by Edith Nesbit
‘You can take your time about this new job,’ said Mr. Noah, ‘and you may get any help you like. I shan’t consider you’ve failed till you’ve been at it three months. After that the Pretenderette would be entitled to her chance.’
‘If you’re quite sure that the time here doesn’t count at home,’ said Philip, ‘what is it, please, that we’ve got to do?’
‘The greatest intellects of our country have for many ages occupied themselves with the problem which you are now asked to solve,’ said Mr. Noah. ‘Your late gaoler, Mr. Bacon-Shakespeare, has written no less than twenty-seven volumes, all in cypher, on this very subject. But as he has forgotten what cypher he used, and no one else ever knew it, his volumes are of but little use to us.’
‘I see,’ said Philip. And again he didn’t.
Mr. Noah rose to his full height, and when he stood up the children looked very small beside him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I will tell you what it is that you must do. I should like to decree that your second labour should be the tidying up of this room — all these papers are prophecies relating to the Deliverer — but it is one of our laws that the judge must not use any public matter for his own personal benefit. So I have decided that the next labour shall be the disentangling of the Mazy Carpet. It is in the Pillared Hall of Public Amusements. I will get my hat and we will go there at once. I can tell you about it as we go.’
And as they went down streets and past houses and palaces all of which Philip could now dimly remember to have built at some time or other, Mr. Noah went on:
‘It is a very beautiful hall, but we have never been able to use it for public amusement or anything else. The giant who originally built this city placed in this hall a carpet so thick that it rises to your knees, and so intricately woven that none can disentangle it. It is far too thick to pass through any of the doors. It is your task to remove it.’
‘Why that’s as easy as easy,’ said Philip. ‘I’ll cut it in bits and bring out a bit at a time.’
‘That would be most unfortunate for you,’ said Mr. Noah. ‘I filed only this morning a very ancient prophecy:
‘He who shall the carpet sever,
By fire or flint or steel,
Shall be fed on orange pips for ever,
And dressed in orange peel.
You wouldn’t like that, you know.’
‘No,’ said Philip grimly, ‘I certainly shouldn’t.’
‘The carpet must be unravelled, unwoven, so that not a thread is broken. Here is the hall.’
They went up steps — Philip sometimes wished he had not been so fond of building steps — and through a dark vestibule to an arched door. Looking through it they saw a great hall and at its end a raised space, more steps, and two enormous pillars of bronze wrought in relief with figures of flying birds.
‘Father’s Japanese vases,’ Lucy whispered.
The floor of the room was covered by the carpet. It was loosely but difficultly woven of very thick soft rope of a red colour. When I say difficultly, I mean that it wasn’t just straight-forward in the weaving, but the threads went over and under and round about in such a determined and bewildering way that Philip felt — and said — that he would rather untie the string of a hundred of the most difficult parcels than tackle this.
‘Well,’ said Mr. Noah, ‘I leave you to it. Board and lodging will be provided at the Provisional Palace where you slept last night. All citizens are bound to assist when called upon. Dinner is at one. Good-morning!’
Philip sat down in the dark archway and gazed helplessly at the twisted strands of the carpet. After a moment of hesitation Lucy sat down too, clasped her arms round her knees, and she also gazed at the carpet. They had all the appearance of shipwrecked mariners looking out over a great sea and longing for a sail.
‘Ha ha — tee hee!’ said a laugh close behind them. They turned. And it was the motor-veiled lady, the hateful Pretenderette, who had crept up close behind them, and was looking down at them through her veil.
‘What do you want?’ said Philip severely.
‘I want to laugh,’ said the motor lady. ‘I want to laugh at you. And I’m going to.’
‘Well go and laugh somewhere else then,’ Philip suggested.
‘Ah! but this is where I want to laugh. You and your carpet! You’ll never do it. You don’t know how. But I do.’
‘Come away,’ whispered Lucy, and they went. The Pretenderette followed slowly. Outside, a couple of Dutch dolls in check suits were passing, arm in arm.
‘Help!’ cried Lucy suddenly, and the Dutch dolls paused and took their hats off.
‘What is it?’ the taller doll asked, stroking his black painted moustache.
‘Mr. Noah said all citizens were bound to help us,’ said Lucy a little breathlessly.
‘But of course,’ said the shorter doll, bowing with stiff courtesy.
‘Then,’ said Lucy, ‘will you please take that motor person away and put her somewhere where she can’t bother till we’ve done the carpet?’
‘Delighted,’ exclaimed the agreeable Dutch strangers, darted up the steps and next moment emerged with the form of the Pretenderette between them, struggling indeed, but struggling vainly.
‘You need not have the slightest further anxiety,’ the taller Dutchman said; ‘dismiss the incident from your mind. We will take her to the hall of justice. Her offence is bothering people in pursuit of their duty. The sentence is imprisonment for as long as the botheree chooses. Good-morning.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ said both the children together.
When they were alone, Philip said — and it was not easy to say it:
‘That was jolly clever of you, Lucy. I should never have thought of it.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Lucy, looking down. ‘I could do more than that.’
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I could unravel the carpet,’ said Lucy, with deep solemnity.
‘But it’s me that’s got to do it,’ Philip urged.
‘Every citizen is bound to help, if called in,’ Lucy reminded him. ‘And I suppose a princess is a citizen.’
‘Perhaps I can do it by myself,’ said Philip.
‘Try,’ said Lucy, and sat down on the steps, her fairy skirts spreading out round her like a white double hollyhock.
He tried. He went back and looked at the great coarse cables of the carpet. He could see no end to the cables, no beginning to his task. And Lucy just went on sitting there like a white hollyhock. And time went on, and presently became, rather urgently, dinner-time.
So he went back to Lucy and said:
‘All right, you can show me how to do it, if you like.’
But Lucy replied:
‘Not much! If you want me to help you with this, you’ll have to promise to let me help in all the other things. And you’ll have to ask me to help — ask me politely too.’
‘I shan’t then,’ said Philip. But in the end he had to — politely also.
‘With pleasure,’ said Lucy, the moment he asked her, and he could see she had been making up what she should answer, while he was making up his mind to ask. ‘I shall be delighted to help you in this and all the other tasks. Say yes.’
‘Yes,’ said Philip, who was very hungry.
‘“In this and all the other tasks” say.’
‘In this and all the other tasks,’ he said. ‘Go on. How can we do it?’
‘It’s crochet,’ Lucy giggled. ‘It’s a little crochet mat I’d made of red wool; and I put it in the hall that night. You’ve just got to find the end and pull, and it all comes undone. You just want to find the end and pull.’
‘It’s too heavy for us to pull.’
‘Well,’ said Lucy, who had certainly had time to think everything out, ‘you get one of those twisty round things they pull boats out of the sea with, and I’ll find the end while you’re getting it.’
She ran up the steps and Philip looked round the buildings on the other three sides of th
e square, to see if any one of them looked like a capstan shop, for he understood, as of course you also have done, that a capstan was what Lucy meant.
On a building almost opposite he read, ‘Naval Necessaries Supply Company,’ and he ran across to it.
‘Rather,’ said the secretary of the company, a plump sailor-doll, when Philip had explained his needs. ‘I’ll send a dozen men over at once. Only too proud to help, Sir Philip. The navy is always keen on helping valour and beauty.’
‘I want to be brave,’ said Philip, ‘but I’d rather not be beautiful.’
‘Of course not,’ said the secretary; and added surprisingly, ‘I meant the Lady Lucy.’
‘Oh!’ said Philip.
So, all down the wide clear floor, Lucy danced.
So twelve bluejackets and a capstan outside the Hall of Public Amusements were soon the centre of a cheering crowd. Lucy had found the end of the rope, and two sailors dragged it out and attached it to the capstan, and then — round and round with a will and a breathless chanty — the carpet was swiftly unravelled. Dozens of eager helpers stood on the parts of the carpet which were not being unravelled, to keep it steady while the pulling went on.
The news of Philip’s success spread like wild-fire through the city, and the crowds gathered thicker and thicker. The great doors beyond the pillars with the birds on them were thrown open, and Mr. Noah and the principal citizens stood there to see the end of the unravelling.
‘Bravo!’ said every one in tremendous enthusiasm. ‘Bravo! Sir Philip.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Philip difficultly, when the crowd paused for breath; ‘it was Lucy thought of it.’
‘Bravo! Bravo!’ shouted the crowd louder than ever. ‘Bravo, for the Lady Lucy! Bravo for Sir Philip, the modest truth-teller!’
‘Bravo, my dear,’ said Mr. Noah, waving his hat and thumping Lucy on the back.
‘I’m awfully glad I thought of it,’ she said; ‘that makes two deeds Sir Philip’s done, doesn’t it? Two out of the seven.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mr. Noah enthusiastically. ‘I must make him a baronet now. His title will grow grander with each deed. There’s an old prophecy that the person who finds out how to unravel the carpet must be the first to dance in the Hall of Public Amusements.
‘The clever one, the noble one,
Who makes the carpet come undone,
Shall be the first to dance a measure
Within the Hall of public pleasure.
I suppose public amusement was too difficult a rhyme even for these highly-skilled poets, our astrologers. You, my child, seem to have been well inspired in your choice of a costume. Dance, then, my Lady Lucy, and let the prophecy be fulfilled.’
So, all down the wide clear floor of the Hall of Public Amusement, Lucy danced. And the people of the city looked on and applauded, Philip with the rest.
CHAPTER VI. THE LIONS IN THE DESERT
‘But why?’ asked Philip at dinner, which was no painted wonder of wooden make-believe, but real roast guinea-fowl and angel pudding, ‘Why do you only have wooden things to eat at your banquets?’
‘Banquets are extremely important occasions,’ said Mr. Noah, ‘and real food — food that you can eat and enjoy — only serves to distract the mind from the serious affairs of life. Many of the most successful caterers in your world have grasped this great truth.’
‘But why,’ Lucy asked, ‘do you have the big silver bowls with nothing in them?’
Mr. Noah sighed. ‘The bowls are for dessert,’ he said.
‘But there isn’t any dessert in them,’ Lucy objected.
‘No,’ said Mr. Noah, sighing again, ‘that’s just it. There is no dessert. There has never been any dessert. Will you have a little more angel pudding?’
It was quite plain to Lucy and Philip that Mr. Noah wished to change the subject, which, for some reason, was a sad one, and with true politeness they both said ‘Yes, please,’ to the angel pudding offer, though they had already had quite as much as they really needed.
After dinner Mr. Noah took them for a walk through the town, ‘to see the factories,’ he said. This surprised Philip, who had been taught not to build factories with his bricks because factories were so ugly, but the factories turned out to be pleasant, long, low houses, with tall French windows opening into gardens of roses, where people of all nations made beautiful and useful things, and loved making them. And all the people who were making them looked clean and happy.
‘I wish we had factories like those,’ Philip said. ‘Our factories are so ugly. Helen says so.’
‘That’s because all your factories are money factories,’ said Mr. Noah, ‘though they’re called by all sorts of different names. Every one here has to make something that isn’t just money or for money — something useful and beautiful.’
‘Even you?’ said Lucy.
‘Even I,’ said Mr. Noah.
‘What do you make?’ the question was bound to come.
‘Laws, of course,’ Mr. Noah answered in some surprise. ‘Didn’t you know I was the Chief Judge?’
‘But laws can’t be useful and beautiful, can they?’
‘They can certainly be useful,’ said Mr. Noah, ‘and,’ he added with modest pride, ‘my laws are beautiful. What do you think of this? “Everybody must try to be kind to everybody else. Any one who has been unkind must be sorry and say so.”’
‘It seems all right,’ said Philip, ‘but it’s not exactly beautiful.’
‘Oh, don’t you think so?’ said Mr. Noah, a little hurt; ‘it mayn’t sound beautiful perhaps — I never could write poetry — but it’s quite beautiful when people do it.’
‘Oh, if you mean your laws are beautiful when they’re kept,’ said Philip.
‘Beautiful things can’t be beautiful when they’re broken, of course,’ Mr. Noah explained. ‘Not even laws. But ugly laws are only beautiful when they are broken. That’s odd, isn’t it? Laws are very tricky things.’
‘I say,’ Philip said suddenly, as they climbed one of the steep flights of steps between trees in pots, ‘couldn’t we do another of the deeds now? I don’t feel as if I’d really done anything to-day at all. It was Lucy who did the carpet. Do tell us the next deed.’
‘The next deed,’ Mr. Noah answered, ‘will probably take some time. There’s no reason why you should not begin it to-day if you like. It is a deed peculiarly suited to a baronet. I don’t know why,’ he added hastily; ‘it may be that it is the only thing that baronets are good for. I shouldn’t wonder. The existence of baronets,’ he added musingly, ‘has always seemed to the thoughtful to lack justification. Perhaps this deed which you will begin to-day is the wise end to which baronets were designed.’
‘Yes, I daresay,’ said Philip; ‘but what is the end?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mr. Noah owned, ‘but I’ll tell you what the deed is. You’ve got to journey to the land of the Dwellers by the Sea and, by any means that may commend itself to you, slay their fear.’
Philip naturally asked what the Dwellers by the Sea were afraid of.
‘That you will learn from them,’ said Mr. Noah; ‘but it is a very great fear.’
‘Is it something we shall be afraid of too?’ Lucy asked. And Philip at once said, ‘Oh, then she really did mean to come, did she? But she wasn’t to if she was afraid. Girls weren’t expected to be brave.’
‘They are, here,’ said Mr. Noah, ‘the girls are expected to be brave and the boys kind.’
‘Oh,’ said Philip doubtfully. And Lucy said:
‘Of course I meant to come. You know you promised.’
So that was settled.
‘And now,’ said Mr. Noah, rubbing his hands with the cheerful air of one who has a great deal to do and is going to enjoy doing it, ‘we must fit you out a proper expedition, for the Dwellers by the Sea are a very long way off. What would you like to ride on?’
‘A horse,’ said Philip, truly pleased. He said horse, because he did not want to ride a donkey, and
he had never seen any one ride any animal but these two.
‘That’s right,’ Mr. Noah said, patting him on the back. ‘I was so afraid you’d ask for a bicycle. And there’s a dreadful law here — it was made by mistake, but there it is — that if any one asks for machinery they have to have it and keep on using it. But as to a horse. Well, I’m not sure. You see, you have to ride right across the pebbly waste, and it’s a good three days’ journey. But come along to the stables.’
You know the kind of stables they would be? The long shed with stalls such as you had, when you were little, for your little wooden horses and carts? Only there were not only horses here, but every sort of animal that has ever been ridden on. Elephants, camels, donkeys, mules, bulls, goats, zebras, tortoises, ostriches, bisons, and pigs. And in the last stall of all, which was not of common wood but of beaten silver, stood the very Hippogriff himself, with his long, white mane and his long, white tail, and his gentle, beautiful eyes. His long, white wings were folded neatly on his satin-smooth back, and how he and the stall got here was more than Philip could guess. All the others were Noah’s Ark animals, alive, of course, but still Noah’s Arky beyond possibility of mistake. But the Hippogriff was not Noah’s Ark at all.
‘He came,’ Mr. Noah explained, ‘out of a book. One of the books you used to build your city with.’
‘Can’t we have him?’ Lucy said; ‘he looks such a darling.’ And the Hippogriff turned his white velvet nose and nuzzled against her in affectionate acknowledgment of the compliment.
‘Not if you both go,’ Mr. Noah explained. ‘He cannot carry more than one person at a time unless one is an Earl. No, if I may advise, I should say go by camel.’
‘Can the camel carry two?’
‘Of course. He is called the ship of the desert,’ Mr. Noah informed them, ‘and a ship that wouldn’t carry more than one would be simply silly.’
So that was settled. Mr. Noah himself saddled and bridled the camel, which was a very large one, with his own hands.
‘Let me see,’ he said, standing thoughtful with the lead rope in his hand, ‘you’ll be wanting dogs—’
