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140 pages

English

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pubOne.info thank you for your continued support and wish to present you this new edition. Children are like jam: all very well in the proper place, but you can't stand them all over the shop- eh, what?

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	27 septembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819928904
Langue	English

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THE WOULDBEGOODS
BEING THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE TREASURESEEKERS
By E. Nesbit
TO
My Dear Son
Fabian Bland
CHAPTER 1. THE JUNGLE
Children are like jam: all very well in the properplace, but you can't stand them all over the shop— eh, what? '
These were the dreadful words of our Indian uncle.They made us feel very young and angry; and yet we could not becomforted by calling him names to ourselves, as you do when nastygrown-ups say nasty things, because he is not nasty, but quite theexact opposite when not irritated. And we could not think itungentlemanly of him to say we were like jam, because, as Alicesays, jam is very nice indeed— only not on furniture and improperplaces like that. My father said, 'Perhaps they had better go toboarding-school. ' And that was awful, because we know Fatherdisapproves of boarding-schools. And he looked at us and said, 'Iam ashamed of them, sir! '
Your lot is indeed a dark and terrible one when yourfather is ashamed of you. And we all knew this, so that we felt inour chests just as if we had swallowed a hard-boiled egg whole. Atleast, this is what Oswald felt, and Father said once that Oswald,as the eldest, was the representative of the family, so, of course,the others felt the same.
And then everybody said nothing for a short time. Atlast Father said—
'You may go— but remember— '
The words that followed I am not going to tell you.It is no use telling you what you know before— as they do inschools. And you must all have had such words said to you manytimes. We went away when it was over. The girls cried, and we boysgot out books and began to read, so that nobody should think wecared. But we felt it deeply in our interior hearts, especiallyOswald, who is the eldest and the representative of the family.
We felt it all the more because we had not reallymeant to do anything wrong. We only thought perhaps the grown-upswould not be quite pleased if they knew, and that is quitedifferent. Besides, we meant to put all the things back in theirproper places when we had done with them before anyone found outabout it. But I must not anticipate (that means telling the end ofthe story before the beginning. I tell you this because it is sosickening to have words you don't know in a story, and to be toldto look it up in the dicker).
We are the Bastables— Oswald, Dora, Dicky, Alice,Noel, and H. O. If you want to know why we call our youngestbrother H. O. you can jolly well read The Treasure Seekers and findout. We were the Treasure Seekers, and we sought it high and low,and quite regularly, because we particularly wanted to find it. Andat last we did not find it, but we were found by a good, kindIndian uncle, who helped Father with his business, so that Fatherwas able to take us all to live in a jolly big red house onBlackheath, instead of in the Lewisham Road, where we lived when wewere only poor but honest Treasure Seekers. When we were poor buthonest we always used to think that if only Father had plenty ofbusiness, and we did not have to go short of pocket money and wearshabby clothes (I don't mind this myself, but the girls do), weshould be happy and very, very good.
And when we were taken to the beautiful bigBlackheath house we thought now all would be well, because it was ahouse with vineries and pineries, and gas and water, andshrubberies and stabling, and replete with every modernconvenience, like it says in Dyer & Hilton's list of EligibleHouse Property. I read all about it, and I have copied the wordsquite right.
It is a beautiful house, all the furniture solid andstrong, no casters off the chairs, and the tables not scratched,and the silver not dented; and lots of servants, and the mostdecent meals every day— and lots of pocket-money.
But it is wonderful how soon you get used to things,even the things you want most. Our watches, for instance. We wantedthem frightfully; but when I had mine a week or two, after themainspring got broken and was repaired at Bennett's in the village,I hardly cared to look at the works at all, and it did not make mefeel happy in my heart any more, though, of course, I should havebeen very unhappy if it had been taken away from me. And the samewith new clothes and nice dinners and having enough of everything.You soon get used to it all, and it does not make you extra happy,although, if you had it all taken away, you would be very dejected.(That is a good word, and one I have never used before. ) You getused to everything, as I said, and then you want something more.Father says this is what people mean by the deceitfulness ofriches; but Albert's uncle says it is the spirit of progress, andMrs Leslie said some people called it 'divine discontent'. Oswaldasked them all what they thought one Sunday at dinner. Uncle saidit was rot, and what we wanted was bread and water and a licking;but he meant it for a joke. This was in the Easter holidays.
We went to live at the Red House at Christmas. Afterthe holidays the girls went to the Blackheath High School, and weboys went to the Prop. (that means the Proprietary School). And wehad to swot rather during term; but about Easter we knew thedeceitfulness of riches in the vac. , when there was nothing muchon, like pantomimes and things. Then there was the summer term, andwe swotted more than ever; and it was boiling hot, and masters'tempers got short and sharp, and the girls used to wish the examscame in cold weather. I can't think why they don't. But I supposeschools don't think of sensible thinks like that. They teach botanyat girls' schools.
Then the Midsummer holidays came, and we breathedagain— but only for a few days. We began to feel as if we hadforgotten something, and did not know what it was. We wantedsomething to happen— only we didn't exactly know what. So we werevery pleased when Father said—
'I've asked Mr Foulkes to send his children here fora week or two. You know— the kids who came at Christmas. You mustbe jolly to them, and see that they have a good time, don't youknow. '
We remembered them right enough— they were littlepinky, frightened things, like white mice, with very bright eyes.They had not been to our house since Christmas, because Denis, theboy, had been ill, and they had been with an aunt at Ramsgate.
Alice and Dora would have liked to get the bedroomsready for the honoured guests, but a really good housemaid issometimes more ready to say 'Don't' than even a general. So thegirls had to chuck it. Jane only let them put flowers in the potson the visitors' mantelpieces, and then they had to ask thegardener which kind they might pick, because nothing worthgathering happened to be growing in our own gardens just then.
Their train got in at 12. 27. We all went to meetthem. Afterwards I thought that was a mistake, because their auntwas with them, and she wore black with beady things and a tightbonnet, and she said, when we took our hats off— 'Who are you? 'quite crossly.
We said, 'We are the Bastables; we've come to meetDaisy and Denny. '
The aunt is a very rude lady, and it made us sorryfor Daisy and Denny when she said to them—
'Are these the children? Do you remember them? ' Weweren't very tidy, perhaps, because we'd been playing brigands inthe shrubbery; and we knew we should have to wash for dinner assoon as we got back, anyhow. But still—
Denny said he thought he remembered us. But Daisysaid, 'Of course they are, ' and then looked as if she was going tocry.
So then the aunt called a cab, and told the manwhere to drive, and put Daisy and Denny in, and then she said—
'You two little girls may go too, if you like, butyou little boys must walk. '
So the cab went off, and we were left. The auntturned to us to say a few last words. We knew it would have beenabout brushing your hair and wearing gloves, so Oswald said,'Good-bye', and turned haughtily away, before she could begin, andso did the others. No one but that kind of black beady tight ladywould say 'little boys'. She is like Miss Murdstone in DavidCopperfield. I should like to tell her so; but she would notunderstand. I don't suppose she has ever read anything butMarkham's History and Mangnall's Questions— improving books likethat.
When we got home we found all four of those who hadridden in the cab sitting in our sitting-room— we don't call itnursery now— looking very thoroughly washed, and our girls wereasking polite questions and the others were saying 'Yes' and 'No',and 'I don't know'. We boys did not say anything. We stood at thewindow and looked out till the gong went for our dinner. We felt itwas going to be awful— and it was. The newcomers would never havedone for knight-errants, or to carry the Cardinal's sealed messagethrough the heart of France on a horse; they would never havethought of anything to say to throw the enemy off the scent whenthey got into a tight place.
They said 'Yes, please', and 'No, thank you'; andthey ate very neatly, and always wiped their mouths before theydrank, as well as after, and never spoke with them full.
And after dinner it got worse and worse.
We got out all our books and they said 'Thank you',and didn't look at them properly. And we got out all our toys, andthey said 'Thank you, it's very nice' to everything. And it gotless and less pleasant, and towards teatime it came to nobodysaying anything except Noel and H. O. — and they talked to eachother about cricket.
After tea Father came in, and he played 'Letters'with them and the girls, and it was a little better; but while latedinner was going on— I shall never forget it. Oswald felt like thehero of a book— 'almost at the end of his resources'. I don't thinkI was ever glad of bedtime before, but that time I was.
When they had gone to bed (Daisy had to have all herstrings and buttons undone for her, Dora told me, though she isnearly ten, and Denny said he couldn't sleep without the gas beingleft a little bit on) we held a council in the girls' room. We allsat on the bed— it is a mahogany fou