Van Cheele gave way to his aunt in most things, but he flatly refused to subscribe to the Gabriel-Ernest memorial.
8
E. NESBIT wrote her stories for children more than a hundred years ago. They range from the realistic to the magical. This is one of her few short stories that feels like a romp. And the cockatoucan is a marvelous villain.
Primped and prodded into a too-tight dress, Matilda is sent to visit her ancient great-aunt Willoughby, but something goes wrong along the way….
MATILDA’S EARS WERE RED AND SHINY. So were her cheeks. Her hands were red, too. This was because Pridmore had washed her. It was not the usual washing, which makes you clean and comfortable, but the “thorough good wash,” which makes you burn and smart till you wish you could be like the poor little savages who do not know anything and run about bare in the sun, and only go into the water when they are hot.
Matilda wished she could have been born in a savage tribe, instead of in Brixton.
“Little savages,” she said, “don’t have their ears washed thoroughly, and they don’t have new dresses that are prickly in the insides round their arms and cut them round the neck, do they, Pridmore?”
But Pridmore only said, “Stuff and nonsense”; and then she said: “Don’t wriggle so, child, for goodness’ sake.” Pridmore was Matilda’s nursemaid, and Matilda sometimes found her trying.
Matilda was quite right in believing that savage children do not wear frocks that hurt. It is also true that savage children are not overwashed, overbrushed, overcombed, gloved, booted, and hatted, and taken in an omnibus to Streatham to see their Great-Aunt Willoughby. This was intended to be Matilda’s fate. Her mother had arranged it. Pridmore had prepared her for it. Matilda, knowing resistance to be vain, had submitted to it.
But Destiny had not been consulted. And Destiny had plans of its own for Matilda.
When the last button of Matilda’s boots had been fastened (the buttonhook always had a nasty temper, especially when it was hurried—and that day it bit a little piece of Matilda’s leg quite spitefully), the wretched child was taken downstairs and put on a chair in the hall, to wait while Pridmore popped her own things on.
“I shan’t be a minute,” said Pridmore. Matilda knew better. She settled herself to wait, and swung her legs miserably. She had been to her Great-Aunt Willoughby’s before, and she knew exactly what to expect. She would be asked about her lessons, and how many marks she had, and whether she had been a good girl. I can’t think why grown-up people don’t see how impertinent these questions are. Suppose you were to answer:
“I’m the top of my class, auntie, thank you, and I am very good. And now let us have a little talk about you, aunt, dear. How much money have you got, and have you been scolding the servants again, or have you tried to be good and patient, as a properly brought up aunt should be, eh, dear?”
Try this method with one of your aunts next time she begins asking you questions, and write and tell me what she says.
Matilda knew exactly what Aunt Willoughby’s questions would be, and she knew how, when they were answered, her aunt would give her a small biscuit with caraway seeds in it, and then tell her to go with Pridmore and have her hands and face washed. Again!
Then she would be sent to walk in the garden; the garden had a gritty path, and geraniums and calceolarias and lobelias in the beds. You might not pick anything. There would be minced veal for dinner, with three-cornered bits of toast round the dish; and a tapioca pudding. Then the long afternoon with a book, a bound volume of The Potterer’s Saturday Night, nasty small print, and all the stories about children who died young because they were too good for this world.
Matilda wriggled wretchedly. If she had been a little less uncomfortable she would have cried—but her new frock was too tight and prickly to let her forget it for a moment, even in tears.
When Pridmore came down at last she said, “Fie for shame, what a sulky face.”
And Matilda said, “I’m not.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” said Pridmore—“you know you are—you don’t appreciate your blessings.”
“I wish it was your Aunt Willoughby,” said Matilda.
“Nasty spiteful little thing,” said Pridmore, and she shook Matilda.
Then Matilda tried to slap Pridmore, and the two went down the steps not at all pleased with each other.
They walked down the dull road to the dull omnibus, and Matilda was crying a little.
Now, Pridmore was a very careful person, though cross; but even the most careful persons make mistakes sometimes, and she must have taken the wrong omnibus or this story could never have happened, and where should we all have been then? This shows you that even mistakes are sometimes valuable, so do not be hard on grown-up people if they are wrong sometimes. You know, after all, it hardly ever happens.
It was a very bright green and gold omnibus, and inside the cushions were green and very soft. Matilda and her nursemaid had it all to themselves, and Matilda began to feel more comfortable, especially as she had wriggled till she had burst one of her shoulder seams and got more room for herself inside her frock.
So she said, “I’m sorry if I was cross, Priddy, dear.”
Pridmore said, “So you ought to be,” but she never said she was sorry for being cross, but you must not expect grown-up people to say that.
It was certainly the wrong omnibus—because instead of jolting slowly along dusty streets, it went quickly and smoothly down a green lane, with flowers in the hedges and green trees overhead. Matilda was so delighted that she sat quite still, a very rare thing with her. Pridmore was reading a penny story, called “The Vengeance of the Lady Constantia,” so she did not notice anything.
“I don’t care. I shan’t tell her,” said Matilda. “She’d stop the bus as likely as not.”
At last the bus stopped of its own accord. Pridmore put her story in her pocket and began to get out.
“Well, I never,” she said, and got out very quickly and ran round to where the horses were. There were four of them. They were white horses with green harness, and their tails were very long indeed.
“Hi, young man,” said Pridmore, to the omnibus driver, “you’ve brought us to the wrong place. This isn’t Streatham Common, this isn’t.”
The driver was the most beautiful omnibus driver you ever saw. And his clothes were like him in beauty. He had white silk stockings and a ruffled silk shirt of white—and his coat and breeches were green and gold, so was the three-cornered hat which he lifted very politely when Pridmore spoke to him.
“I fear,” he said, kindly, “that you must have taken, by some unfortunate misunderstanding, the wrong omnibus!”
“When does the next one go back?”
“The omnibus does not go back. It runs from Brixton here once a month, but it doesn’t go back.”
“But how does it get to Brixton again—to start again, I mean?” asked Matilda.
“We start a new one every time,” said the driver, raising his three-cornered hat once more.
“And what becomes of the old ones?” Matilda asked.
“Ah,” said the driver, smiling, “that depends. One never knows beforehand, and things change so suddenly nowadays. Good morning. Thank you so much for your patronage. No—no—on no account, madam.” He waved away the eightpence which Pridmore was trying to offer him for the fare from Brixton, and drove quickly off.