Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

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 particularly 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.

For the letter was certainly an odd one. The writer admitted frankly that he was not brave, nor strong, nor skilled in arms. He was afraid of a mouse, so what could he do against a dragon? The Princess was a lady of high intelligence, she would be the first to see the futility of such a sacrifice. She was always in his thoughts, and he longed to do some tiny service for her. He could not bear to think of her awaiting alone the issue of the combat between her champion and the Dragon. The strain must be terrible. He would count himself ever honoured if she would allow him to bear her company, even behind a screen, even outside the door, during those agonising moments.