The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

by Leslie Poles Hartley

  Only the Princess escaped blame. As before, she was alone, no one knew exactly where, at the precise moment of the catastrophe; but when she was found, a few minutes later, half-swooning in her room, her courage impressed everyone. She was soon able to write with her own hand a letter of condolence to the man who had so nearly been her father-in-law; when published in the newspapers, its eloquent phrases touched all hearts. Most miserable of women, she said, she had been the means of bringing death to two brave men—the second perhaps even more promising than the first. But what raised such a fury of protest was her concluding sentence—that she thought she must retire from the world. From all quarters of the country came letters begging her not to, so numerous that special mail-trains had to be run.

  There was no difficulty in finding fresh champions for the Princess; her fame had increased with her misfortunes. She had never been so popular. Public confidence was reinvigorated by the verdict of military experts, who asserted that the disaster could not have happened if the machine-gunners had been properly armed. ‘Give it a few rounds rapid,’ they said, ‘and we shan’t be troubled by it any more.’ The populace believed them. There had been too much muddling along; preparations for the Princess’s coming betrothal must be put in the hands of the military. The commander-in-chief announced that no member of the general public would be admitted to the ceremony, for the Dragon, though its days were now numbered, was still not to be trifled with. The Prince’s escort (he had already been chosen) was to be formed exclusively of picked troops, drilled to perfection and armed with the latest weapons. As they marched along the valley to take up their positions, the sun shone down on thousands of steel helmets: they looked invincible.

  Alas, alas. The Prince had no sooner voiced his passionate plea than the hillside quaked and the Dragon darted out. It was warmly welcomed. Ten thousand soft-nosed rifle bullets must have struck it, and volleys of machine-gun fire, but in vain. The cruel eyes never even blinked. One satisfaction it missed, however. The firing continued long after the Prince was in mid-air. He must have been riddled with bullets, stone-dead, before the Dragon got him into its lair. He had been killed by his own defenders, a possibility that had never entered into the calculations of the military authorities.

  To chronicle the events of the next two years is a grievous task, and one that the historian would gladly skip. The country went through a miserable time. The supply of eligible Princes would not last for ever, so it was decided to accept the offers of champions who, though of good birth, were more remarkable for valour than for rank. Supposing it did not fall to the spear of the first, seven different warriors were to engage the Dragon on seven successive days. If it survived these encounters, it would at any rate be tired, and in no fit state to engage the Prince of royal blood, though of no great personal prowess, who was to attempt it on the eighth day. But the Dragon was not exhausted at all; it seemed to have profited from practice, and found the Royal Prince as easy a prey as his seven predecessors.

  So ended the first phase. The country’s nobility shed its blood in gallons and still volunteers pressed forward, drawn from its thinning ranks. But then began an agitation, founded partly on democratic feeling, partly on the devotion which every man in the country worthy of the name, aye, and many outside it, cherished for the Princess Hermione: why should the glory of her rescue be confined to a privileged class? The King gave his consent; the Chamberlain’s office was nearly stampeded; and at last a blacksmith, a redoubtable fellow, was selected as the People’s Champion against the Dragon.

  Of course there was no thought of his marrying her, nor did he presume to such an honour. As he stood at the foot of the steps accompanied only by a handful of friends who came at their own risk (the public had long since been excluded) he would gladly have allayed his nervousness by saying a few words, if not of love to the Princess at least of defiance to the Dragon. But he was not allowed to speak; and this, much as he resented it at the time, undoubtedly saved his life; for the Dragon did not condescend to appear.

  No, its hate, rage, and lust of blood were clearly reserved for those who really loved the Princess and were in a position to marry her. The Dragon was not the enemy of the people, but the enemy of the Princess.

  As soon as this was realized, there was obviously only one thing to do, and the King gave his consent to it, though sorely against his will. Anyone, of whatever station in life, who could kill the Dragon, should marry the Princess and have half the kingdom as well.

  As always when a last desperate step is taken, hope surged up to greet the new proposal. It was obviously the right solution; why had no one thought of it before, and saved all this bloodshed? Enthusiasm ran high; combats were of almost daily occurrence; and in each one, though the upshot was always the same, the newspapers (seeing that they ran no risk, the public was again admitted to the scene) found some encouraging circumstance: the Dragon had lost a tooth, or its inky crest was streaked with grey, or it was a second late in appearing, or it was fat and slow with good living, or it had grinned and looked almost benevolent. The unfortunate heroes had displayed this one a neat piece of foot-work, that, a shrewd thrust which might have pierced the side of a ship: while they were all commended for some original phrase, some prettily-turned compliment in the address to the Princess.

  Not the least part of the whole ordeal was the framing of this preliminary speech; it was the only way by which the competitors could measure their skill against each other, since their performances against the Dragon hardly differed at all. There was no doubt the Dragon disliked hearing the Princess praised; the more ardent and graceful the language in which she was wooed, the more vigorous was its onslaught.

  Leo, Conrad’s brother, was one of the first to volunteer, but his actual encounter with the Dragon tarried because he lacked scholarship to put into words the love that burned in him. But his production, to judge from the zest with which the monster gobbled him up, must have had some literary merit. Conrad missed his fiery, impatient brother. Little had his parents realized that the Dragon, which had seemed an affair for Kings and Queens and Governments, would take its toll from them. But their pride in their son’s sacrifice upheld them, and lessened their grief.

  Conrad, however, grew more despondent daily. He dreaded lest Rudolph, his favourite brother, should take it into his head to challenge the Dragon. Rudolph was less hot-headed than Leo and—surely a great safeguard—he was engaged to be married. Married men were prohibited (or, as Conrad put it to himself, exempted) from Dragon-baiting—though more than one, concealing his true condition, had gone out to meet a bachelor’s death.

  Conrad lost no opportunity of urging the charms of Charlotte, his brother’s sweetheart; in and out of season he proclaimed them and begged Rudolph to marry her. In his anxiety for his brother’s safety he more than once let drop a disparaging remark about the Princess, comparing her unfavourably to Charlotte. Rudolph told him to shut up or he would get himself into trouble: a madman who had spoken disrespectfully of the Princess had been torn to pieces by the mob.

  ‘Of course the Princess is beautiful,’ Conrad admitted, ‘but she is fair: you told me you only admired dark women. Promise me you will marry Charlotte before the month is out.’

  ‘How can I?’ asked Rudolph, ‘when I’ve no money and no home to take her to?’

  Conrad knew that this was not strictly true; his brother was a gay young man, but he had some money laid by. Conrad, though he earned little, spent nothing at all.

  ‘If you marry her a fortnight from to-day,’ he begged, ‘you shall all my savings, and I will be a forester instead of going to the University.’

  It cost him something to say this, but Rudolph answered with his light laugh:

  ‘Keep your money, my dear Conrad, you will want it when your comes to fight the Dragon.’

  This was not very encouraging, and Conrad began to ask himself was there no other way of keeping Rudolph out of harm’s reach. The King had offered an enormous prize to anyon
e who could suggest a solution to the Dragon problem, and many women, cripples, elderly men and confirmed husbands had sent in suggestions. One was that the intending suitor should visit the castle in disguise. This was turned down because, even if the man got safely in, the Dragon would still be at large. Another proposed that the Royal Magician should give place to one more competent. To this the Home Secretary replied that it was a bad plan to change horses in mid-stream; the Magician had a worldwide reputation; he had performed many noteworthy feats in the past, he knew the lay-out of the castle as no one else did, and he was a close friend of Princess Hermione: it would be cruel to deprive her of his presence.

  Most of the proposals, though meant helpfully, only put the authorities’ backs up, implying as they did some dissatisfaction with the way things were being handled. One malcontent even dared to remark that at this rate the Princess would never get married. The newspapers made fun of him and he lost his job.

  ‘If only I could get inside the castle,’ thought Conrad, ‘I might be able to do something. But I shall have to be very tactful.’

  He began to write, but the pen would not answer to his thoughts. It seemed to have a will of its own, which was struggling against his. Instead of the valuable suggestion he wanted to make, a message of very different import kept appearing on the paper, in broken phrases like, ‘my life to your service,’ ‘no better death than this.’ Tired of trying to control it, he let the pen run on; when it stopped, he found he had written a little love-address to the Princess, very like those printed between heavy black lines (almost every day now) in the memorial columns of the newspapers. Puzzled, he threw the thing aside and applied himself to his task. Now it went better; he signed it, wrote ‘The Princess Hermione’ on the envelope and took it to the post. It would be some days before it reached her, if it ever did; she must have so many letters to deal with.

  When he got home he found Rudolph in the room. He was standing by the table holding something in his hand.

  ‘Ha, ha!’ said he, ‘I’ve found you out.’

  Conrad could not imagine what he meant.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Rudolph, putting his hands behind his back .’You’ve been deceiving me. You’re in love with the Princess. You’ve been trying to persuade me not to fight the Dragon because you want the glory of killing it yourself.’

  Rudolph was laughing, but Conrad cried out in agitation, ‘No, no, you don’t understand.’

  ‘Well, listen then,’ said Rudolph, and he began to read Conrad’s declaration of love to the Princess; mockingly at first, then more seriously, and finally with a break in his voice and tears standing in his eyes.

  They were silent for a moment, then Conrad held out his hand for the paper. But Rudolph would not part with it.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Conrad pleaded. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘What do you want it for?’ asked Rudolph.

  ‘I want to burn it!’ cried Conrad recklessly.

  ‘No, no!’ said Rudolph, half laughing and gently pushing his brother away. ‘I must have it—it may come in useful—who knows.’

  He went out, taking the paper with him. Conrad felt uncomfortable; somehow he guessed he had done a silly thing.

  He had. Two days later Rudolph casually announced that he had sent in his name as a candidate for the privilege of freeing Princess Hermione from her tormentor and that his application had been accepted.

  ‘It’s fixed for Thursday,’ he remarked gaily. ‘Poor old Dragon.’

  His mother burst into tears, his father left the room and did not come back for an hour; but Conrad sat in his chair, without noticing what was going on round him. At last he said:

  ‘What about Charlotte?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rudolph airily, ‘she’s anxious for me to go. She’s not like you pretend to be. She’s sorry for the Princess. “I expected you’d want to go,” she said to me. “I shall be waiting for you when you come back.” ’

  ‘Was that all?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘Oh, she gave me her blessing.’

  Conrad pondered. ‘Did you tell her you were in love with the Princess?’ he asked at length.

  Rudolph hesitated. ‘I couldn’t very well tell her that, could I? It wouldn’t have been kind. Besides, I’m not really in love with the Princess, of course: that’s the difficulty. It was that speech you wrote—you know’ (Conrad nodded) ‘made me feel I was. I shall just try to be in love with her as long as the combat lasts. If I wasn’t, you know, the Dragon wouldn’t come out and I should miss my chance. But,’ he added more cheerfully.’I shall recite your address, and that will deceive it.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Oh, then I shall just come back and marry Charlotte. She understands that. You can give us some of your money if you like. I won’t take it all. I’m not greedy.’

  He went off whistling. Conrad’s heart sank. He knew his brother’s moods: this careless manner betokened that his mind was made up.

  Who the first founder of the royal castle was, and when he built it, no one precisely knew. The common people ascribed its origin to the whim of some god or hero; and professional historians, though they scoffed at this idea, had no definite theory to put in its place—at least none that they all agreed upon. But the castle had been many times rebuilt, at the bidding of changing fashions, and of the present edifice it was doubtful whether any part was more than a thousand years old. Its position on the solitary rock, defended by precipices on all sides save one, gave it so much natural strength that it was generally considered impregnable. According to common report, there were more rooms hollowed out of the rock than built of stones and mortar. Later architects, taking advantage of this, had concentrated their efforts on giving a grace and elegance to the exterior that no other fortress could boast, adorning it with turrets and balconies of an aery delicacy and windows embellished with the richest tracery their imaginations could devise. Windows that generously admitted the sun into wide, spacious rooms, the damasks and brocades of which, thus exposed to the noonday glare, had need of constant renewal.

  But the Princess Hermione had chosen for her favourite sitting-room a chamber in another part of the castle, so deeply embedded in the rock that the light of day reached it only by an ingenious system of reflectors. Nor could you tell what the season was, for a fire burned there all the year round. The room was not easy of access, nor did the Princess mean it to be. There was one known way into it, by a narrow, winding stair; but if report could be believed, there were several ways out—dark passages leading probably to bolt-holes in the rock. For years no one had troubled to explore them, but they had a fascination for the Princess, who knew them by heart and sometimes surprised her parents by appearing suddenly before them, apparently from nowhere.

  She was sitting by the fireside, deep in a chair, and looking at some papers, which neither the firelight nor the twilight reflected down from above quite allowed her to read. Suddenly a shadow fell across the page and she could see nothing. The Princess looked up: a man was standing in front of her, shutting out the firelight; she knew no more than you or I how he had got there, but she was not surprised to see him.

  ‘Well,’ said the magician, for it was he. ‘Are you still unsatisfied?’

  The Princess turned her head, hidden by the chair-back, invisible to us; but the shadow of her features started up on the wall, a shadow so beautiful that (report said) it would not disappear when the Princess turned again, but clung on with a life of its own, until dissolved by the magician.

  ‘Yesterday, at any rate, was a success,’ the Princess murmured.

  ‘Will you read me what he said?’ asked the magician.

  ‘Give me some light,’ she commanded, and the room began to fill with radiance.

  The Princess turned over the papers in her lap.

  ‘Rudolph, Rudolph,’ she muttered. ‘Here he is—Do you really want to hear what the poor oaf says?’

  ‘Is it like the others?’

  ‘Exactly the same, only a pa
rticularly fine specimen.’

  Though she tried to make her voice sound unconcerned, the Princess spoke with a certain relish; and her silhouette, stretched upon the wall, trembled and changed and became less pleasing. She turned and noticed it.

  ‘Oh, there’s that thing at its tricks again,’ she sighed irritably. ‘Take it away.’

  The shadow faded.

  ‘Well,’ she said, settling herself again in the depths of her chair. ‘Here it is.’

  Her voice, slightly mimicking the peasants’ burr, was delicious to hear.

  ‘ “Most Gracious Princess: Men have been known to pity the past and dread the future, never, it seems to me, with much reason until now. But now I say, in the past there was no Princess Hermione; in the future, in the far future, dearest angel (may you live for ever), there will be none; none to live for, none to die for. Therefore I say, Wretched Past! Miserable Future! And I bless this present hour in which Life and Death are one, one act in your service, one poem in your honour!’

  The Princess paused: then spoke in her own voice.

  ‘Didn’t he deserve eating?’

  ‘Your Highness, he did.’

  ‘But now,’ she continued in a brisker tone, ‘I’ve got something different to read to you. Altogether different. In fact I’ve never received anything like it before.’

  The shadow, which, like a dog that dreads reproof but cannot bear its banishment, had stolen back to the wall, registered a tiny frown on the Princess’s forehead.