by E. Nesbit
“I expect it doesn’t like the fireworks,” said Philip. And he was quite right.
And now the dragon saw the Princess who had been placed at a convenient spot about half-way between the ruins and Philip’s tower.
It threw up its snout and uttered a devastating howl, and Philip felt with a thrill of horror that, clockwork or no clockwork, the brute was alive, and desperately dangerous.
And now it had perceived that it was bound. With great heavings and throes, with snortings and bellowings, with scratchings and tearings of its great claws and lashings of its terrible tail, it writhed and fought to be free, and the light of thousands of fireworks illuminated the gigantic struggle.
Then what Philip had known would happen, did happen. The great wall held fast, the rope held fast, the dragon held fast. It was the key that gave way. With an echoing grinding rusty sound like a goods train shunting on a siding, the key was drawn from the keyhole in the dragon’s side and left still fast to its rope like an anchor to a cable.
Left. For now that happened which Philip had not foreseen. He had forgotten that before it fell asleep the dragon had partly wound itself up. And its struggles had not used up all the winding. There was go in the dragon yet. And with a yell of fury it set off across the plain, wriggling its green rattling length towards—the Princess.
And now there was no time to think whether one was afraid or not. Philip went down those tower stairs more quickly than he had ever gone down stairs in his life, and he was not bad at stairs even at ordinary times.
He put his sword over his shoulder as you do a gun, and ran. Like the dragon he made straight for the Princess. And now it was a race between him and the dragon. Philip ran and ran. His heart thumped, his feet had that leaden feeling that comes in nightmares. He felt as if he were dying.
Keep on, keep on, faster, faster, you mustn’t stop. Ah! that’s better. He has got his second wind. He is going faster. And the dragon, or is it fancy? is going not quite so fast.
How he did it Philip never knew. But with a last spurt he reached the pillar where the Princess stood bound. And the dragon was twenty yards away, coming on and on and on.
Philip stood quite still, recovering his breath. And more and more slowly, but with no sign of stopping, the dragon came on. Behind him, where the pillar was, Philip heard some one crying softly.
Then the dragon was quite near. Philip took three steps forward, took aim with his sword, shut his eyes and hit as hard as he could. Then something hard and heavy knocked him over, and for a time he knew no more.
* * * *
When he came to himself again, Mr. Noah was giving him something nasty to drink out of a medicine glass, Mr. Perrin was patting him on the back, all the people were shouting like mad, and more fireworks than ever were being let off. Beside him lay the dragon, lifeless and still.
“Oh!” said Philip, “did I really do it?”
“You did indeed,” said Mr. Noah; “however you may succeed with the other deeds, you are the hero of this one. And now, if you feel well enough, prepare to receive the reward of Valour and Chivalry.”
“Oh!” said Philip, brightening, “I didn’t know there was to be a reward.”
“Only the usual one,” said Mr Noah. “The Princess, you know.”
Philip became aware that a figure in a white veil was standing quite near him; round its feet lay lengths of cut rope.
“The Princess is yours,” said Mr. Noah, with generous affability.
“But I don’t want her,” said Philip, adding by an afterthought, “thank you.”
“You should have thought of that before,” said Mr. Noah. “You can’t go doing deeds of valour, you know, and then shirking the reward. Take her. She is yours.”
“Any one who likes may have her,” said Philip desperately. “If she’s mine, I can give her away, can’t I? You must see yourself I can’t be bothered with princesses if I’ve got all those other deeds to do.”
“That’s not my affair,” said Mr. Noah. “Perhaps you might arrange to board her out while you’re doing your deeds. But at present she is waiting for you to take her by the hand and raise her veil.”
“Must I?” said Philip miserably. “Well, here goes.”
He took a small cold hand in one of his and with the other lifted, very gingerly, a corner of the veil. The other hand of the Princess drew back the veil, and the Dragon-Slayer and the Princess were face to face.
“Why!” cried Philip, between relief and disgust, “it’s only Lucy!”
CHAPTER V
ON THE CARPET
The Princess was just Lucy.
“It’s too bad,” said Philip. “I do think.” Then he stopped short and just looked cross.
“The Princess and the Champion will now have their teas,” said Mr. Noah. “Right about face, everybody, please, and quick march.”
Philip and Lucy found themselves marching side by side through the night made yellow with continuous fireworks.
You must picture them marching across a great plain of grass where many coloured flowers grew. You see a good many of Philip’s buildings had been made on the drawing-room carpet at home, which was green with pink and blue and yellow and white flowers. And this carpet had turned into grass and growing flowers, following that strange law which caused things to change into other things, like themselves, but larger and really belonging to a living world.
No one spoke. Philip said nothing because he was in a bad temper. And if you are in a bad temper, nothing is a good thing to say. To circumvent a dragon and then kill it, and to have such an adventure end in tea with Lucy, was too much. And he had other reasons for silence too. And Lucy was silent because she had so much to say that she didn’t know where to begin; and besides, she could feel how cross Philip was. The crowd did not talk because it was not etiquette to talk when taking part in processions. Mr. Noah did not talk because it made him out of breath to walk and talk at the same time, two things neither of which he had been designed to do.
So that it was quite a silent party which at last passed through the gateway of the town and up its streets.
Philip wondered where the tea would be—not in the prison of course. It was very late for tea, too, quite the middle of the night it seemed. But all the streets were brilliantly lighted, and flags and festoons of flowers hung from all the windows and across all the streets.
It was in the front of a big building in one of the great squares of the city that an extra display of coloured lamps disclosed open doors and red-carpeted steps. Mr. Noah hurried up them, and turned to receive Philip and Lucy.
“The City of Polistopolis,” he said, “whose unworthy representative I am, greets in my person the most noble Sir Philip, Knight and Slayer of the Dragon. Also the Princess whom he has rescued. Be pleased to enter.”
They went up the red-cloth covered steps and into a hall, very splendid with silver and ivory. Mr. Noah stooped to a confidential question.
“You’d like a wash, perhaps?” he said, “and your Princess too. And perhaps you’d like to dress up a little? Before the banquet, you know.”
“Banquet?” said Philip. “I thought it was tea.”
“Business before pleasure,” said Mr. Noah; “first the banquet, then the tea. This way to the dressing-rooms.”
There were two doors side by side. On one door was painted “Knight’s dressing-room,” on the other “Princess’s dressing-room.”
“Look out,” said Mr. Noah; “the paint is wet. You see there wasn’t much time.”
Philip found his dressing-room very interesting. The walls were entirely of looking-glass, and on tables in the middle of the room lay all sorts of clothes of beautiful colours and odd shapes. Shoes, stockings, hats, crowns, armour, swords, cloaks, breeches, waistcoats, jerkins, trunk hose. An open door showed a marbl
e bath-room. The bath was sunk in the floor as the baths of luxurious Roman Empresses used to be, and as nowadays baths sometimes are, in model dwellings. (Only I am told that some people keep their coals in the baths—which is quite useless because coals are always black however much you wash them.)
Philip undressed and went into the warm clear water, greenish between the air and the marble. Why is it so pleasant to have a bath, and so tiresome to wash your hands and face in a basin? He put on his shirt and knickerbockers again, and wandered round the room looking at the clothes laid out there, and wondering which of the wonderful costumes would be really suitable for a knight to wear at a banquet. After considerable hesitation he decided on a little soft shirt of chain-mail that made just a double handful of tiny steel links as he held it. But a difficulty arose.
“I don’t know how to put it on,” said Philip; “and I expect the banquet is waiting. How cross it’ll be.”
He stood undecided, holding the chain mail in his hands, when his eyes fell on a bell handle. Above it was an ivory plate, and on it in black letters the word Valet. Philip rang the bell.
Instantly a soft tap at the door heralded the entrance of a person whom Philip at the first glance supposed to be a sandwich man. But the second glance showed that the oblong flat things which he wore were not sandwich-boards, but dominoes. The person between them bowed low.
“Oh!” said Philip, “I rang for the valet.”
“I am not the valet,” said the domino-enclosed person, who seemed to be in skintight black clothes under his dominoes, “I am the Master of the Robes. I only attend on really distinguished persons. Double-six, at your service, Sir. Have you chosen your dress?”
“I’d like to wear the armour,” said Philip, holding it out. “It seems the right thing for a Knight,” he added.
“Quite so, sir. I confirm your opinion.”
He proceeded to dress Philip in a white tunic and to fasten the coat of mail over this. “I’ve had a great deal of experience,” he said; “you couldn’t have chosen better. You see, I’m master of the subject of dress. I am able to give my whole mind to it; my own dress being fixed by law and not subject to changes of fashion leaves me free to think for others. And I think deeply. But I see that you can think for yourself.”
You have no idea how jolly Philip looked in the mail coat and mailed hood—just like a Crusader.
At the doorway of the dressing-room he met Lucy in a short white dress and a coronal of pearls round her head. “I always wanted to be a fairy,” she said.
“Did you have any one to dress you?” he asked.
“Oh no!” said Lucy calmly. “I always dress myself.”
“Ladies have the advantage there,” said Double-six, bowing and walking backwards. “The banquet is spread.”
It turned out to be spread on three tables, one along each side of a great room, and one across the top of the room, on a dais—such a table as that high one at which dons and distinguished strangers sit in the Halls of colleges.
Mr. Noah was already in his place in the middle of the high table, and Lucy and Philip now took their places at each side of him. The table was spread with all sorts of nice-looking foods and plates of a pink-and-white pattern very familiar to Philip. They were, in fact, as he soon realised, the painted wooden plates from his sister’s old dolls’ house. There was no food just in front of the children, only a great empty bowl of silver.
Philip fingered his knife and fork; the pattern of those also was familiar to him. They were indeed the little leaden ones out of the dolls’ house knife-basket of green and silver filigree. He hungrily waited. Servants in straight yellow dresses and red masks and caps were beginning to handle the dishes. A dish was handed to him. A beautiful jelly it looked like. He took up his spoon and was just about to help himself, when Mr. Noah whispered ardently, “Don’t!” and as Philip looked at him in astonishment he added, still in a whisper, “Pretend, can’t you? Have you never had a pretending banquet?” But before he had caught the whisper, Philip had tried to press the edge of the leaden spoon into the shape of jelly. And he felt that the jelly was quite hard. He went through the form of helping himself, but it was just nothing that he put on his plate. And he saw that Mr. Noah and Lucy and all the other guests did the same. Presently another dish was handed to him. There was no changing of plates. “They needn’t,” Philip thought bitterly. This time it was a fat goose, not carved, and now Philip saw that it was attached to its dish with glue. Then he understood.
(You know the beautiful but uneatable feasts which are given you in a white cardboard box with blue binding and fine shavings to pack the dishes and keep them from breaking? I myself, when I was little, had such a banquet in a box. There were twelve dishes: a ham, brown and shapely; a pair of roast chickens, also brown and more anatomical than the ham; a glazed tongue, real tongue-shape, none of your tinned round mysteries; a dish of sausages; two handsome fish, a little blue, perhaps; a joint of beef, ribs I think, very red as to the lean and very white in the fat parts; a pork pie, delicately bronzed like a traveller in Central Africa. For sweets I had shapes, shapes of beauty, a jelly and a cream; a Swiss roll too, and a plum pudding; asparagus there was also and a cauliflower, and a dish of the greenest peas in all this grey world. This was my banquet outfit. I remember that the woodenness of it all depressed us wonderfully; the oneness of dish and food baffled all make-believe. With the point of nurse’s scissors we prised the viands from the platters. But their wooden nature was unconquerable. One could not pretend to eat a whole chicken any better when it was detached from its dish, and the sausages were one solid block. And when you licked the jelly it only tasted of glue and paint. And when we tried to re-roast the chickens at the nursery grate, they caught fire, and then they smelt of gasworks and india-rubber. But I am wandering. When you remember the things that happened when you were a child, you could go on writing about them for ever. I will put all this in brackets, and then you need not read it if you don’t want to.)
But those painted wooden foods adhering firmly to their dishes were the kind of food of which the banquet now offered to Philip and Lucy was composed. Only they had more dishes than I had. They had as well a turkey, eight raspberry jam tarts, a pine-apple, a melon, a dish of oysters in the shell, a piece of boiled bacon and a leg of mutton. But all were equally wooden and uneatable.
Philip and Lucy, growing hungrier and hungrier, pretended with sinking hearts to eat and enjoy the wooden feast. Wine was served in those little goblets which they knew so well, where the double glasses restrained and contained a red fluid which looked like wine. They did not want wine, but they were thirsty as well as hungry.
Philip wondered what the waiters were. He had plenty of time to wonder while the long banquet went on. It was not till he saw a group of them standing stiffly together at the end of the hall that he knew they must be the matches with which he had once peopled a city, no other inhabitants being at hand.
When all the dishes had been handed, speeches happened.
“Friends and fellow-citizens,” Mr. Noah began, and went on to say how brave and clever Sir Philip was, and how likely it was that he would turn out to be the Deliverer. Philip did not hear all this speech. He was thinking of things to eat.
Then every one in the hall stood and shouted, and Philip found that he was expected to take his turn at speech-making. He stood up trembling and wretched.
“Friends and fellow-citizens,” he said, “thank you very much. I want to be the Deliverer, but I don’t know if I can,” and sat down again amid roars of applause.
Then there was music, from a grated gallery. And then—I cannot begin to tell you how glad Lucy and Philip were—Mr. Noah said, once more in a whisper, “Cheer up! the banquet is over. Now we’ll have tea.”
“Tea” turned out to be bread and milk in a very cosy, blue-silk-lined room opening out of the banqueting
-hall. Only Lucy, Philip and Mr. Noah were present. Bread and milk is very good even when you have to eat it with the leaden spoons out of the dolls’-house basket. When it was much later Mr. Noah suddenly said “good-night,” and in a maze of sleepy repletion (look that up in the dicker, will you?) the children went to bed. Philip’s bed was of gold with yellow satin curtains, and Lucy’s was made of silver, with curtains of silk that were white. But the metals and colours made no difference to their deep and dreamless sleep.
And in the morning there was bread and milk again, and the two of them had it in the blue room without Mr. Noah.
“Well,” said Lucy, looking up from the bowl of white floating cubes, “do you think you’re getting to like me any better?”
“No,” said Philip, brief and stern like the skipper in the song.
“I wish you would,” said Lucy.
“Well, I can’t,” said Philip; “but I do want to say one thing. I’m sorry I bunked and left you. And I did come back.”
“I know you did,” said Lucy.
“I came back to fetch you,” said Philip, “and now we’d better get along home.”
“You’ve got to do seven deeds of power before you can get home,” said Lucy.
“Oh! I remember, Perrin told me,” said he.
“Well,” Lucy went on, “that’ll take ages. No one can go out of this place twice unless he’s a King-Deliverer. You’ve gone out once—without me. Before you can go again you’ve got to do seven noble deeds.”
“I killed the dragon,” said Philip, modestly proud.
“That’s only one,” she said; “there are six more.” And she ate bread and milk with firmness.
“Do you like this adventure?” he asked abruptly.
“It’s more interesting than anything that ever happened to me,” she said. “If you were nice I should like it awfully. But as it is—”