The Lavender Dragon

by Eden Phillpotts

  “I fall on at once without further parley,” declared Sir Jasper. “I am a man of deeds, not words, and nothing you can possibly say will wipe this stain off my scutcheon. Only your own base heart’s blood may do it.”

  “To fight before I have spoken would not suit me,” answered the other in a calm but resolute voice. “Sit here, cool your fiery forehead with a dock leaf and listen a little longer. Do not imagine that you are in my hands. On the contrary, I am in yours. I, too, believe that deeds speak louder than words, as I hope to show you by noonday. But first I insist upon it that you listen to me, and I give you my word, as a lover of truth, that you shall not listen in vain.”

  With ill grace the young man flung himself upon the turf, and for a moment there was no sound but the steady cropping of his philosophic horse, whose custom was to gather his few rose buds when and where he might. Then the Lavender Dragon, assuming a recumbent attitude, proceeded in this curious fashion.

  “Even as the world itself was hatched from the Mundane Egg made by our Creator, as the Phoenicians and Egyptians rightly maintain, so all primitive orders of living things likewise emerged to life in that manner. Dragons are among the most ancient of created beings, and they have unfortunately, though not, I fear, undeservedly, personified evil from the earliest times of man. Nowadays we dragons stand as the symbol of Sin in general and paganism in particular. Satan has been termed the Great Dragon; it is declared that the saints shall trample the dragon under their feet. Mankind has also confused the dragon with chieftainship; hence Pen-dragons—leaders, or kings, created in times of peril. Since Apollo destroyed Python there has reigned enmity between my species and all gods and men who stood for righteousness; and therefore you will judge of my personal astonishment when I came to years of understanding and found myself, not only on the side of the angels from the first, but also entirely opposed to the principles and practice of my own race. In fact a dragon with a conscience—a freak of our common Mother, a caprice of Nature! My great-uncle was the celebrated Dragon of Wantley, in this county; and when he found that I entertained opinions subversive of our family interests and desired, if possible, to heal the breach established in primal time between our kindred and the children of men, he disowned me with fury, beat me cruelly, for I was then a mere dracunculus, and cast me out. My parents were already dead, and I wandered friendless for some three centuries. Then my great-uncle perished under the sword and spear of More of More Hall, a very notable knight, and elsewhere, at other times and seasons, our dwindling race was decimated by yours as history records.

  “Among famous dragon-slayers—of whom St. George, that beheaded the far-famed Green Dragon of Syria, stands first—are numbered St. Philip, the Apostle, who accounted for the terror of Phrygia; St. Martha, who with unexampled courage destroyed Terasque, the Scourge of Aix; St. Florent, who slew an ancestor of my own upon the Loire; while St. Cado and St. Maudel of Brittany, and St. Keyne of Cornwall also played havoc with our clan. St. Michael and St. Margaret, Pope Sylvester and the Archbishop of Dol, Denatus and St. Clement of Metz—all these eminent persons succeeded against us; and La Gorgouille, a very formidable and gigantic dragon, responsible for much evil on the banks of Seine, fell at an advanced age to the gallant St. Romain of Rouen.

  “Thus we have gone down fighting to the last, and now, as I think, not above half a dozen of us shall be found in civilisation, though a few still remain beyond its borders concealed amid the sandy antres of Africa and the frozen forests of the North. For my part, all endeavours to make the world of men perceive that I desired their friendship failed. Nor do I blame anybody. Centuries of antagonism, suspicion and hatred cannot be destroyed by an individual no matter how great his goodwill. I went my way, found the Woods of Blore, established my seat therein and anon encountered a lady dragon, orphaned under the usual circumstances, and alone and friendless as myself.

  “We loved at first sight and contracted an alliance; but hardly had I erected a noble home and built for my wife a fortified palace and castle worthy of her, when she left me—I hope and believe for a better world. She shared my opinions and was of a tender and gentle disposition. She threw herself into my pursuits, learned the human language of the country, which I had been at pains to master, and strove unavailingly to create some golden bridge of understanding by which we could approach man in friendship for our common advantage. But, needless to say, she failed, and it was as a result of wounds, won in a frantic but futile attempt to charm a body of crossbow men upon the march, that she lost her beautiful life.

  “Anon you shall see her grave in the centre of our public park at Dragonsville. For to my city I am about to convey you, Sir Jasper; and if, after you have inspected it, consulted those who inhabit it, and heard and seen such as bestow upon me their affection and regard—if, I say, after that experience, you still desire to fight with me and lay me low, upon my honour you shall be granted every opportunity to do so.

  “What remains to be said you must learn at a later time; but now, if you are rested, we will proceed and be at home for luncheon. I am a grass-eater like your noble charger, and doubtless some fine bales of sweet clover hay await us both; but for you is already served such a banquet as we are happy to prepare for a noble and welcome guest.”

  “They are then expecting us?” inquired the knight, and the Lavender Dragon admitted that it was so.

  “I confess to my little plot,” he said. “I was quite determined that you should enjoy wider knowledge of me and my ways before you attempted, perhaps successfully, to destroy me. A thing once done cannot be undone, Sir Jasper, and if by chance, in future time, you had learned the truth, I am bold to believe that remorse might have darkened your soul and unavailing regrets cast a shadow on your unstained career.”

  With that the dragon, tenderly picking up his new acquaintance and the piebald horse, ascended once more into the empyrean. They proceeded for a matter of twenty miles over the bosky gloom of the forest and then the scene changed, a fair and sun-kissed vale opened beneath them and, girdled by a mighty wall, Sir Jasper perceived what men of a later time would have described as a remarkably large and distinguished garden city, watered by a sparkling river.

  Wide, open spaces, adorned with lakes and fountains, noble trees and blazing passages of flower colour spread between human dwellings. These stood in the shape of a star whose points extended to all quarters of the compass. The houses were solidly built of stone, and their roofs, of red and sunbaked tiles, seen from this elevation, presented a design of considerable charm. In the midst rose a gigantic castle of barbaric architecture—a place so hugely planned, with doors so vast and towers so lofty, that the Lavender Dragon himself might move and dwell with comfort and elegance therein. It was his home, and upon an immense terrace before the southern front he now descended.

  Nor was there none to welcome him. To the amazement of Sir Jasper, half a hundred stalwart men, in the livery of the Lavender Dragon, greeted the monster as he alighted. Their faces shone with well-being and they crowded about him, cheered him, saluted the visitor with courtesy and friendship and led away his agitated horse. Others took his spear and sword; while an old and kindly retainer begged that he would follow him, where he might rest, refresh, doff his armour and presently partake of the banquet already prepared in his honour.

  “I will see you anon,” said the Lavender Dragon. “This is Nicholas Warrender, my seneschal. You will be happy with him and a company of our comrades until the afternoon. For the moment I want my dinner before all else.”

  The dragon led the way into his castle and settled himself with a mighty sigh before six huge trusses of sweet-smelling hay in his own dining-room—a chamber about twice as large as the cathedral of St. Paul. But Nicholas Warrender proceeding with Sir Jasper, conveyed him to an apartment, huge enough, yet not uncomfortably spacious, and there left him to make his toilet and choose from half a hundred comely garments what he would best like to put on.

  Arrayed at length in a doublet
of grey velvet with amber slashings, comfortable grey hose and a collar of delicate lawn, the knight struck a bell upon his table and Nicholas returned. He led the dragon’s guest into an apartment where some two hundred men and women already awaited him, and the seneschal introduced Sir Jasper to a dozen of the party, who welcomed him with much friendship and good cheer. They were for the most part elderly; but age sat lightly about them and the guest could not fail to note that in their faces one saw no lines of care, no haggard tell-tale stamp of sorrow hidden, or tribulation concealed. Here was happiness—not simulation of the thing, proper to all well-bred and tactful companies meeting together about some common business of council or entertainment, but the genuine emotion; and furthermore he felt amost embarrassed by the manner of their greeting, for their one concern was his own comfort and pleasure. They vied with each other in warmth of welcome; they revealed nothing concerning themselves, but displayed only an altruistic regard for his satisfaction in every particular.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “would you kill me with kindness?”

  “Kindness never kills,” declared Nicholas Warrender. “Kindness, Sir Knight, is the small change of a good heart, given to all who extend a hand for it, and as gladly to be received as given. Kindness, in fact, makes our wheels go round, and if it became a human habit—— However, we are not here to preach, but eat. These lampreys come from our own river and are worthy of your attention.”

  After the meal Sir Jasper was introduced to a great number of men and women; and others of a younger generation also entered, that they might see and speak with him. If the elders were cheerful with the light of contentment upon their faces, how much more did the same radiance illuminate the young! Maids and boys appeared equally joyous. They greeted the guest with an ingenuous delight and respect, which Sir Jasper was well qualified to appreciate, and in the shy friendship of these young people he swiftly found an exquisite pleasure. They, too, according to their ages and predilections, offered him what they themselves most appreciated. The girls begged him to come and dance with them, or hear them sing; the boys, heedless that he had just dined after a trying journey, hoped that he would join their games and suffer them to teach him new and ravishing pastimes.

  Then happened a strange thing, for among those introduced to his notice, Sir Jasper heard many names not unfamiliar.

  “This,” said the seneschal, “is Thomas Fagg, the woodcutter, and our friend with the dusty face is good Master Hobanob, who helps to bake our bread. Here stands Nicol Prance, once on a time a master-thatcher, but in Dragonsville the houses are all tiled, so he has learned a new trade. This is our oldest inhabitant—of course after L.D. himself—Johnny Cobley, aged ninety-five, once a swineherd, now enjoying his old age and the object of our special care. Here you see Mistress Avisa Snell, and Ann, her daughter, promised in marriage to Billy Greg, the keeper of the fountains. This pretty maid is Mary Fern, who lost her man in the wars and was just going—silly soul—to take her beautiful and useful life, when L.D. found her and brought her amongst us. Betsy Snow and Jenifer Mardell are towers of strength when good plain sewing is to be done; and here is our last arrival before your honoured self. Come forward, Abram Archer, and salute Sir Jasper.”

  The withy-cutter, last seen in the jaws of the dragon, stepped from the throng. He looked still a little dazed, as a man who has just emerged from a dream; but he was laughing and evidently well pleased to find himself among so many old friends in this flourishing settlement.

  “I bring these good people to your notice,” proceeded Nicholas Warrender, “because they are all Pongley-in-the-Marsh folk, and you may by chance have heard their names.”

  “I heard that they had all been devoured by the Lavender Dragon,” answered Sir Jasper, and his remark awakened hearty merriment.

  “We come here to eat, not to be eaten,” said Hugh Hobanob; “for what is Dragonsville but a glorified Pongley after all?”

  “A Pongley where there is happiness rather than anxiety, health instead of sickness, abundance in place of scarcity,” added the seneschal. “Here we work, but never for ourselves. Note that. Perceive, for instance, our gardens. I will show them to you.”

  The company stepped into the air and many walked beside Sir Jasper as he accompanied his guide.

  “We are great gardeners,” continued the seneschal. “Yet nobody ever does a day’s work in his own. Everybody applies his best energies and skill to the garden of somebody else. To cultivate your garden is very good, and we are well advised to do so, but how much better to cultivate the garden of your neighbour! It is, in fact, one of our greatest delights to create horticultural surprises for our friends.”

  “Surely confusion might arise and disappointment, since tastes differ on this subject as on every other,” suggested the knight.

  “Confusion does arise,” admitted Nicholas. “Thus he who hoped for radishes may find a superfluity of turnips in his garth; while the lover of kale is snowed under with endive, or spring onions. But what of it? Nothing results save cheerful laughter, and never was a better joke than when Jane Blee, who is devoted to the carrot and parsnip, discovered her garden patch obliterated under tansy and alkanet. Even L.D., who sees a joke with utmost difficulty, laughed long at Jane. But what did she do? Why, seek the gardens of her neighbours and help herself to all that she desired. For our good things are in common and our chief delight is to give of our best where it will be most appreciated. This principle runs through all our rule of living. It actuates old and young; it is the mainspring of Dragonsville: hence the brightness of our faces and the heartiness of our laughter.”

  “And what is the underlying impulse of this curious vagary?” inquired the visitor. “How call you this spirit which accounts for your well doing and well being?”

  “For particulars you must listen to L.D.,” replied the grey-beard. “And when I say ‘L.D.,’ think it no term of undue familiarity, or disrespect. Thus we all speak of the Lavender Dragon, both behind and before his face. It was his own idea, for we were desirous of a more respectable and sonorous title. Indeed we offered him a crown once, and on that occasion he did indeed laugh—so riotously that he blew down a score of houses and devastated several acres of his own favourite food—I mean kidney beans. But he declined the diadem; he would not even accept the office of President. ‘I am,’ said our dragon, ‘just “L.D.” to all of you, no more, no less. Your friend, so long as you will permit it, your well-wisher and your companion in this arduous business of living out the years of our lives with dignity, energy and common advantage.’ ”

  “And tell me of Lilian Lovenot,” begged Sir Jasper. “She, too, was a Pongley maiden, and I assure you that her disappearance caused much bitter feeling, for she was loved and cherished and held the pride and top flower of all the hamlet.”

  The seneschal’s face fell.

  “It may be so. L.D. rarely errs; but it is true that once, or perhaps twice, he has brought among us those who showed an inclination to return whence they came. His rule, however, is to seek out only the lonely, the sad, the failures, the care-worn and life-stained people, or the young who are unwanted and unloved—all such as have only heard of happiness.”

  “Hence his predilection for orphans, no doubt,” murmured Sir Jasper.

  “Exactly. In the case of Lilian, L.D. judged that she would be happier here, because, among us, are not a few of her own standing and rank. For he was aware that the Lovenots were no parents of hers. He thought, therefore, of her own happiness, and I fear rather overlooked the pleasure she already gave to others—a singular lapse from his own standards. Pongley’s loss was, however, Lilian’s gain. She is exceedingly joyous at present, lives in the Castle and ministers no little to L.D.’s own content; for, while the bulk of us are only concerned to make each other happy, and so indirectly please the master of Dragonsville, a few of the more learned and cultured—such as can speak wisely, or sing harmoniously—spend a measure of their time with him. He delights in music a
nd story-telling, and his chief material pleasure is to sit in the great central fountain and let the jet beat down upon him as it falls. This is not always good for him, however. He is much afflicted with gout, and the distemper will carry him off some day. These fields on our right are entirely devoted to growing Colchicum Autumnale, a crocus of the fall, from whose roots and seeds our doctor compounds the medicine to lessen L.D.’s sufferings.”

  They sauntered through the little, cobbled streets presently, where folk were busy about their affairs.

  “We are, of course, a pastoral people,” explained the seneschal, “but there is a certain amount of industrial activity among us also and we are self-supporting in every way. We grow our herds, weave and spin our wool, delve into the earth for iron and make of it our needful implements. Life is simple here, because the need for money does not exist; and even if it did, to save were impossible by reason of the law that directs and controls everything. ‘Giving,’ is the watchword here, and ‘getting’ conveys no impression to the rising generation; while, to us elders, this business of ‘getting’ merely signifies that reactionary and unsocial process which keeps the outer world so short of the content and happiness we enjoy. But hither comes the merry man of the castle. L.D. is probably anxious to see you and sends his messenger.”

  It was so, and Sir Jasper learned from a jester, who now approached, that his presence in the great Hall of Reception would be welcome.

  The buffoon was by no means as cheerful as many of his companions; but only a facial accident explained his apparent depression. He was a dry bird, by the name of Dicky Gollop, and he explained to Sir Jasper how, on an occasion of hawking with his former master, he had made a jest which the baron, who owned him, took in bad part.

  “Before I could explain my point,” said Dicky, “the dull old dog alighted from his horse, directed a dozen varlets to pinion me against a tree, then beat me with the flat face of his sword until I lost consciousness. There he left me, still crucified to the pine, and there I must have perished but for L.D., who, passing that way, saved the situation. I regained my understanding in Dragonsville and rejoiced to abide here. I have but one daily regret, and honestly I believe that I am the only member of the community who regrets anything at all.”