by E. Nesbit
They were not astonished, but they were very, very much interested.
They looked at the bird, and it was certainly worth looking at. Its feathers were like gold. It was about as large as a bantam, only its beak was not at all bantam-shaped. “I believe I know what it is,” said Robert. “I’ve seen a picture.”
He hurried away. A hasty dash and scramble among the papers on father’s study table yielded, as the sum-books say, “the desired result.” But when he came back into the room holding out a paper, and crying, “I say, look here,” the others all said “Hush!” and he hushed obediently and instantly, for the bird was speaking.
“Which of you,” it was saying, “put the egg into the fire?”
“He did,” said three voices, and three fingers pointed at Robert.
The bird bowed; at least it was more like that than anything else.
“I am your grateful debtor,” it said with a high-bred air.
The children were all choking with wonder and curiosity—all except Robert. He held the paper in his hand, and he knew. He said so. He said—
“I know who you are.”
And he opened and displayed a printed paper, at the head of which was a little picture of a bird sitting in a nest of flames.
“You are the Phoenix,” said Robert; and the bird was quite pleased.
“My fame has lived then for two thousand years,” it said. “Allow me to look at my portrait.” It looked at the page which Robert, kneeling down, spread out in the fender, and said—
“It’s not a flattering likeness… And what are these characters?” it asked, pointing to the printed part.
“Oh, that’s all dullish; it’s not much about you, you know,” said Cyril, with unconscious politeness; “but you’re in lots of books.”
“With portraits?” asked the Phoenix.
“Well, no,” said Cyril; “in fact, I don’t think I ever saw any portrait of you but that one, but I can read you something about yourself, if you like.”
The Phoenix nodded, and Cyril went off and fetched Volume X of the old Encyclopedia, and on page 246 he found the following:—
“Phoenix—in ornithology, a fabulous bird of antiquity.”
“Antiquity is quite correct,” said the Phoenix, “but fabulous—well, do I look it?”
Every one shook its head. Cyril went on—
“The ancients speak of this bird as single, or the only one of its kind.”
“That’s right enough,” said the Phoenix.
“They describe it as about the size of an eagle.”
“Eagles are of different sizes,” said the Phoenix; “it’s not at all a good description.”
All the children were kneeling on the hearthrug, to be as near the Phoenix as possible.
“You’ll boil your brains,” it said. “Look out, I’m nearly cool now;” and with a whirr of golden wings it fluttered from the fender to the table. It was so nearly cool that there was only a very faint smell of burning when it had settled itself on the table-cloth.
“It’s only a very little scorched,” said the Phoenix, apologetically; “it will come out in the wash. Please go on reading.”
The children gathered round the table.
“The size of an eagle,” Cyril went on, “its head finely crested with a beautiful plumage, its neck covered with feathers of a gold colour, and the rest of its body purple; only the tail white, and the eyes sparkling like stars. They say that it lives about five hundred years in the wilderness, and when advanced in age it builds itself a pile of sweet wood and aromatic gums, fires it with the wafting of its wings, and thus burns itself; and that from its ashes arises a worm, which in time grows up to be a Phoenix. Hence the Phoenicians gave—”
“Never mind what they gave,” said the Phoenix, ruffling its golden feathers. “They never gave much, anyway; they always were people who gave nothing for nothing. That book ought to be destroyed. It’s most inaccurate. The rest of my body was never purple, and as for my—tail—well, I simply ask you, is it white?”
It turned round and gravely presented its golden tail to the children.
“No, it’s not,” said everybody.
“No, and it never was,” said the Phoenix. “And that about the worm is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all respectable birds. It makes a pile—that part’s all right—and it lays its egg, and it burns itself; and it goes to sleep and wakes up in its egg, and comes out and goes on living again, and so on for ever and ever. I can’t tell you how weary I got of it—such a restless existence; no repose.”
“But how did your egg get here?” asked Anthea.
“Ah, that’s my life-secret,” said the Phoenix. “I couldn’t tell it to any one who wasn’t really sympathetic. I’ve always been a misunderstood bird. You can tell that by what they say about the worm. I might tell you,” it went on, looking at Robert with eyes that were indeed starry. “You put me on the fire—” Robert looked uncomfortable.
“The rest of us made the fire of sweet-scented woods and gums, though,” said Cyril.
“And—and it was an accident my putting you on the fire,” said Robert, telling the truth with some difficulty, for he did not know how the Phoenix might take it. It took it in the most unexpected manner.
“Your candid avowal,” it said, “removes my last scruple. I will tell you my story.”
“And you won’t vanish, or anything sudden will you? asked Anthea, anxiously.
“Why?” it asked, puffing out the golden feathers, “do you wish me to stay here?”
“Oh yes,” said every one, with unmistakable sincerity.
“Why?” asked the Phoenix again, looking modestly at the table-cloth.
“Because,” said every one at once, and then stopped short; only Jane added after a pause, “you are the most beautiful person we’ve ever seen.” “You are a sensible child,” said the Phoenix, “and I will not vanish or anything sudden. And I will tell you my tale. I had resided, as your book says, for many thousand years in the wilderness, which is a large, quiet place with very little really good society, and I was becoming weary of the monotony of my existence. But I acquired the habit of laying my egg and burning myself every five hundred years—and you know how difficult it is to break yourself of a habit.”
“Yes,” said Cyril; “Jane used to bite her nails.”
“But I broke myself of it,” urged Jane, rather hurt, “You know I did.”
“Not till they put bitter aloes on them,” said Cyril.
“I doubt,” said the bird, gravely, “whether even bitter aloes (the aloe, by the way, has a bad habit of its own, which it might well cure before seeking to cure others; I allude to its indolent practice of flowering but once a century), I doubt whether even bitter aloes could have cured me. But I was cured. I awoke one morning from a feverish dream—it was getting near the time for me to lay that tiresome fire and lay that tedious egg upon it—and I saw two people, a man and a woman. They were sitting on a carpet—and when I accosted them civilly they narrated to me their life-story, which, as you have not yet heard it, I will now proceed to relate. They were a prince and princess, and the story of their parents was one which I am sure you will like to hear. In early youth the mother of the princess happened to hear the story of a certain enchanter, and in that story I am sure you will be interested. The enchanter—”
“Oh, please don’t,” said Anthea. “I can’t understand all these beginnings of stories, and you seem to be getting deeper and deeper in them every minute. Do tell us your own story. That’s what we really want to hear.”
“Well,” said the Phoenix, seeming on the whole rather flattered, “to cut about seventy long stories short (though I had to listen to them all—but to be sure in the wilderness there is plenty of time), this prince and princess were so
fond of each other that they did not want any one else, and the enchanter—don’t be alarmed, I won’t go into his history—had given them a magic carpet (you’ve heard of a magic carpet?), and they had just sat on it and told it to take them right away from every one—and it had brought them to the wilderness. And as they meant to stay there they had no further use for the carpet, so they gave it to me. That was indeed the chance of a lifetime!”
“I don’t see what you wanted with a carpet,” said Jane, “when you’ve got those lovely wings.”
“They are nice wings, aren’t they?” said the Phoenix, simpering and spreading them out. “Well, I got the prince to lay out the carpet, and I laid my egg on it; then I said to the carpet, ‘Now, my excellent carpet, prove your worth. Take that egg somewhere where it can’t be hatched for two thousand years, and where, when that time’s up, some one will light a fire of sweet wood and aromatic gums, and put the egg in to hatch;’ and you see it’s all come out exactly as I said. The words were no sooner out of my beak than egg and carpet disappeared. The royal lovers assisted to arrange my pile, and soothed my last moments. I burnt myself up and knew no more till I awoke on yonder altar.”
It pointed its claw at the grate.
“But the carpet,” said Robert, “the magic carpet that takes you anywhere you wish. What became of that?”
“Oh, that?” said the Phoenix, carelessly—“I should say that that is the carpet. I remember the pattern perfectly.”
It pointed as it spoke to the floor, where lay the carpet which mother had bought in the Kentish Town Road for twenty-two shillings and ninepence.
At that instant father’s latch-key was heard in the door.
“Oh,” whispered Cyril, “now we shall catch it for not being in bed!”
“Wish yourself there,” said the Phoenix, in a hurried whisper, “and then wish the carpet back in its place.”
No sooner said than done. It made one a little giddy, certainly, and a little breathless; but when things seemed right way up again, there the children were, in bed, and the lights were out.
They heard the soft voice of the Phoenix through the darkness.
“I shall sleep on the cornice above your curtains,” it said. “Please don’t mention me to your kinsfolk.”
“Not much good,” said Robert, “they’d never believe us. I say,” he called through the half-open door to the girls; “talk about adventures and things happening. We ought to be able to get some fun out of a magic carpet and a Phoenix.”
“Rather,” said the girls, in bed.
“Children,” said father, on the stairs, “go to sleep at once. What do you mean by talking at this time of night?”
No answer was expected to this question, but under the bedclothes Cyril murmured one.
“Mean?” he said. “Don’t know what we mean. I don’t know what anything means.”
“But we’ve got a magic carpet and a Phoenix,” said Robert.
“You’ll get something else if father comes in and catches you,” said Cyril. “Shut up, I tell you.”
Robert shut up. But he knew as well as you do that the adventures of that carpet and that Phoenix were only just beginning.
Father and mother had not the least idea of what had happened in their absence. This is often the case, even when there are no magic carpets or Phoenixes in the house.
The next morning—but I am sure you would rather wait till the next chapter before you hear about that.
CHAPTER 2
THE TOPLESS TOWER
The children had seen the Phoenix-egg hatched in the flames in their own nursery grate, and had heard from it how the carpet on their own nursery floor was really the wishing carpet, which would take them anywhere they chose. The carpet had transported them to bed just at the right moment, and the Phoenix had gone to roost on the cornice supporting the window-curtains of the boys’ room.
“Excuse me,” said a gentle voice, and a courteous beak opened, very kindly and delicately, the right eye of Cyril. “I hear the slaves below preparing food. Awaken! A word of explanation and arrangement… I do wish you wouldn’t—”
The Phoenix stopped speaking and fluttered away crossly to the cornice-pole; for Cyril had hit out, as boys do when they are awakened suddenly, and the Phoenix was not used to boys, and his feelings, if not his wings, were hurt.
“Sorry,” said Cyril, coming awake all in a minute. “Do come back! What was it you were saying? Something about bacon and rations?”
The Phoenix fluttered back to the brass rail at the foot of the bed.
“I say—you are real,” said Cyril. “How ripping! And the carpet?”
“The carpet is as real as it ever was,” said the Phoenix, rather contemptuously; “but, of course, a carpet’s only a carpet, whereas a Phoenix is superlatively a Phoenix.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Cyril, “I see it is. Oh, what luck! Wake up, Bobs! There’s jolly well something to wake up for today. And it’s Saturday, too.”
“I’ve been reflecting,” said the Phoenix, “during the silent watches of the night, and I could not avoid the conclusion that you were quite insufficiently astonished at my appearance yesterday. The ancients were always very surprised. Did you, by chance, expect my egg to hatch?”
“Not us,” Cyril said.
“And if we had,” said Anthea, who had come in in her nightie when she heard the silvery voice of the Phoenix, “we could never, never have expected it to hatch anything so splendid as you.”
The bird smiled. Perhaps you’ve never seen a bird smile?
“You see,” said Anthea, wrapping herself in the boys’ counterpane, for the morning was chill, “we’ve had things happen to us before;” and she told the story of the Psammead, or sand-fairy.
“Ah yes,” said the Phoenix; “Psammeads were rare, even in my time. I remember I used to be called the Psammead of the Desert. I was always having compliments paid me; I can’t think why.”
“Can you give wishes, then?” asked Jane, who had now come in too.
“Oh, dear me, no,” said the Phoenix, contemptuously, “at least—but I hear footsteps approaching. I hasten to conceal myself.” And it did.
I think I said that this day was Saturday. It was also cook’s birthday, and mother had allowed her and Eliza to go to the Crystal Palace with a party of friends, so Jane and Anthea of course had to help to make beds and to wash up the breakfast cups, and little things like that. Robert and Cyril intended to spend the morning in conversation with the Phoenix, but the bird had its own ideas about this.
“I must have an hour or two’s quiet,” it said, “I really must. My nerves will give way unless I can get a little rest. You must remember it’s two thousand years since I had any conversation—I’m out of practice, and I must take care of myself. I’ve often been told that mine is a valuable life.” So it nestled down inside an old hatbox of father’s, which had been brought down from the box-room some days before, when a helmet was suddenly needed for a game of tournaments, with its golden head under its golden wing, and went to sleep. So then Robert and Cyril moved the table back and were going to sit on the carpet and wish themselves somewhere else. But before they could decide on the place, Cyril said—
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s rather sneakish to begin without the girls.”
“They’ll be all the morning,” said Robert, impatiently. And then a thing inside him, which tiresome books sometimes call the “inward monitor,” said, “Why don’t you help them, then?”
Cyril’s “inward monitor” happened to say the same thing at the same moment, so the boys went and helped to wash up the tea-cups, and to dust the drawing-room. Robert was so interested that he proposed to clean the front doorsteps—a thing he had never been allowed to do. Nor was he allowed to do it on this occasion. One reason was that it had already b
een done by cook.
When all the housework was finished, the girls dressed the happy, wriggling baby in his blue highwayman coat and three-cornered hat, and kept him amused while mother changed her dress and got ready to take him over to granny’s. Mother always went to granny’s every Saturday, and generally some of the children went with her; but today they were to keep house. And their hearts were full of joyous and delightful feelings every time they remembered that the house they would have to keep had a Phoenix in it, and a wishing carpet.
You can always keep the Lamb good and happy for quite a long time if you play the Noah’s Ark game with him. It is quite simple. He just sits on your lap and tells you what animal he is, and then you say the little poetry piece about whatever animal he chooses to be.
Of course, some of the animals, like the zebra and the tiger, haven’t got any poetry, because they are so difficult to rhyme to. The Lamb knows quite well which are the poetry animals.
“I’m a baby bear!” said the Lamb, snuggling down; and Anthea began:
“I love my little baby bear,
I love his nose and toes and hair;
I like to hold him in my arm,
And keep him very safe and warm.”
And when she said “very,” of course there was a real bear’s hug.
Then came the eel, and the Lamb was tickled till he wriggled exactly like a real one:
“I love my little baby eel,
He is so squidglety to feel;
He’ll be an eel when he is big—
But now he’s just—a—tiny snig!”