said—’The Editor says, please will you step up?’

  We stepped up. There were a lot of stairs and passages, and a queer sort of humming, hammering sound and a very funny smell. The boy was now very polite, and said it was the ink we smelt, and the noise was the printing machines.

  After going through a lot of cold passages we came to a door; the boy opened it, and let us go in. There was a large room, with a big, soft, blue-and-red carpet, and a roaring fire, though it was only October; and a large table with drawers, and littered with papers, just like the one in Father’s study. A gentleman was sitting at one side of the table; he had a light moustache and light eyes, and he looked very young to be an editor — not nearly so old as Father. He looked very tired and sleepy, as if he had got up very early in the morning; but he was kind, and we liked him. Oswald thought he looked clever. Oswald is considered a judge of faces.

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘so you are Mrs Leslie’s friends?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Noel; ‘at least she gave us each a shilling, and she wished us “good hunting!”’

  ‘Good hunting, eh? Well, what about this poetry of yours? Which is the poet?’

  I can’t think how he could have asked! Oswald is said to be a very manly-looking boy for his age. However, I thought it would look duffing to be offended, so I said —

  ‘This is my brother Noel. He is the poet.’ Noel had turned quite pale. He is disgustingly like a girl in some ways. The Editor told us to sit down, and he took the poems from Noel, and began to read them. Noel got paler and paler; I really thought he was going to faint, like he did when I held his hand under the cold-water tap, after I had accidentally cut him with my chisel. When the Editor had read the first poem — it was the one about the beetle — he got up and stood with his back to us. It was not manners; but Noel thinks he did it ‘to conceal his emotion,’ as they do in books. He read all the poems, and then he said —

  ‘I like your poetry very much, young man. I’ll give you — let me see; how much shall I give you for it?’

  ‘As much as ever you can,’ said Noel. ‘You see I want a good deal of money to restore the fallen fortunes of the house of Bastable.’

  The gentleman put on some eye-glasses and looked hard at us. Then he sat down.

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ said he. ‘Tell me how you came to think of it. And, I say, have you had any tea? They’ve just sent out for mine.’

  He rang a tingly bell, and the boy brought in a tray with a teapot and a thick cup and saucer and things, and he had to fetch another tray for us, when he was told to; and we had tea with the Editor of the Daily Recorder. I suppose it was a very proud moment for Noel, though I did not think of that till afterwards. The Editor asked us a lot of questions, and we told him a good deal, though of course I did not tell a stranger all our reasons for thinking that the family fortunes wanted restoring. We stayed about half an hour, and when we were going away he said again —

  ‘I shall print all your poems, my poet; and now what do you think they’re worth?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Noel said. ‘You see I didn’t write them to sell.’

  ‘Why did you write them then?’ he asked.

  Noel said he didn’t know; he supposed because he wanted to.

  ‘Art for Art’s sake, eh?’ said the Editor, and he seemed quite delighted, as though Noel had said something clever.

  ‘Well, would a guinea meet your views?’ he asked.

  I have read of people being at a loss for words, and dumb with emotion, and I’ve read of people being turned to stone with astonishment, or joy, or something, but I never knew how silly it looked till I saw Noel standing staring at the Editor with his mouth open. He went red and he went white, and then he got crimson, as if you were rubbing more and more crimson lake on a palette. But he didn’t say a word, so Oswald had to say —

  ‘I should jolly well think so.’

  So the Editor gave Noel a sovereign and a shilling, and he shook hands with us both, but he thumped Noel on the back and said —

  ‘Buck up, old man! It’s your first guinea, but it won’t be your last. Now go along home, and in about ten years you can bring me some more poetry. Not before — see? I’m just taking this poetry of yours because I like it very much; but we don’t put poetry in this paper at all. I shall have to put it in another paper I know of.’

  ‘What do you put in your paper?’ I asked, for Father always takes the Daily Chronicle, and I didn’t know what the Recorder was like. We chose it because it has such a glorious office, and a clock outside lighted up.

  ‘Oh, news,’ said he, ‘and dull articles, and things about Celebrities. If you know any Celebrities, now?’

  Noel asked him what Celebrities were.

  ‘Oh, the Queen and the Princes, and people with titles, and people who write, or sing, or act — or do something clever or wicked.’

  ‘I don’t know anybody wicked,’ said Oswald, wishing he had known Dick Turpin, or Claude Duval, so as to be able to tell the Editor things about them. ‘But I know some one with a title — Lord Tottenham.’

  ‘The mad old Protectionist, eh? How did you come to know him?’

  ‘We don’t know him to speak to. But he goes over the Heath every day at three, and he strides along like a giant — with a black cloak like Lord Tennyson’s flying behind him, and he talks to himself like one o’clock.’

  ‘What does he say?’ The Editor had sat down again, and he was fiddling with a blue pencil.

  ‘We only heard him once, close enough to understand, and then he said, “The curse of the country, sir — ruin and desolation!” And then he went striding along again, hitting at the furze-bushes as if they were the heads of his enemies.’

  ‘Excellent descriptive touch,’ said the Editor. ‘Well, go on.’

  ‘That’s all I know about him, except that he stops in the middle of the Heath every day, and he looks all round to see if there’s any one about, and if there isn’t, he takes his collar off.’

  The Editor interrupted — which is considered rude — and said —

  ‘You’re not romancing?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Oswald. ‘Drawing the long bow, I mean,’ said the Editor.

  Oswald drew himself up, and said he wasn’t a liar.

  The
Editor only laughed, and said romancing and lying were not at all the same; only it was important to know what you were playing at. So Oswald accepted his apology, and went on.

  ‘We were hiding among the furze-bushes one day, and we saw him do it. He took off his collar, and he put on a clean one, and he threw the other among the furze-bushes. We picked it up afterwards, and it was a beastly paper one!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Editor, and he got up and put his hand in his pocket. ‘That’s well worth five shillings, and there they are. Would you like to see round the printing offices before you go home?’

  I pocketed my five bob, and thanked him, and I said we should like it very much. He called another gentleman and said something we couldn’t hear. Then he said good-bye again; and all this time Noel hadn’t said a word. But now he said, ‘I’ve made a poem about you. It is called “Lines to a Noble Editor.” Shall I write it down?’

  The Editor gave him the blue pencil, and he sat down at the Editor’s table and wrote. It was this, he told me afterwards as well as he could remember —

  May Life’s choicest blessings be your lot

  I think you ought to be very blest

  For you are going to print my poems —

  And you may have this one as well as the rest.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Editor. ‘I don’t think I ever had a poem addressed to me before. I shall treasure it, I assure you.’

  Then the other gentleman said something about Maecenas, and we went off to see the printing office with at least one pound seven in our pockets.

  It was good hunting, and no mistake!

  But he never put Noel’s poetry in the Daily Recorder. It was quite a long time afterwards we saw a sort of story thing in a magazine, on the station bookstall, and that kind, sleepy-looking Editor had written it, I suppose. It was not at all amusing. It said a lot about Noel and me, describing us all wrong, and saying how we had tea with the Editor; and all Noel’s poems were in the story thing. I think myself the Editor seemed to make game of them, but Noel was quite pleased to see them printed — so that’s all right. It wasn’t my poetry anyhow, I am glad to say.