The Phoenix And The Carpet, Chapter 6 - Doing Good

Because it's nearly Christmas, the children decide they would like to do some good during their next journey on the magic carpet. So they set off on a mission, helped by the loyal phoenix.

In this fun episode of Edith Nesbit's classic story, they have to overcome a few obstacles before they can have their wish.

All chapters so far are collected on a playlist, to which new chapters are added as they are published. Search under 'Book at Bedtime' to find it.

Even if you haven't yet listened to the previous chapters, please feel free to join in with the story at any time. The episodes stand alone and can be listened to in any order.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Welcome back to The Phoenix and the Carpet by E.

Nesbitt.

And tonight we're going to be listening to Chapter 6,

Which is called Doing Good.

Before we start though,

Please go right ahead and make yourself really comfortable,

Whether you're sitting or lying,

And I'll begin.

We shan't be able to go anywhere on the carpet for a whole week though,

Said Robert.

And I'm glad of it,

Said Jane,

Unexpectedly.

It was breakfast time,

And Mother's letter,

Telling them how they were all going for Christmas to their aunt's at Lindhurst,

And how Father and Mother would meet them there,

Lay on the table,

Drinking hot bacon fat with one corner and eating marmalade with the other.

And I don't like being obliged to keep things from Mother,

Said Anthea.

It makes me feel selfish and mean.

If we could only get the mater to believe it,

We might take her to the jolliest places,

Said Cyril.

As it is,

We've got to be selfish and mean.

If it is that,

But I don't feel it is.

I know it isn't,

But I feel it is,

Said Anthea,

And that's just as bad.

It's worse,

Said Robert,

If you knew it and didn't feel it,

It wouldn't matter so much.

That's being a hardened criminal,

Father says,

Put in Cyril.

And he picked up Mother's letter and wiped its corners with his handkerchief,

To whose colour,

A trifle of bacon fat and marmalade,

Made but little difference.

We're going tomorrow,

Anyhow,

Said Robert.

Let's get on the carpet and have a jolly good wish.

You'll have time enough to repent of things all next week.

Yes,

Said Cyril,

Let's.

It's not really wrong.

Well,

Look here,

Said Anthea.

You know,

There's something about Christmas that makes you want to be good,

However little you wish it at other times.

Couldn't we wish the carpet to take us somewhere where we should have the chance to do some good and kind action?

It would be an adventure just the same.

I don't mind,

Said Cyril.

We shan't know where we're going,

And that'll be exciting.

No one knows what'll happen.

We'd best put on our outers in case.

We might rescue a traveller buried in the snow,

Like St Bernard dogs,

With barrels round our necks,

Said Jane,

Beginning to be interested.

Yes,

Said Anthea,

Or we might be taken to some freezing garret in a German town,

Where a poor little pale sick child— We haven't any German money,

Interrupted Cyril,

So that's out.

What I should like would be getting into the middle of a war,

And getting hold of secret intelligence,

And taking it to the general,

And he would make me a lieutenant,

Or a scout,

Or a hussar.

When breakfast was cleared away,

Anthea swept the carpet,

And the children sat down on it,

Together with the phoenix,

Who had been especially invited as a Christmas treat.

Four children and one bird were ready,

And the wish was wished.

Everyone closed its eyes,

So as to feel the topsy-turvy swirl of the carpet's movement as little as possible.

When the eyes were opened again,

The children found themselves on the carpet,

And the carpet was in its proper place,

On the floor of their own nursery at Camden Town.

I say,

Said Cyril,

Here's a go.

Do you think it's worn out?

The wishing part of it,

I mean,

Robert anxiously asked the phoenix.

It's not that,

Said the phoenix,

But,

Well,

What did you wish?

Oh,

I see what it means,

Said Robert,

With deep disgust.

It's like the end of a fairy story in the Sunday magazine.

How perfectly beastly!

You mean it means we can do kind and good actions where we are?

I see.

Well,

I simply won't.

And the last day and everything.

Look here,

Cyril spoke loudly.

We want to go somewhere really interesting,

Where we have a chance of doing something good and kind.

We don't want to do it here,

But somewhere else,

See?

Now then.

The obedient carpet started instantly,

And the four children and one bird fell in a heap together,

And as they fell,

They were plunged into perfect darkness.

Are you all there?

Said Anthea,

Breathlessly,

Through the black dark.

Everyone owned that it was there.

Where are we?

Oh,

How shivery and wet it is!

Eugh!

I've put my hand in a puddle.

Has anyone got any matches?

Said Anthea.

She felt sure no one would have any.

It was then that Robert,

With a radiant smile of triumph,

That was quite wasted in the darkness because no one could see it,

Drew out of his pocket a box of matches,

Struck a match and lit a candle,

Two candles,

And everyone,

With its mouth open,

Blinked at the sudden light.

Well done,

Bobs!

Said his sisters.

And even Cyril's natural brotherly feelings could not check his admiration of Robert's foresight.

I've always carried them about ever since the Lone Tower day,

Said Robert,

With modest pride.

Bobs,

Said Anthea,

Do you know where we are?

This is the underground passage,

And look there.

There's the money,

And the money-bags and everything.

By this time the ten eyes had got used to the light of the candles,

And no one could help seeing that Anthea spoke the truth.

It seems an odd place to do good and kind acts in,

Though,

Said Jane,

There's no one to do them to.

It was Cyril who suggested perhaps they had better take the money and go.

That wouldn't be a kind act except to ourselves,

And it wouldn't be good whichever way you look at it,

Said Anthea.

We might take it and spend it all on benefits to the poor and aged,

Said Cyril.

That wouldn't make it right to steal,

Said Anthea,

Stoutly.

I don't know,

Said Cyril,

They were all standing up now.

Stealing is taking things that belong to someone else,

And there is no one else.

Let's get out,

Said Anthea,

We can argue as we go.

So they rolled up the carpet and went,

But when they'd crept along to the place where the passage led into the topless tower,

They found the way blocked by a great stone which they couldn't move.

There,

Said Robert,

I hope you're satisfied.

Everything has two ends,

Said the phoenix,

Even a quarrel or a secret passage.

So they turned round and went back.

Cyril carried the carpet.

The passage was long,

And there were arches and steps and turnings and dark alcoves that the girls didn't much like passing.

The passage ended in a flight of steps.

Robert went up them.

Suddenly he staggered heavily back onto the following feet of Jane,

And everyone screamed.

Oh,

What is it?

I've only bashed my head in,

Said Robert,

When he had groaned for some time,

That's all.

Don't mention it,

I like it.

The stairs just go right slap-bang into the ceiling,

And it's a stone ceiling.

You can't do good and kind actions underneath a paving stone.

Stairs aren't made to lead just to paving stones as a general rule,

Said the phoenix.

Put your shoulder to the wheel.

There isn't any wheel,

Said the injured Robert,

Still rubbing his head.

But Cyril had pushed past him to the top stair,

And was already shoving his hardest against the stone above.

Of course it didn't give in the least.

If it's a trap-door,

Said Cyril,

And he stopped shoving and began to feel them out with his hands.

Yes,

There's a bolt.

I can't move it,

Though.

By a happy chance,

Cyril had in his pocket the oil can of his father's bicycle.

He put the carpet down,

And he lay on his back,

And he oiled the bolt till the drops of rust and oil fell down on his face.

One even went into his mouth.

He tried again,

Still the bolt wouldn't move.

So now he tied his handkerchief,

The one with the bacon fat and marmalade on,

To the bolt,

And Robert's handkerchief to that,

In a reef knot,

Which cannot come undone,

However much you pull,

And,

Indeed,

Gets tighter and tighter the more you pull it.

This must not be confused with a granny knot,

Which comes undone if you look at it.

And then he and Robert pulled,

And the girls put their arms around their brothers and pulled too,

And suddenly the bolt gave way with a rusty scrunch,

And they all rolled together to the bottom of the stairs,

All but the phoenix,

Who had taken to its wings when the pulling began.

Nobody was hurt,

Because the rolled-up carpet broke their fall,

And now,

Indeed,

The shoulders of the boys were used to some purpose,

For the stone allowed them to heave it up.

They felt it give,

Dust fell freely on them.

Now then,

Cried Robert,

Push all together,

One,

Two,

Three,

The stone was heaved up.

It swung up on a creaking,

Unwilling hinge,

And showed a growing oblong of dazzling daylight,

And it fell back with a bang against something that kept it upright.

Everyone climbed out,

But there wasn't room for everyone to stand comfortably in the little paved house where they found themselves.

So when the phoenix had fluttered up from the darkness,

They let the stone down,

And it closed like a trapped door,

Which indeed it was.

You can have no idea how dusty and dirty the children were.

Fortunately,

There was no one to see them but each other.

The place they were in was a little shrine,

Built on the side of a road that went winding up through yellow-green fields to the topless tower.

Below them were fields and orchards and little houses and gardens.

The shrine was a tiny chapel with no front wall,

Just a place for people to stop and rest in and wish to be good,

Or so the phoenix told them.

There was an image that had once been brightly coloured,

But the rain and snow had beaten in through the open front,

And the poor image was dull and weather-stained.

Under it was written,

It was a sad little place,

Very neglected and lonely.

And yet it was nice,

Anthea thought,

That poor travellers should come to this little rest-house in the hurry and worry of their journeyings,

And think about being good.

The thought of Saint-Jean-de-Loup,

Who had no doubt in his time been very good and kind,

Made Anthea want more than ever to do something kind and good.

"'Tell us,

' she said to the phoenix,

"'what is the good and kind action the carpet brought us here to do?

' "'I think it would be kind to find the owners of the treasure and tell them about it,

' said Cyril.

"'I should go to the first house and ask the name of the owner of the castle,

' said the golden bird,

And really the idea seemed good.

' They dusted each other down as well as they could and went down the road.

A little way on they found a tiny spring,

Bubbling out of the hillside and falling into a rough stone basin surrounded by draggled heart's-tongue ferns.

Here they washed their hands and faces and dried them on their pocket-handkerchiefs,

Which always on these occasions seemed unnaturally small.

Cyril's and Robert's handkerchiefs indeed rather undid the effects of the wash.

The first house they came to was white with green shutters and a slate roof.

It stood in a little garden,

And down each side of the neat path were large stone vases for flowers to grow in,

Though all the flowers were dead now,

Being winter.

Along one side of the house was a wide veranda,

And a vine crawled over it.

The children walked up to the front door.

It was green and narrow.

A chain with a handle hung beside it and joined itself openly to a rusty bell that hung under the porch.

Cyril had pulled the bell,

And its noisy clang was dying away before the terrible thought came to all.

Cyril spoke it.

My hat!

He breathed.

We don't know any French.

At this moment the door opened.

A very tall,

Lean lady,

With pale ringlets like whitey-brown paper or oak shavings,

Stood before them.

She had a grey dress and a black silk apron.

Her eyes were small and grey,

And the rims were red,

As though she had been crying.

She addressed the party in something that sounded like a foreign language,

And ended with something they were sure was a question.

Of course,

No one could answer it.

What does she say?

Robert asked,

Looking down into the hollow of his jacket,

Where the phoenix was nestling.

But before the phoenix could answer,

The lady's face lit up with a most charming smile.

You are from England,

She cried.

I love so much the England.

Mais entrez,

Entrez dans tout.

Enter then,

Enter all.

One essuyait his feet on the carpet,

She pointed to the mat.

We only wanted to ask.

I shall say you all that what you wish,

Said the lady.

Enter only.

So they all went in,

Wiping their feet on a very clean mat,

And putting the carpet in a safe corner of the veranda.

The most beautiful days of my life,

Said the lady as she shut the door,

Did pass themselves in England,

And since long time I have not heard an English voice to repeal me the past.

This warm welcome embarrassed everyone,

But mostly the boys,

And the floor of the hall was of such very clean red and white tiles,

And the floor of the sitting-room so very shiny,

Like a black looking-glass,

That each felt as though he had on far more boots than usual,

And far noisier.

There was a wood fire,

Very small and bright on the hearth,

Neat little logs laid on brass fire-dogs.

Some portraits of prouder ladies and gentlemen hung in oval frames on the pale walls.

The room was extremely bare,

But with a bright foreign bareness that was very cheerful in an odd way.

At the end of the polished table,

A little boy sat on a footstool,

In a high-backed,

Uncomfortable-looking chair.

He wore black velvet,

And the kind of collar all frills and lacy,

Which Robert would rather have dyed than wear.

But then,

The little French boy was much younger than Robert.

Oh,

How pretty!

Said everyone.

But no one meant the little French boy.

What everyone admired was the little Christmas tree,

Very green,

Standing in a very red little flower-pot,

And hung round with very bright little things,

Made of tinsel and coloured paper.

There were tiny candles on the tree,

But they were not lit yet.

But yes,

Is it not that it is gentile?

Said the lady.

Sit down,

You then,

And let us see.

The children sat in a row on the stiff chairs against the wall,

And the lady lit a long,

Slim red taper at the wood flame,

And then she drew the curtains and lit the little candles.

And when they were all lighted,

The little French boy suddenly shouted,

Bois fort,

Ma tante!

Oh,

Que c'est gentil!

And the English children shouted,

Hooray!

Then there was a struggle in the breast of Robert,

And out flew the phoenix,

Spread his golden wings,

Flew to the top of the Christmas tree,

And perched there.

Ah,

Catch it then!

Cried the lady.

It will itself burn,

Your gentile parakeet.

It won't,

Said Robert.

Thank you.

And the little French boy clapped his clean and tidy hands,

But the lady was so anxious that the phoenix fluttered down and walked up and down on the shiny walnut-wood table.

Is it that it talks?

Asked the lady.

And the phoenix replied in excellent French.

It said,

Parfaitement,

Madame.

Oh,

The pretty parakeet!

Said the lady.

Can it still say other things?

And the phoenix replied,

This time in English,

Why are you so sad so near Christmas time?

The children looked at the phoenix with one gasp of horror and surprise,

For even the youngest of them knew that it is far from manners to notice that strangers have been crying,

And much worse to ask them the reason of their tears.

And of course the lady began to cry again,

Very much indeed,

After calling the phoenix a bird without a heart,

And she couldn't find her handkerchief,

So Anthea offered hers,

Which was still very damp and no use at all.

She also hugged the lady,

And this seemed to be of more use,

So presently the lady stopped crying,

And found her own handkerchief,

And dried her eyes,

And called Anthea a cherished angel.

I'm sorry we came just when you were so sad,

Said Anthea,

But we really only wanted to ask you whose that castle is on the hill.

Oh,

My little angel,

Said the poor lady,

Sniffing,

Today and for hundreds of years the castle is to us,

To our family.

Tomorrow it must that I sell it to some strangers,

And my little Henri,

Who ignores all,

He will not ever have the land's paternal.

His father,

My brother,

Mr.

The Marquis,

He has spent much of the money,

And in the most,

Despite the sentiments of familial respect,

That I admit that my sainted father,

He also— How would you feel if you found a lot of money?

Hundreds and thousands of gold pieces,

Asked Cyril.

The lady smiled sadly.

Ah,

One has already recounted to you the legend,

She said.

It is true that one says that it is a long time,

Oh,

But long time,

One of our ancestors has id a treasure of gold,

And of gold,

And of gold,

Enough to enrich my little Henri for the life.

But all that,

My children,

It is but the accounts of faes.

She means fairy stories,

Whispered the phoenix to Robert.

Tell her what you've found.

So Robert told,

While Anthea and Jane hugged the lady,

For fear she should faint for joy,

Like people in books,

And they hugged her with the earnest,

Joyous hugs of unselfish delight.

It's no use explaining how we got in,

Said Robert,

When he had told of finding the treasure,

Because you would find it a little difficult to understand,

And much more difficult to believe.

But we can show you where the gold is,

And help you fetch it away.

The lady looked doubtfully at Robert as she absently returned the hugs of the girls.

No,

He's not making it up,

Said Anthea.

It's true,

True,

True,

And we are so glad.

You would not be capable to torment an old woman,

She said,

And it is not possible,

Let it be a dream.

It really is true,

Said Cyril,

And I congratulate you very much.

His tone of studded politeness seemed to convince more than the raptures of the others.

If I do not dream,

She said,

Henri,

Come to Manon,

And you,

You shall all come with me to Mr.

The Curate,

Is it not?

Manon was a wrinkled old woman,

With a red and yellow handkerchief twisted around her head.

She took Henri,

Who was already sleepy,

With the excitement of his Christmas tree and his visitors,

And when the lady had put on a stiff black cape,

And a wonderful black silk bonnet,

And a pair of black wooden clogs over her black cashmere house boots,

The whole party went down the road to a little white house,

Very like the one they had left,

Where an old priest with a good face welcomed them,

With a politeness so great that it hid his astonishment.

The lady,

With her French waving hands,

And her shrugging French shoulders,

And her trembling French speech,

Told the story.

And now the priest,

Who knew no English,

Shrugged his shoulders and waved his hands,

And spoke also in French.

He thinks,

Whispered the phoenix,

That her troubles have turned her brain.

What a pity you know no French!

I do know a lot of French,

Whispered Robert indignantly,

But it's all about the pencil of the gardener's son and the penknife of the baker's niece,

Nothing that anyone ever wants to actually say.

If I speak,

The bird whispered,

He'll think he's mad too.

Tell me what to say.

Say,

C'est vrai,

Monsieur.

Venez donc voir,

Said the phoenix,

And then Robert earned the undying respect of everybody by suddenly saying,

Very loudly and distinctly,

C'est vrai,

Monsieur.

Venez donc voir.

The priest was disappointed when he found that Robert's French began and ended with these useful words,

But at any rate he saw that if the lady was mad,

She was not the only one.

And he put on a big beavery hat,

And got a candle and matches and a spade,

And they all went up the hill to the wayside shrine of Saint-Jean-de-Loup.

Now,

Said Robert,

I will go first and show you where it is.

So they prized the stone up with a corner of the spade,

And Robert did go first,

And they all followed,

And found the golden treasure exactly as they had left it.

And everyone was flushed with the joy of performing such a wonderfully kind action.

Then the lady and the priest clasped hands and wept for joy,

As French people do,

And knelt down and touched the money,

And talked very fast and both together.

And the lady embraced all the children three times each,

And called them little garden angels.

And then she and the priest shook each other by both hands again,

And talked and talked and talked,

Faster and more Frenchy than you would have believed possible.

And the children were struck dumb with joy and pleasure.

Get away now,

Said the phoenix softly,

Breaking in on the radiant dream.

So the children crept away and out through the little shrine,

And the lady and the priest were so tearfully,

Talkatively happy,

That they never noticed the guardian angels had gone.

The garden angels ran down the hill to the lady's little house,

Where they had left the carpet on the veranda,

And they spread it out and said home.

And no one saw them disappear except little Henri,

Who had flattened his nose into a white button against the window-glass,

And when he tried to tell his aunt,

She thought he had been dreaming.

So that was all right.

It is much the best thing we've ever done,

Said Anthea,

When they talked it over at tea-time.

In the future we'll only do kind actions with the carpet.

Ahem,

Said the phoenix.

I beg your pardon,

Said Anthea.

Oh,

Nothing,

Said the bird.

I was only thinking.

Reviews

Good intentions, anyway. We'll see if they pan out!