“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.
The little Rabbit yearns so, but he must be patient, he must wait his turn. Still, he is a very lucky bunny, for the Boy loves him truly.
Spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too. He had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border. And once, when the Boy was called away suddenly to go out to tea, the Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and Nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the Boy couldn’t go to sleep unless he was there. He was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the Boy had made for him in the flower bed, and Nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.
“You must have your old Bunny!” she said. “Fancy all that fuss for a toy!”
The Boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands.
“Give me my Bunny!” he said. “You mustn’t say that. He isn’t a toy. He’s REAL!”
When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy, for he knew that what the Skin Horse had said was true at last. The nursery magic had happened to him, and he was a toy no longer. He was Real. The Boy himself had said it.
That night he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst. And into his boot-button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even Nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and said, “I declare if that old Bunny hasn’t got quite a knowing expression!”
I feel an aching sadness when the doctor declares that the Rabbit the Boy loves so very much is full of scarlet fever germs and must be burned.
I really can hardly bear it.
And so the little Rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house. That was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it. He had the potatoes to dig and the green peas to gather, but next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot.
The sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out. He was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him. Nearby he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the Boy on bygone mornings. He thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden—how happy they were—and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken and the little ants ran over his paws; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was Real.
He thought of the Skin Horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one’s beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.
Someone must rescue the poor Rabbit!
Luckily, I can.
Where the tear falls, a flower grows. It has slender leaves the color of emeralds, and in the center a blossom like a golden cup. The blossom opens, and out of it steps a fairy in a dress of pearl and dew drops. She kisses the Rabbit, and flies off with him to the woods.
“Run and play, little Rabbit!” she said.
But the little Rabbit sat quite still for a moment and never moved. For when he saw all the wild rabbits dancing around him he suddenly remembered about his hind legs, and he didn’t want them to see that he was made all in one piece. He did not know that when the Fairy kissed him that last time she had changed him altogether. And he might have sat there a long time, too shy to move, if just then something hadn’t tickled his nose, and before he thought what he was doing he lifted his hind toe to scratch it.
And he found that he actually had hind legs! Instead of dingy velveteen he had brown fur, soft and shiny, his ears twitched by themselves, and his whiskers were so long that they brushed the grass. He gave one leap and the joy of using those hind legs was so great that he went springing about the turf on them, jumping sideways and whirling round as the others did, and he grew so excited that when at last he did stop to look for the Fairy she had gone.
He was a Real Rabbit at last, at home with the other rabbits.
When I finish reading, everyone sits quietly. For a moment there is only silence and candlelight, and the faces round the table turned to me.
Then Diccon stands up and claps. “Brava, Margery!”
“Yes—brava, brava!” Everyone claps and cheers, and Cecil comes over and gives me a great hug. She compliments me in her rambly, muddly way.
“It’s so absolutely you, Margery—children will adore you—I mean it, that is, the book . . . !” she says, and we all laugh.
pamela
Like everyone else, Agnes adored Mam. In the city she’d often drop by Macdougal Alley, and they’d sit with their tea for ages, talking. In the kitchen, or out in the alleyway, depending on the weather. Most of the time it was just the two of them—I was usually in my studio—but I was at home with Mam when Agnes appeared on the day The Velveteen Rabbit arrived.
It was late fall, and glorious. Shadows fell cool across the pavement. I can still feel the air, newly crisp, smell its freshness.
Agnes was even more animated than usual. She had a big evening planned.
“Got some time to kill, d’you mind if I hang around here with you two? I’m meeting Gene at the Swan, then we’re going to some fancy speakeasy on 44th with a swell menu or something. The sort of place Gene can’t abide, but he got talked into it, I guess. We’re meeting up with some actress and her husband—Gene’s thinking of putting her in his new play, says he wants my opinion.”
Agnes looked stunning. She sat all liquid and slinky in one of the new sleeveless flapper-style dresses that fell in a straight line to her calf, black chiffon with silver beading, and I could hardly take my eyes off her. She glittered like a chandelier in our homey kitchen. A princess among the scullery maids. Mam was wearing a long skirt and checked apron, and she was chopping onions and garlic. I was in my usual uniform of paint-splattered overalls, making a powdery mess of the Jell-O.
“Carlotta Monterey. What a name—d’you think she made it up for the stage? Isn’t it a town or something, in Mexico? California, too, I think. Anyway, she must be persuasive.”