by Edith Nesbit
The first thing Amabel did was to look at herself in the glass. She was still sniffing and sobbing, and her eyes were swimming in tears, another one rolled down her nose as she looked — that was very interesting. Another rolled down, and that was the last, because as soon as you get interested in watching your tears they stop.
Next she looked out of the window, and saw the decorated flower-bed, just as she had left it, very bright and beautiful.
‘Well, it does look nice,’ she said. ‘I don’t care what they say.’
Then she looked round the room for something to read; there was nothing. The old-fashioned best bedrooms never did have anything. Only on the large dressing-table, on the left-hand side of the oval swing-glass, was one book covered in red velvet, and on it, very twistily embroidered in yellow silk and mixed up with misleading leaves and squiggles were the letters, A.B.C.
‘Perhaps it’s a picture alphabet,’ said Mabel, and was quite pleased, though of course she was much too old to care for alphabets. Only when one is very unhappy and very dull, anything is better than nothing. She opened the book.
‘Why, it’s only a time-table!’ she said. ‘I suppose it’s for people when they want to go away, and Auntie puts it here in case they suddenly make up their minds to go, and feel that they can’t wait another minute. I feel like that, only it’s no good, and I expect other people do too.’
She had learned how to use the dictionary, and this seemed to go the same way. She looked up the names of all the places she knew. — Brighton where she had once spent a month, Rugby where her brother was at school, and Home, which was Amberley — and she saw the times when the trains left for these places, and wished she could go by those trains.
And once more she looked round the best bedroom which was her prison, and thought of the Bastille, and wished she had a toad to tame, like the poor Viscount, or a flower to watch growing, like Picciola, and she was very sorry for herself, and very angry with her aunt, and very grieved at the conduct of her parents — she had expected better things from them — and now they had left her in this dreadful place where no one loved her, and no one understood her.
There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room, it was carpeted all over even in its least noticeable corners. It had everything a best room ought to have — and everything was of dark shining mahogany. The toilet-table had a set of red and gold glass things — a tray, candlesticks, a ring-stand, many little pots with lids, and two bottles with stoppers. When the stoppers were taken out they smelt very strange, something like very old scent, and something like cold cream also very old, and something like going to the dentist’s.
I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with what happened. It certainly was a very extraordinary scent. Quite different from any perfume that I smell nowadays, but I remember that when I was a little girl I smelt it quite often. But then there are no best rooms now such as there used to be. The best rooms now are gay with chintz and mirrors, and there are always flowers and books, and little tables to put your teacup on, and sofas, and armchairs. And they smell of varnish and new furniture.
When Amabel had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots, which were quite clean and empty except for a pearl button and two pins in one of them, she took up the A.B.C. again to look for Whitby, where her godmother lived. And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name ‘Whereyouwantogoto.’ This was odd — but the name of the station from which it started was still more extraordinary, for it was not Euston or Cannon Street or Marylebone.
The name of the station was ‘Bigwardrobeinspareroom.’ And below this name, really quite unusual for a station, Amabel read in small letters:
‘Single fares strictly forbidden. Return tickets No Class Nuppence. Trains leave Bigwardrobeinspareroom all the time.’
And under that in still smaller letters —
‘You had better go now.’
What would you have done? Rubbed your eyes and thought you were dreaming? Well, if you had, nothing more would have happened. Nothing ever does when you behave like that. Amabel was wiser. She went straight to the Big Wardrobe and turned its glass handle.
‘I expect it’s only shelves and people’s best hats,’ she said. But she only said it. People often say what they don’t mean, so that if things turn out as they don’t expect, they can say ‘I told you so,’ but this is most dishonest to one’s self, and being dishonest to one’s self is almost worse than being dishonest to other people. Amabel would never have done it if she had been herself. But she was out of herself with anger and unhappiness.
Of course it wasn’t hats. It was, most amazingly, a crystal cave, very oddly shaped like a railway station. It seemed to be lighted by stars, which is, of course, unusual in a booking office, and over the station clock was a full moon. The clock had no figures, only Now in shining letters all round it, twelve times, and the Nows touched, so the clock was bound to be always right. How different from the clock you go to school by!
A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Amabel’s luggage. Her luggage was the A.B.C. which she still held in her hand.
‘Lots of time, Miss,’ he said, grinning in a most friendly way, ‘I am glad you’re going. You will enjoy yourself! What a nice little girl you are!’
This was cheering. Amabel smiled.
At the pigeon-hole that tickets come out of, another person, also in white satin, was ready with a mother-of-pearl ticket, round, like a card counter.
‘Here you are, Miss,’ he said with the kindest smile, ‘price nothing, and refreshments free all the way. It’s a pleasure,’ he added, ‘to issue a ticket to a nice little lady like you.’ The train was entirely of crystal, too, and the cushions were of white satin. There were little buttons such as you have for electric bells, and on them ‘Whatyouwantoeat,’ ‘Whatyouwantodrink,’ ‘Whatyouwantoread,’ in silver letters.
Amabel pressed all the buttons at once, and instantly felt obliged to blink. The blink over, she saw on the cushion by her side a silver tray with vanilla ice, boiled chicken and white sauce, almonds (blanched), peppermint creams, and mashed potatoes, and a long glass of lemonade — beside the tray was a book. It was Mrs. Ewing’s Bad-tempered Family, and it was bound in white vellum.
There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read — unless it be reading while you eat. Amabel did both: they are not the same thing, as you will see if you think the matter over.
And just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away, and the last full stop of the Bad-tempered Family met Amabel’s eye, the train stopped, and hundreds of railway officials in white velvet shouted, ‘Whereyouwantogoto! Get out!’
A velvety porter, who was somehow like a silkworm as well as like a wedding handkerchief sachet, opened the door.
‘Now!’ he said, ‘come on out, Miss Amabel, unless you want to go to Whereyoudon’twantogoto.’
She hurried out, on to an ivory platform.
‘Not on the ivory, if you please,’ said the porter, ‘the white Axminster carpet — it’s laid down expressly for you.’
Amabel walked along it and saw ahead of her a crowd, all in white.
‘What’s all that?’ she asked the friendly porter.
‘It’s the Mayor, dear Miss Amabel,’ he said, ‘with your address.’
‘My address is The Old Cottage, Amberley,’ she said, ‘at least it used to be’ — and found herself face to face with the Mayor. He was very like Uncle George, but he bowed low to her, which was not Uncle George’s habit, and said:
‘Welcome, dear little Amabel. Please accept this admiring address from the Mayor and burgesses and apprentices and all the rest of it, of Whereyouwantogoto.’
The address was in silver letters, on white silk, and it said:
‘Welcome, dear Amabel. We know you meant to please your aunt. It was very clever of you to think of putting the greenhouse flowers in the bare flower-bed. You couldn’t be expected to know that you
ought to ask leave before you touch other people’s things.’
‘Oh, but,’ said Amabel quite confused. ‘I did....’
But the band struck up, and drowned her words. The instruments of the band were all of silver, and the bandsmen’s clothes of white leather. The tune they played was ‘Cheero!’
Then Amabel found that she was taking part in a procession, hand in hand with the Mayor, and the band playing like mad all the time. The Mayor was dressed entirely in cloth of silver, and as they went along he kept saying, close to her ear.
‘You have our sympathy, you have our sympathy,’ till she felt quite giddy.
There was a flower show — all the flowers were white. There was a concert — all the tunes were old ones. There was a play called Put yourself in her place. And there was a banquet, with Amabel in the place of honour.
They drank her health in white wine whey, and then through the Crystal Hall of a thousand gleaming pillars, where thousands of guests, all in white, were met to do honour to Amabel, the shout went up—’Speech, speech!’
I cannot explain to you what had been going on in Amabel’s mind. Perhaps you know. Whatever it was it began like a very tiny butterfly in a box, that could not keep quiet, but fluttered, and fluttered, and fluttered. And when the Mayor rose and said:
‘Dear Amabel, you whom we all love and understand; dear Amabel, you who were so unjustly punished for trying to give pleasure to an unresponsive aunt; poor, ill-used, ill-treated, innocent Amabel; blameless, suffering Amabel, we await your words,’ that fluttering, tiresome butterfly-thing inside her seemed suddenly to swell to the size and strength of a fluttering albatross, and Amabel got up from her seat of honour on the throne of ivory and silver and pearl, and said, choking a little, and extremely red about the ears —
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t want to make a speech, I just want to say, “Thank you,” and to say — to say — to say....’
She stopped, and all the white crowd cheered.
‘To say,’ she went on as the cheers died down, ‘that I wasn’t blameless, and innocent, and all those nice things. I ought to have thought. And they were Auntie’s flowers. But I did want to please her. It’s all so mixed. Oh, I wish Auntie was here!’
And instantly Auntie was there, very tall and quite nice-looking, in a white velvet dress and an ermine cloak.
‘Speech,’ cried the crowd. ‘Speech from Auntie!’
Auntie stood on the step of the throne beside Amabel, and said:
‘I think, perhaps, I was hasty. And I think Amabel meant to please me. But all the flowers that were meant for the winter ... well — I was annoyed. I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, Auntie, so am I — so am I,’ cried Amabel, and the two began to hug each other on the ivory step, while the crowd cheered like mad, and the band struck up that well-known air, ‘If you only understood!’
‘Oh, Auntie,’ said Amabel among hugs, ‘This is such a lovely place, come and see everything, we may, mayn’t we?’ she asked the Mayor.
‘The place is yours,’ he said, ‘and now you can see many things that you couldn’t see before. We are The People who Understand. And now you are one of Us. And your aunt is another.’
I must not tell you all that they saw because these things are secrets only known to The People who Understand, and perhaps you do not yet belong to that happy nation. And if you do, you will know without my telling you.
And when it grew late, and the stars were drawn down, somehow, to hang among the trees, Amabel fell asleep in her aunt’s arms beside a white foaming fountain on a marble terrace, where white peacocks came to drink.
* * * * *
She awoke on the big bed in the spare room, but her aunt’s arms were still round her.
‘Amabel,’ she was saying, ‘Amabel!’
‘Oh, Auntie,’ said Amabel sleepily, ‘I am so sorry. It was stupid of me. And I did mean to please you.’
‘It was stupid of you,’ said the aunt, ‘but I am sure you meant to please me. Come down to supper.’ And Amabel has a confused recollection of her aunt’s saying that she was sorry, adding, ‘Poor little Amabel.’
If the aunt really did say it, it was fine of her. And Amabel is quite sure that she did say it.
* * * * *
Amabel and her great-aunt are now the best of friends. But neither of them has ever spoken to the other of the beautiful city called ‘Whereyouwantogoto.’ Amabel is too shy to be the first to mention it, and no doubt the aunt has her own reasons for not broaching the subject.
But of course they both know that they have been there together, and it is easy to get on with people when you and they alike belong to the Peoplewhounderstand.
* * * * *
If you look in the A.B.C. that your people have you will not find ‘Whereyouwantogoto.’ It is only in the red velvet bound copy that Amabel found in her aunt’s best bedroom.
KENNETH AND THE CARP
Kenneth’s cousins had often stayed with him, but he had never till now stayed with them. And you know how different everything is when you are in your own house. You are certain exactly what games the grown-ups dislike and what games they will not notice; also what sort of mischief is looked over and what sort is not. And, being accustomed to your own sort of grown-ups, you can always be pretty sure when you are likely to catch it. Whereas strange houses are, in this matter of catching it, full of the most unpleasing surprises.
You know all this. But Kenneth did not. And still less did he know what were the sort of things which, in his cousins’ house, led to disapproval, punishment, scoldings; in short, to catching it. So that that business of cousin Ethel’s jewel-case, which is where this story ought to begin, was really not Kenneth’s fault at all. Though for a time.... But I am getting on too fast.
Kenneth’s cousins were four, — Conrad, Alison, George, and Ethel. The three first were natural sort of cousins somewhere near his own age, but Ethel was hardly like a cousin at all, more like an aunt. Because she was grown-up. She wore long dresses and all her hair on the top of her head, a mass of combs and hairpins; in fact she had just had her twenty-first birthday with iced cakes and a party and lots of presents, most of them jewelry. And that brings me again to that affair of the jewel-case, or would bring me if I were not determined to tell things in their proper order, which is the first duty of a story-teller.
Kenneth’s home was in Kent, a wooden house among cherry orchards, and the nearest river five miles away. That was why he looked forward in such a very extra and excited way to his visit to his cousins. Their house was very old, red brick with ivy all over it. It had a secret staircase, only the secret was not kept any longer, and the housemaids carried pails and brooms up and down the staircase. And the house was surrounded by a real deep moat, with clear water in it, and long weeds and water-lilies and fish — the gold and the silver and the everyday kinds.
The first evening of Kenneth’s visit passed uneventfully. His bedroom window looked over the moat, and early next morning he tried to catch fish with several pieces of string knotted together and a hairpin kindly lent to him by the parlourmaid. He did not catch any fish, partly because he baited the hairpin with brown windsor soap, and it washed off.
‘Besides, fish hate soap,’ Conrad told him, ‘and that hook of yours would do for a whale perhaps. Only we don’t stock our moat with whales. But I’ll ask father to lend you his rod, it’s a spiffing one, much jollier than ours. And I won’t tell the kids because they’d never let it down on you. Fishing with a hairpin!’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Kenneth, feeling that his cousin was a man and a brother. The kids were only two or three years younger than he was, but that is a great deal when you are the elder; and besides, one of the kids was a girl.
‘Alison’s a bit of a sneak,’ Conrad used to say when anger overcome politeness and brotherly feeling. Afterwards, when the anger was gone and the other things left, he would say, ‘You see she went to a beastly school for a bit, at Brighton, for her health.
And father says they must have bullied her. All girls are not like it, I believe.’
But her sneakish qualities, if they really existed, were generally hidden, and she was very clever at thinking of new games, and very kind if you got into a row over anything.
George was eight and stout. He was not a sneak, but concealment was foreign to his nature, so he never could keep a secret unless he forgot it. Which fortunately happened quite often.
The uncle very amiably lent Kenneth his fishing-rod, and provided real bait in the most thoughtful and generous manner. And the four children fished all the morning and all the afternoon. Conrad caught two roach and an eel. George caught nothing, and nothing was what the other two caught. But it was glorious sport. And the next day there was to be a picnic. Life to Kenneth seemed full of new and delicious excitement.
In the evening the aunt and the uncle went out to dinner, and Ethel, in her grown-up way, went with them, very grand in a blue silk dress and turquoises. So the children were left to themselves.
You know the empty hush which settles down on a house when the grown-ups have gone out to dinner and you have the whole evening to do what you like in. The children stood in the hall a moment after the carriage wheels had died away with the scrunching swish that the carriage wheels always made as they turned the corner by the lodge, where the gravel was extra thick and soft owing to the droppings from the trees. From the kitchen came the voices of the servants, laughing and talking.
‘It’s two hours at least to bedtime,’ said Alison. ‘What shall we do?’ Alison always began by saying ‘What shall we do?’ and always ended by deciding what should be done. ‘You all say what you think,’ she went on, ‘and then we’ll vote about it. You first, Ken, because you’re the visitor.’
