The Pendragon Legend

by Antal Szerb

  “Needless to say, even in that position Osborne remained the perfect gentleman. There was no point in leaving him to take the initiative. Half an hour later we untangled ourselves and I asked him if he’d enjoyed it; he said he had, quite definitely, and he sounded reasonably sincere. He said he was pleased to have had one of life’s richer practical experiences. And—would you believe this?—that he’d had his first lover.

  “That made me really angry and I told him the English were a bunch of well-bred idiots if they thought that after a bit of nonsense like that they could call you their lover. So he lapsed into day-dream again and said he was sorry. Then he started to get up. I grabbed hold of his jacket, following biblical precedent, and told him he needn’t worry: if he asked me very nicely he really could be my lover, and he’d get even more hands-on experience. He knew what I meant. But he just sat there, and went on thinking.

  “Finally I snapped at him and asked what he was waiting for. He said he was trying to remember what one was supposed to say on such occasions. I assured him that actions spoke louder than words. ‘That’s good,’ he said, ‘because I couldn’t think of any words.’ And still he just sat there. ‘So let’s see some action,’ I said. ‘Try to be a bit more passionate.’ So he grabbed me and shook me. I won’t go into any more detail, because I can see from the expression on your face that you would have done rather better in his position, and I don’t really fancy you just now. I’m having a monogamous day today, for the first time in my life. I shall be true to Osborne.”

  “Well,” I said, “am I free to imagine the rest?”

  “As you wish. The scene of what followed wasn’t the park but my room. It went on the whole night. Because you see … Osborne wasn’t a disappointment. And he got his satisfaction too. He said he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in ages. Oh, and he hoped we’d tie the marriage knot soon.”

  I was horrified. Such a misalliance! My snobbish heart wept blood. The poor Earl … This was all the Pendragon destiny needed. It would be the end of everything.

  “My congratulations,” I muttered, with tears in my voice.

  “Come off it, you idiot. You don’t think I’d really marry him?”

  “Why not? It’s not a bad match.”

  “No, my dear boy, I’m not that stupid. Marry into such a degenerate aristocratic family? What would my friends in Berlin say? Anyway, I’m still young. I’ve hardly known anything of life. So many experiences are waiting for me. I’ve never had an affair with a tenor. Or a Hohenzollern. And only once with a negro. I really can’t get married just yet.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said, heaving a deep sigh of relief. “You’ve got the whole of your life ahead of you.”

  “I’d just love to know,” she went on, “whether this little ‘life experience’ will change Osborne in any way. Will he now be more like a man?”

  “In his dealings with you, yes,” I said—“just as long as you expect him to, and not a minute longer. The moment you’re gone, everything will be just as it was before. That’s my experience of young Englishmen. Very occasionally, when he’s out one evening with a few close friends, and the conversation turns to women, he’ll tell them—without mentioning your name—that he did once have a girl, and it was all rather wonderful. He’ll live on the memory for the next ten years, until another Lene comes along and seduces him.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “How stupid, how utterly immoral, how thoroughly screwed-up. On the other hand—don’t you find?—there’s something rather sweet in all this purity of soul.”

  I didn’t answer. Something had just occurred to me, something that had happened during our outing that morning, which I hadn’t thought anything of at the time. We were driving through a wood, beside a clear little mountain stream. Osborne stopped the car, stripped off and had a swim, though there was quite a chilling breeze. As he was getting dressed again, shivering with cold, he said to me:

  “Oh, Doctor, if only I could live on an uninhabited island … a coral island in Polynesia … where there was no one to talk to, only birds and fish … and not a soul to be seen, especially not women … then a chap would be able to keep his human dignity.”

  I remembered the look on his face. It bore all the misery of a dog that feels thoroughly ashamed of itself.

  I had another tense and restless night. I dreamed of Eileen St Claire as a whore in a sea port, somewhere at the back of beyond. All sorts of obscene, and at the same time deeply horrible, things were going on. The next morning I woke, still rather tense, with the strange feeling that I had briefly understood, but had then forgotten, why the Earl still loved her.

  Cynthia was in happy mood and looking her loveliest, seated golden-blonde at the breakfast table in a sleeveless dress that showed off her girlish, sunburnt arms. She made quizzical faces over her tea to ask why I was looking so dull when we happened to be alone—Lene and Osborne had gone out to bathe—and she came over to me, kittenish and intimate, to ask why I was so sad.

  “I had a very strange dream,” I told her.

  “Tell me.”

  “You shouldn’t ask me such an improper thing.”

  “Oh,” she cried. “So, it was about a woman?”

  “Certainly.”

  She looked downcast for several minutes, then steeled herself to ask:

  “Was it me?”

  “I’m sorry, but it wasn’t.”

  “Recreant, traitor! So who was it then?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “What does she look like, then?”

  “She’s taller than you, has reddish-blond hair and a stunning figure. She has the face, sometimes, of an Etruscan statue.”

  “Tell me what her name is.”

  “You don’t know her, but you’ve certainly heard of her … ” and something suddenly struck me. “I was dreaming of Eileen St Claire.”

  “Eileen St Claire? But she’s my best friend! I was with her that day in Llandudno!” she exclaimed, blushing prettily. “So you know her? Isn’t she wonderful, a real angel?”

  I put my pipe down and stammered:

  “What are you saying? Your best friend?”

  “Yes. She’s the one I’ve been telling you all about, the person whose name I didn’t want to say. My great friend, my only true love.”

  Oh the silly, tragic little goose! God knows what she had done in the innocence of her heart.

  “How did you come to know her?”

  “Two years ago I was having my summer holiday in Brittany and she was staying in the villa next door. I was still very upset—it was just after my mother’s death. She gave me back my joie de vivre. She’s so beautiful. And she was so good to me. But not just to me. She knows my uncle very well. They used to be very good friends. She’s the only one who knows what a truly wonderful man he is. Why are you looking at me like that … like a police superintendent?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Please carry on.”

  “What else can I say? I’ve told you how much I like her. How much she means in my life.”

  I was gradually piecing it all together. Of course Cynthia had no idea who Eileen St Claire was. No one dared utter her name in the Earl’s presence, and this taboo extended to all the other Pendragons. No one had told Cynthia that Eileen St Claire and Mrs Roscoe were one and the same person.

  I had only ever spoken of her as Mrs Roscoe. I had told her nothing of what the woman was like, or how I knew her. I had had no wish to discuss the night I spent with her, so I had said no more than was strictly necessary.

  And Cynthia was as dreamy and romantic as all the other Pendragons. She too had projected her most cherished fantasies on to the beauty of Eileen St Claire.

  “Oh, Cynthia … and have you kept in touch with her ever since? Have you been writing to her?” My alarm was growing by the second. “Do you mention the Earl in your letters?”

  “Oh yes, I didn’t tell you—I promised to report everything that happened to my uncle, and I have done, all this time.
And now you must tell me how you came to know her.”

  So here was the ‘spy’ who had kept Morvin’s gang informed of everything.

  I leapt up and walked round the room twice, at great speed.

  “I’ve written to her about everything,” she continued dreamily, and quite untroubled. “I’ve told her a lot about you too. Even before you got here I told her you were coming. I felt your coming here would be a major event. And when you went back to London I explained exactly why you’d gone. I’ve written lots of bad things about you. You’ll hear all about them the next time you see her. But what’s wrong with you? What is it? You mustn’t tease me.”

  By then I think I must have been tugging at her arm.

  “Cynthia, did you also tell her where the Earl is right now?”

  “Of course. I gave her the precise details. She’s taught me that whatever I do I must be thorough.”

  “When did you write to tell her the Earl was going?”

  “But why? What’s the matter with you? I wrote yesterday afternoon.”

  “Where to?”

  “Llandudno. The Palace Hotel.”

  I made a rapid calculation. The letter could well have got there by the evening. So they could already have set off to find him. There was no time to lose—if indeed there still was anything left to lose.

  “Cynthia my dear, you must telephone your friend this minute. We absolutely have to know if she’s still in Llandudno.”

  “But why?”

  “I will explain everything. But you must phone her now. Tell her whatever you like, but go.”

  And I dragged her to the phone.

  A few minutes later she was put through to the Palace Hotel. Mrs St Claire (as she had registered herself) was out. She had left the night before. She hadn’t left word when she would be back.

  No doubt, the moment she got Cynthia’s letter …

  “Pack your suitcase, and have it put in the tourer. Now. Immediately!”

  With bewilderment on her face, she hurried out. I rang for one of the page boys and sent him dashing off to the stream where Osborne and Lene were bathing. They were told to come at once. Then I went up to my room to pack.

  I was filled with energy, and hard as steel. I could barely recognise myself. I knew we were going into the last great battle. Unless it was already too late … The Earl was caught between two opposing catastrophes, and I wondered which was the more dangerous—the increasingly sinister spirit or the coldly-calculating twentieth-century assassin. The Knight, Death and the Devil …

  Thirty minutes later we were all together in the reception area. I told the others how things stood. Cynthia went deathly pale and burst into tears. Her world was in ruins.

  But every detail tallied. She recalled that during the day she had spent at Llandudno her friend had gone out twice in the car alone, once in the morning and once in the late afternoon, leaving her with some acquaintances. They were precisely the times when Eileen had tried to gain admittance to Llanvygan.

  We piled into the car, excited and confused, four children left on their own by the grownups to wrestle with Death and the Devil.

  “I just need to know where this Caerbryn is,” Osborne announced from behind the steering wheel. “It’s some godforsaken little place up in the mountains.”

  Close study of the map ensued. At long last we found both it and the shortest way to get there. Thereafter we drove in silence, awed equally by fear and the magic of speed.

  Half an hour later we were in the mountains. Soon we had to slow down. The main road had come to an end and we found ourselves on tracks that had never been intended for cars. We had to consult the map every few minutes.

  Meanwhile the morning that had been so friendly had turned dark and threatening.

  I would never have believed that in Wales, in Great Britain, there could be such ancient, truly Nordic places, without trace of people or human dwelling. The road was either lined with bald rocks of the most fantastical shapes and sizes, or it led through forests of gigantic trees bearded with moss. But as the view closed in around us we grew steadily more impatient: at last we seemed to be getting somewhere.

  Somewhere, at the end of the world, the road came to a halt. The car stopped beside a lake whose waters, in the gloom beneath the mountains, were black as ink. The reeds sighed endlessly, and the trees stretching out their branches were inexpressibly sad.

  At the edge of the water sat an old woman. She seemed to have been there since the days of the first Earl. She didn’t even look at us, she just carried on mending her ancient and endless net. Every so often she would toss a pebble into the water.

  “Excuse me, but which is the way to Caerbryn?” Osborne asked her.

  She looked up but gave no answer. Cynthia put a question to her in Welsh, but again there was no reply. She seemed quite unaware of our presence. Somehow, though we never admitted this to one another, she filled us all with deep foreboding.

  “This lake isn’t on the map,” Osborne remarked. “Perhaps it didn’t exist in 1928, when they made it.”

  “Or else you’re looking in the wrong place,” Lene said. “We aren’t where you said we were. You’ve lost the way.”

  “Then this must be Llyn-Coled. We’ll have to turn back.”

  “Oh, Llyn-Coled!” cried Cynthia.

  I knew something had struck her, some dark, superstitious thing she didn’t want to name. The same wild superstition raced through me too, adding to my worst apprehensions.

  With much difficulty, we turned the car around.

  “We’ve lost three quarters of an hour,” Osborne muttered. “But if we turn right here we’ll find a short cut.”

  We were driving between two steep cliffs, in almost total darkness, pitching and jolting violently. Suddenly we bounced up out of our seats, almost thrown from the car. An enormous rock had fallen on the road, blocking our way. Turning here was impossible. The passengers had to get out and walk alongside as the car reversed slowly out of the canyon.

  It had now started to rain. As a pleasure outing, this would not have been a success.

  Then Cynthia’s nerves gave way. She came to a halt in the driving rain, trembling and shaking with the violence of her sobbing.

  “You press ahead,” she wept. “Just leave me here. I’ll go back to Llyn-Coled. Leave me, leave me!” And she stamped her feet hysterically.

  Osborne and I looked on helplessly, but Lene was an angel of God. With a couple of affectionately crude remarks she got Cynthia back on her emotional feet, and we continued on our way.

  At long last we were out of the canyon and back on a proper road. Soon we found ourselves on a relatively friendly plateau, from which we might have found our bearings had the rain not obliterated the view.

  Eventually a village appeared in the distance, clinging to the side of a hill.

  “That can only be Caerbryn,” said Osborne.

  We were again up to full speed, so far as the road would allow, softened as it was by the rain. Then the car decided to follow Cynthia’s example and have a nervous breakdown. It gave an almighty groan and stopped dead in its tracks. Osborne crawled underneath it, and after a while Lene joined him. Snatches of a fierce argument could be heard from beneath the chassis. After fifteen minutes they slithered out again, unrecognisable under their coating of mud.

  “I just can’t imagine what could be wrong with it,” said the person who had once been Osborne.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the other one stated. “That’s Caerbryn over there. It looks less than two miles. Let’s just walk it. We can leave the car here. It’ll take a genius to steal it.”

  We set off on foot. Slowly the details of Caerbryn came into focus. It was a strangely picturesque mountain village. Every cottage was flattened against the precipice; on the summit stood the ruins of a timeless castle, soaking in the rain.

  It was three in the afternoon and not one of us had given a thought to lunch. We reached the village by four, drenched to the skin
and almost dead with fatigue. But we were finally on inhabited ground. The people could even speak English, and showed us the pretty little cottage where John Mansfield lived.

  We knocked for some time before the door opened. The man was very old, but with a fine, handsome face.

  “Mr Mansfield?” Osborne enquired.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied, eyeing Osborne and Lene with evident surprise.

  “Mr Mansfield, you must ignore our alarming appearance. I am Osborne Pendragon, this lady is my sister Cynthia, and these are my friends.”

  “Come in, come in,” the old man replied, his face brightening. “I’m sorry there’s no fire for you to dry yourself against, but I’ll make one up. Meanwhile, you must have something to eat. A bit of cheese?”

  “That would be excellent,” said Osborne. “But first, where is my uncle?”

  “His Lordship isn’t here. He went out, perhaps an hour ago. He didn’t say when he’d be back.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, I’m sorry, he didn’t. A lady came for him in a car, and he went off with her.”

  “A lady? What did she look like?”

  “Quite tall, reddish-blond hair: very handsome. The sort you must be familiar with in London.”

  “Eileen St Claire!” Cynthia exclaimed.

  “She didn’t give her name.”

  “Mr Mansfield,” I asked, “do you know whether he was expecting her?”

  “No, sir, he wasn’t. He was extremely surprised to see her. In fact, he seemed rather shaken. But I couldn’t say … ”

  “Where did they go?” Lene asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve really no idea.”

  We went outside and held a council of war.

  “We’re too late,” said Osborne. “We’ve been pre-empted. He’s been lured into a trap. It’s all up with him.”

  Cynthia uttered a loud scream. Lene comforted her.

  “We don’t know anything yet,” she growled. “We can’t afford to think the worst. Perhaps she’s only invited him for a friendly chat. Perhaps even as we speak they’re coming to an amicable agreement about the legacy. She chose her moment, when she could get him completely alone, so she could raise the question without any distractions. Up here, the Earl couldn’t refuse to see her.”