The Book of Wonder
Page 7
MISS CUBBIDGE AND THE DRAGON OF ROMANCE
This tale is told in the balconies of Belgrave Square and among thetowers of Pont Street; men sing it at evening in the Brompton Road.
Little upon her eighteenth birthday thought Miss Cubbidge, of Number12A Prince of Wales' Square, that before another year had gone its wayshe would lose the sight of that unshapely oblong that was so long herhome. And, had you told her further that within that year all trace ofthat so-called square, and of the day when her father was elected by athumping majority to share in the guidance of the destinies of theempire, should utterly fade from her memory, she would merely havesaid in that affected voice of hers, "Go to!"
There was nothing about it in the daily Press, the policy of herfather's party had no provision for it, there was no hint of it inconversation at evening parties to which Miss Cubbidge went: there wasnothing to warn her at all that a loathsome dragon with golden scalesthat rattled as he went should have come up clean out of the prime ofromance and gone by night (so far as we know) through Hammersmith, andcome to Ardle Mansions, and then had turned to his left, which ofcourse brought him to Miss Cubbidge's father's house.
There sat Miss Cubbidge at evening on her balcony quite alone, waitingfor her father to be made a baronet. She was wearing walking-boots anda hat and a low-necked evening dress; for a painter was but just nowpainting her portrait and neither she nor the painter saw anything oddin the strange combination. She did not notice the roar of thedragon's golden scales, nor distinguish above the manifold lights ofLondon the small, red glare of his eyes. He suddenly lifted his head,a blaze of gold, over the balcony; he did not appear a yellow dragonthen, for his glistening scales reflected the beauty that London putsupon her only at evening and night. She screamed, but to no knight,nor knew what knight to call on, nor guessed where were the dragons'overthrowers of far, romantic days, nor what mightier game theychased, or what wars they waged; perchance they were busy even thenarming for Armageddon.
Out of the balcony of her father's house in Prince of Wales' Square,the painted dark-green balcony that grew blacker every year, thedragon lifted Miss Cubbidge and spread his rattling wings, and Londonfell away like an old fashion. And England fell away, and the smoke ofits factories, and the round material world that goes humming roundthe sun vexed and pursued by time, until there appeared the eternaland ancient lands of Romance lying low by mystical seas.
You had not pictured Miss Cubbidge stroking the golden head of one ofthe dragons of song with one hand idly, while with the other shesometimes played with pearls brought up from lonely places of the sea.They filled huge haliotis shells with pearls and laid them therebeside her, they brought her emeralds which she set to flash among thetresses of her long black hair, they brought her threaded sapphiresfor her cloak: all this the princes of fable did and the elves and thegnomes of myth. And partly she still lived, and partly she was onewith long-ago and with those sacred tales that nurses tell, when alltheir children are good, and evening has come, and the fire is burningwell, and the soft pat-pat of the snowflakes on the pane is like thefurtive tread of fearful things in old, enchanted woods. If at firstshe missed those dainty novelties among which she was reared, the old,sufficient song of the mystical sea singing of faery lore at firstsoothed and at last consoled her. Even, she forgot thoseadvertisements of pills that are so dear to England; even, she forgotpolitical cant and the things that one discusses and the things thatone does not, and had perforce to content herself with seeing sailingby huge golden-laden galleons with treasure for Madrid, and the merryskull-and-cross-bones of the pirateers, and the tiny nautilus settingout to sea, and ships of heroes trafficking in romance or of princesseeking for enchanted isles.
It was not by chains that the dragon kept her there, but by one of thespells of old. To one to whom the facilities of the daily Press hadfor so long been accorded spells would have palled--you would havesaid--and galleons after a time and all things out-of-date. After atime. But whether the centuries passed her or whether the years orwhether no time at all, she did not know. If anything indicated thepassing of time it was the rhythm of elfin horns blowing upon theheights. If the centuries went by her the spell that bound her gaveher also perennial youth, and kept alight for ever the lantern by herside, and saved from decay the marble palace facing the mystical sea.And if no time went by her there at all, her single moment on thosemarvellous coasts was turned as it were to a crystal reflecting athousand scenes. If it was all a dream, it was a dream that knew nomorning and no fading away. The tide roamed on and whispered of masteryand of myth, while near that captive lady, asleep in his marble tankthe golden dragon dreamed: and a little way out from the coast allthat the dragon dreamed showed faintly in the mist that lay over thesea. He never dreamed of any rescuing knight. So long as he dreamed,it was twilight; but when he came up nimbly out of his tank night felland starlight glistened on the dripping, golden scales.
There he and his captive either defeated Time or never encountered himat all; while, in the world we know, raged Roncesvalles or battles yetto be--I know not to what part of the shore of Romance he bore her.Perhaps she became one of those princesses of whom fable loves totell, but let it suffice that there she lived by the sea: and kingsruled, and Demons ruled, and kings came again, and many citiesreturned to their native dust, and still she abided there, and stillher marble palace passed not away nor the power that there was in thedragon's spell.
And only once did there ever come to her a message from the world thatof old she knew. It came in a pearly ship across the mystical sea; itwas from an old school-friend that she had had in Putney, merely anote, no more, in a little, neat, round hand: it said, "It is notProper for you to be there alone."