The Greatest Works of E. Nesbit (220+ Titles in One Illustrated Edition). Эдит Несбит
there was a wretched silence. Cyril broke it:
‘What shall we do?’
‘Go back to the shop and see if they haven’t got the other half,’ said the Psammead. ‘I’ll go to sand till you come back. Cheer up! Even the bit you’ve got is some good, but it’ll be no end of a bother if you can’t find the other.’
So Cyril went to the shop. And the Psammead to sand. And the other three went to dinner, which was now ready. And old Nurse was very cross that Cyril was not ready too.
The three were watching at the windows when Cyril returned, and even before he was near enough for them to see his face there was something about the slouch of his shoulders and set of his knickerbockers and the way he dragged his boots along that showed but too plainly that his errand had been vain.
‘Well?’ they all said, hoping against hope on the front-door step.
‘No go,’ Cyril answered; ‘the man said the thing was perfect. He said it was a Roman lady’s locket, and people shouldn’t buy curios if they didn’t know anything about arky – something or other, and that he never went back on a bargain, because it wasn’t business, and he expected his customers to act the same. He was simply nasty – that’s what he was, and I want my dinner.’
It was plain that Cyril was not pleased.
The unlikeliness of anything really interesting happening in that parlour lay like a weight of lead on everyone’s spirits. Cyril had his dinner, and just as he was swallowing the last mouthful of apple-pudding there was a scratch at the door. Anthea opened it and in walked the Psammead.
‘Well,’ it said, when it had heard the news, ‘things might be worse. Only you won’t be surprised if you have a few adventures before you get the other half. You want to get it, of course.’
‘Rather,’ was the general reply. ‘And we don’t mind adventures.’
‘No,’ said the Psammead, ‘I seem to remember that about you. Well, sit down and listen with all your ears. Eight, are there? Right – I am glad you know arithmetic. Now pay attention, because I don’t intend to tell you everything twice over.’
As the children settled themselves on the floor – it was far more comfortable than the chairs, as well as more polite to the Psammead, who was stroking its whiskers on the hearth-rug – a sudden cold pain caught at Anthea’s heart. Father – Mother – the darling Lamb – all far away. Then a warm, comfortable feeling flowed through her. The Psammead was here, and at least half a charm, and there were to be adventures. (If you don’t know what a cold pain is, I am glad for your sakes, and I hope you never may.)
‘Now,’ said the Psammead cheerily, ‘you are not particularly nice, nor particularly clever, and you’re not at all good-looking. Still, you’ve saved my life – oh, when I think of that man and his pail of water! – so I’ll tell you all I know. At least, of course I can’t do that, because I know far too much. But I’ll tell you all I know about this red thing.’
‘Do! Do! Do! Do!’ said everyone.
‘Well, then,’ said the Psammead. ‘This thing is half of an amulet that can do all sorts of things; it can make the corn grow, and the waters flow, and the trees bear fruit, and the little new beautiful babies come. (Not that babies are beautiful, of course,’ it broke off to say, ‘but their mothers think they are – and as long as you think a thing’s true it is true as far as you’re concerned.’)
Robert yawned.
The Psammead went on.
‘The complete Amulet can keep off all the things that make people unhappy – jealousy, bad temper, pride, disagreeableness, greediness, selfishness, laziness. Evil spirits, people called them when the Amulet was made. Don’t you think it would be nice to have it?’
‘Very,’ said the children, quite without enthusiasm.
‘And it can give you strength and courage.’
‘That’s better,’ said Cyril.
‘And virtue.’
‘I suppose it’s nice to have that,’ said Jane, but not with much interest.
‘And it can give you your heart’s desire.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Robert.
‘Of course I am,’ retorted the Psammead tartly, ‘so there’s no need for you to.’
‘Heart’s desire ’s good enough for me,’ said Cyril.
‘Yes, but,’ Anthea ventured, ‘all that’s what the whole charm can do. There’s something that the half we’ve got can win off its own bat – isn’t there?’ She appealed to the Psammead. It nodded.
‘Yes,’ it said; ‘the half has the power to take you anywhere you like to look for the other half.’
This seemed a brilliant prospect till Robert asked:
‘Does it know where to look?’
The Psammead shook its head and answered,
‘I don’t think it’s likely.’
‘Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Then,’ said Robert, ‘we might as well look for a needle in a bottle of hay. Yes – it is bottle, and not bundle, Father said so.’
‘Not at all,’ said the Psammead briskly; ‘you think you know everything, but you are quite mistaken. The first thing is to get the thing to talk.’
‘Can it?’ Jane questioned. Jane’s question did not mean that she thought it couldn’t, for in spite of the parlour furniture the feeling of magic was growing deeper and thicker, and seemed to fill the room like a dream of a scented fog.
‘Of course it can. I suppose you can read.’
‘Oh yes!’ Everyone was rather hurt at the question.
‘Well, then – all you’ve got to do is to read the name that’s written on the part of the charm that you’ve got. And as soon as you say the name out loud the thing will have power to do – well, several things.’
There was a silence. The red charm was passed from hand to hand.
‘There’s no name on it,’ said Cyril at last.
‘Nonsense,’ said the Psammead; ‘what’s that?’
‘Oh, that!’ said Cyril, ‘it’s not reading. It looks like pictures of chickens and snakes and things.’
This was what was on the charm:
‘I’ve no patience with you,’ said the Psammead; ‘if you can’t read you must find someone who can. A priest now?’
‘We don’t know any priests,’ said Anthea; ‘we know a clergyman – he’s called a priest in the prayer-book, you know – but he only knows Greek and Latin and Hebrew, and this isn’t any of those – I know.’
The Psammead stamped a furry foot angrily.
‘I wish I’d never seen you,’ it said; ‘you aren’t any more good than so many stone images. Not so much, if I’m to tell the truth. Is there no wise man in your Babylon who can pronounce the names of the Great Ones?’
‘There’s a poor learned gentleman upstairs,’ said Anthea, ‘we might try him. He has a lot of stone images in his room, and iron-looking ones too – we peeped in once when he was out. Old Nurse says he doesn’t eat enough to keep a canary alive. He spends it all on stones and things.’
‘Try him,’ said the Psammead, ‘only