‘What a pity I can’t grant his request!’ said the Princess, when she had finished. ‘I like him. I like him for not wanting to offer up his life for me. I like him for thinking that women have other interests than watching men gratify their vanity by running into danger. I like him because he credits me with intelligence. I like him because he considers my feelings, and longs to be near me when there is no glory to be gained by it. I like him because he would study my moods and find out what I needed, and care for me for all the day long, even when I was in no particular danger. I like him because he would love me without a whole population of terrified half-wits egging him on! I like him for a thousand things—I think I love him.’
‘Your Highness! Your Highness!’ said the magician, stirring uneasily. ‘Remember the terms of the spell.’
‘Repeat them: I have forgotten.’
‘If he loves you
And you love not,
Your suitor’s life’s
Not worth a jot,’
sang the magician cheerfully.
‘That’s all we need to know,’ sighed the Princess, who really recollected the spell perfectly. ‘It always happens that way, and always will. But go on.’
‘If he loves you
And you love him,
I cannot tell
What Chance may bring,’
chanted the magician in a lower tone.
‘But if the “he” were Conrad,’ said the Princess teasingly, ‘surely you could make a guess? And now for the last condition.’
The magician’s voice sank to a whisper:
‘If you love him
And he reject you,
A thousand spells
Will not protect you.’
‘Ha! Ha!’ cried the Princess, rocking with laughter so that the shadow on the wall flickered like a butterfly over a flower, ‘all the same I love this Conrad!’
‘He’s but a lad, your Highness, barely turned seventeen.’
‘The best age—I love him.’
‘He’s a slothful sort, his letter shows; a dreamer, not a man.’
‘I love him.’
‘While you were reading, I summoned his likeness here—he is ill-favoured—has lost a front tooth.’
‘Regular features are my abhorrence—I love him.’
‘He is sandy-haired and freckled and untidy in his dress.’
‘Never mind, I love him.’
‘He is self-willed and obstinate; his parents can do nothing with him.’
‘I could: I love him.’
‘He likes insects and crawling things: his pockets are full of spiders and centipedes.’
‘I shall love them for his sake.’
‘He cares for waterfalls and flowers and distant views.’
‘I love him more than ever!’
‘But,’ said the magician, suddenly grave, ‘I’m not sure that he loves you.’
‘Ah!’ cried the Princess, jubilation in her voice. ‘I love him most of all for that!’
There was a pause. The shadow on the wall swooned from the oppression of its beauty, and slid to the floor.
‘But of course he loves me,’ the Princess murmured to herself.
‘Everyone does, and so must he.’
She looked up at the magician for confirmation; but he had gone. Then she saw that something was missing.
‘Magician! Magician!’ she cried. ‘You’ve taken my Conrad’s letter. I want it back!’
But the magician, if he heard her, did not answer.
Conrad’s suggestion, when published in the papers, produced a disagreeable impression. It was called mawkish and unmanly and insulting to the dignity of the Princess. Forester’s Son Wants To Be Male Nurse, ran the headline. However, the letter was so inept, it could not be taken seriously. Conrad was evidently a little weak in the head. The Princess had all the virtues, but especially two: courage and unselfishness. Naturally she would have liked company in the hour of trial—and many were ready to offer it, from the King downwards: she had no need of the services of a woodman’s unlicked cub. But she preferred to spare her friends the sight of her mental and physical anguish. It was the best she could do, she said in her gracious, winning way, to soften the burden a miserable fate had cast, through her, upon her countrymen. So she retired and encountered her dark destiny alone, with the aid of such courage as she could summon. Conrad, the article concluded charitably, was no doubt too thick in the head to understand such delicacy of feeling; but surely his parents might have stopped him from making a fool of himself in public: the noble example of his brothers might have stopped him.
Conrad was too miserable after Rudolph’s death to mind cutting a sorry figure in the public eye. Fortunately for him he had few acquaintances and spent much time in the woods alone; so at first he was scarcely aware of his unpopularity. But the neighbours were quick to point out to his parents what a dishonour their son had brought on the district; it has set the whole province by the ears, they said, and started a government inquiry as to why our part of the world has been so backward in sending volunteers to fight the Dragon. This touched to the quick many people who had never heard of Conrad, and who now realized they might be called on to display their heroism in front of the castle, whether they would or no; for it was whispered that there might be an official round-up of likely young men.
His father and mother did their best to keep all this from Conrad. They were hurt and puzzled by his action, but they knew what a blow his brother’s death had been, and did not want to distress him needlessly. But as he walked about the woods, especially at night-time, he would hear a stone go whizzing by him, or see a stick break at his feet; and demanding the cause of these attentions from one of the culprits, a lad rather smaller than himself, he was told very fully and in words that hurt. His foolish letter had got the place a bad name and he himself was this, that, and the other.
Conrad tried to take no notice and go his own way. But after five years in increasing calamity, the temper of the people had changed. True, the Princess found champions enthusiastic as ever; but they were men of a different kidney, always discovering good reasons why others should go out to battle and they themselves remain at home. These busybodies could not let Conrad alone, and Conrad, who was enjoying life far less than five years ago had seemed possible, saw there was only one thing to do. He must challenge the Dragon himself.
He did not go into training, as his brothers had done, with walks before breakfast and nourishing, unappetising food; he did not, if he chanced to spy a fantastic-looking bush, set spurs to his horse and with a wild cry aim at it with his axe. Had he made the experiment he would have fallen off, for his horsemanship had not improved. Nor did he spend his savings on the purchase of costly weapons, and a military equipment of plume, breastplate, and golden epaulette, to charm the spectator’s eye. His preparations were quite simple and only one of them cost him thought. This was the speech he would have to make at the foot of the steps.
He knew that it must be a declaration of love, or the Dragon would ignore it. But since Rudolph’s death, his indifference to the Princess had deepened into positive dislike, almost hatred. He could not bring himself to say he loved her, even without meaning it. So he set himself to devise a form of words which would sound to the greedy, stupid Dragon sufficiently like praise, but to him, the speaker, would mean something quite different. When this was done, there still remained one thing: to leave his savings to Charlotte, his brother’s fiancée. These last few weeks, when no one had a kind word for him, and even his parents seemed neutral, she had gone out of her way to be nice to him.
A letter came written on parchment under a great red seal, calling him by flattering and endearing terms, and fixing three o’clock as the hour for the contest. Conrad started early, before the November morning was well astir. He was riding the horse his father had lent him: the Dragon did not fancy horsemeat. Conrad would have felt safer on foot, but besides his luncheon he had an axe to carry, and the castle was seven
teen miles away. He was wearing his old suit, as it seemed a pity to spoil his best one. As he went along, mostly walking, but occasionally trotting if the horse stumbled, people stopped work or came out of their houses to look at him. They knew why he was there and though they did not cheer or clap, they did not insult or ridicule him, which was some comfort.
But when six hours later the portals of the ravine opened before him, the castle burst into view, and the whole scene branded so long on his memory renewed itself, and at such dreadfully close quarters, his heart sank. He had not been able to eat his luncheon and still carried it (having been taught not to throw food away) in a satchel hung round his neck. This embarrassed him, for he thought the onlookers would laugh. But at present there were very few onlookers; the spectacle had become so common, it hardly awakened any interest.
Soon he was near enough to the flight of stairs to be able to distinguish the separate steps, and the crowd began to thicken somewhat. A little boy blew a sudden blast on a tin trumpet in the very ear of Conrad’s horse. It pranced about in alarm, and Conrad, clutching wildly at its mane and neck, was ignominiously thrown. He was rather shaken, but not too much shaken to hear the crowd laugh and ask each other what sort of champion was this, who couldn’t sit on his horse properly.
Conrad dared not remount his horse for fear of falling off; and a good-natured man offered to lead it for him, a few paces in the rear, so that he could get on if he liked. He was glad to be rid of it on such easy terms. But he was aware of cutting an awkward figure on foot, in dusty clothes, trailing an axe which he tried to use as a walking-stick. The crowd, who liked its champions gay, reckless, and handsome, received him coldly. He felt they grudged their admiration and withheld their good-will. Once at school, through hard work and industry, he had won a prize. To receive it he had to pass through a long lane of his schoolfellows. They applauded for a moment—it was the rule—and then fell to staring at him critically and resentfully. He remembered the scene.
But in the castle the Princess Hermione, her face pressed against the window-pane, watched every inch of his progress. ‘It’s he, it’s Conrad. I knew it was!’ she cried. ‘You must let me wait another moment, Magician. Just one more moment!’
Conrad was trying to distract his mind by repeating over and over the address he meant to deliver to the Princess. When he was nervous his memory always betrayed him. He had a copy of the speech in his cap, to read if his mind became a blank. He wished he could do something to propitiate the spectators, besides smiling nervously at them; he knew that his tactics with the Dragon would shock them, for he carried in his pocket a phial of chloroform, wrapped in a handkerchief; he meant to break and wave this in the Dragon’s face before using the steel. Suddenly he was aware that the horse was no longer following. The man had drawn it to one side and was standing in front of it, his hands over its eyes. The crowd had fallen back. Conrad had reached the steps. The castle clock struck three.
He knelt down, took off his cap, and said:
‘Most Wonderful Princess,
‘This is a moment I have long looked forward to, with what feelings you best may guess. The many who have knelt before me have been eloquent in your praise; who am I to add a syllable to their tributes? But I know it is not the words you value, most discerning Princess, but the heart that inspires them.’
At this moment the rock heaved, the Dragon came forth and hung over Conrad with lolling tongue. He could feel its hot breath on his cheek. The words died on his lips, he stared wildly round, then remembered the cue in his cap, and went on without looking up.
‘All have loved you well, but some (dare I say it?) have voiced their love less happily than others. They said: “This my love, though great, is but an acorn that will grow with years into an oak.” But when I remember what you have done for me: rescued me from the dull round of woodland life; raised me from obscurity into fame; transformed me from a dreamer into a warrior, an idler into a hunter of Dragons; deigned to make yourself the limit of my hopes and the end of my endeavours—I have no words to thank you, and I cannot love you more than I do now!’
The more sensitive in the crowd had already turned away. The hardier spirits, with eyes glued to the scene, saw an unfamiliar thing. The Dragon swayed, dipped, hesitated. Its tongue licked the dust at Conrad’s feet. He, who had hitherto done nothing to defend himself, drew out the handkerchief and threw it awkwardly but with lucky aim, right into the Dragon’s scarlet mouth. The beast roared, snorted, coughed, whimpered, and in a moment looked less terrible. Conrad, taking heart, lifted the axe and struck at the scaly neck towering above him. It was a clumsy blow, unworthy of a woodman, but it found its mark. A torrent of green blood gushed out, evaporating before it reached the ground. The Dragon’s claws lost their hold on the rock, and it sprawled outwards, exposing a long, black tubular body no one had seen till now. The neck dropped to within easy reach of Conrad’s axe, and encouraged by the frenzied cheering behind him, he hacked at it again and again. Its balance lost, the Dragon seemed bewildered and helpless; a child could have tackled it, it was as passive under the axe as a felled tree. Conrad seemed to be having matters all his own way, when suddenly the Dragon made a convulsive movement and wriggled backwards into the rock, which closed over it. Conrad was left in possession of the field.
The crowd stopped cheering; no one quite knew what to do, least of all Conrad, who was still standing by the steps, half-dazed. That the Dragon had retired wounded and discomfited was plain to all; but perhaps it was only biding its time, gathering its strength for a fresh attack. It had so long seemed invincible; they could not believe it was dead.
But when seconds passed and nothing happened, they began to surge round Conrad, weeping and laughing and trying to take his hand. From the castle, too, came signs of rejoicing, a faint cheering and fluttering of handkerchiefs, then a full-throated roar and flags waved from every window. A little throng began to form at the top of the steps, the King in the centre, his sceptre in his hand and his crown on his head. They were all laughing and talking together; it was clear they had never expected Conrad to win, they had made no plans for his reception, and were all rather enjoying the informal meeting. They called and beckoned to Conrad to come up; but he did not understand, so the crowd came behind and pushed him. As he moved up, the King came down, alone; they met in midstair, the King kissed Conrad and embraced him, and they walked up to the castle arm-in-arm.
‘And now I must present you to my daughter,’ the King was saying as they reached the top, and the members of the Court were pressing forward with shining eyes to congratulate the victor of the Dragon. ‘Where is she? She’s away somewhere, she’ll come in a minute. Silly child, she’s missed all the fun.’
‘Hermione! Your Royal Highness!’ called the ladies of the Court, in their light, eager voices, peering into the hall, staring up at the windows. And the crowd, nearly ninety feet below, took up the cry, ‘Hermione! We want Princess Hermione!’ It was an immense crowd now, for all the town was running to the spot, and the volume of sound was terrific. Everyone was delighted with the noise that he or she was making; even the group by the castle door winked and nudged and poked each other in the ribs, while they cried ‘Hermione!’ at the top of their voices. Only Conrad did not join in the cry.
But still she delayed. The crowd shouted itself hoarse; the ladies of the Court coughed and wrinkled up their faces and looked appealingly at each other; the King frowned slightly, for he felt she ought to be here now; but still the Princess did not come.
Then they all burst out excitedly, ‘Where can she be? Let’s go and look for her,’ while others said, ‘No, no, the shock would harm her, we must break it to her gradually.’ There was quite a little confusion and uproar of voices arguing this way and that, stirring the general gaiety to an even higher pitch. They flocked into the castle dividing hither and thither, their silvery laughter lost among the corridors and colonnades.
Conrad had been torn from the King’s side and hurried
into the building before he knew what he was doing. Several people promised to show him the way, but when they had gone a little distance, they forgot about him, and flew off, with shouts of laughter, to join their own friends. Conrad seemed to be alone in the long dark corridor, but when he looked round, there was a man standing at the far end of it. Conrad walked towards him, calling out to him to wait; but the fellow hurried on, though how he could go like that, his face looking backwards all the time, Conrad did not understand.
Through doors, along passages, down steps they went, always with the same distance between them, always getting lower and lower; Conrad felt the cold on his cheeks and hands. At last a door, indistinguishable from the surrounding masonry, opened, showing a room. Conrad followed his guide in, then lost sight of him.
On a couch by the wall lay the Princess, her head turned away, and in the whiteness of her neck a gash dreadful to behold. On the wall above her hung the shadow to which her indescribable beauty had lent a kind of life: it could not long survive her, and just as Conrad took in the perfection of its loveliness, it faded.
He fell on his knees by the couch. How long he knelt, he could not tell, but when he looked up, the room was full of people.
‘You have killed her,’ someone said.
Conrad rose and faced them.
‘I did not kill her: I killed the Dragon!’
The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley Page 26