Antal Szerb - Love in a Bottle

The spirit perched on the edge of the bed — this was Klingsor’s chance. He grabbed the pincers and gripped it firmly by the neck. Love uttered a few squawks and dropped the mirror.

The noise woke Lancelot — always a light sleeper. In an instant he was on his feet, his hand on the sword drawn from under the pillow, and he started towards Klingsor. When he realised who was standing there he lowered the weapon, feeling at once confused and rather suspicious.

“Is that you, Klingsor?” Lancelot was sorry to have caught his host in such an embarrassing situation.

“Yes… I came in… I thought I’d see how you were sleeping.”

“But why have you got those pincers in your hand?”

“Well, you know, if an insect happened to be disturbing your sleep, I could catch it.”

“You’d use a thing like that to catch it? I find a sheet of paper works very well.”

“I’m very squeamish by nature.”

“And have you caught anything?”

“Oh, yes… but nothing important.”

And he showed him the Love spirit.

“Phew, it’s ugly,” said Lancelot, and he lay down again, still feeling rather doubtful.

Klingsor went back to his room. He stuffed the spirit into a bottle, carefully capped it with some parchment and string and stamped it with the royal seal of Solomon. On the side he attached a little label bearing the words “ Amor, amoris , masc.”, and placed it up on a shelf with the other bottles of spirits. The Love spirit swam round and round in the liquid, like a mournful frog. Satisfied with his night’s work, Klingsor went back to bed.

“If only I could do such a good deed every day,” he sighed earnestly, and quickly fell asleep.

The next day Lancelot woke to something remarkable: the sun was already high in the sky. He was so astonished he simply remained where he was, not moving, for ages. For the last seven years he had woken every day at dawn and leapt out of bed in a state of frantic anxiety, and now he felt little inclination even to get up. He dressed very slowly, and gave little thought to putting his long curls in order. As for shaving, he just didn’t bother.

“I look quite elegant enough for the dragon,” he thought to himself.

Eventually he made his way down to breakfast. Klingsor gave him a delighted reception.

“How did you sleep? And what did you dream about?” he wanted to know.

“What? Oh, yes, that I lost my spurs in a muddy field.”

“That’s a pity. Because the first dream you have in an unfamiliar place usually comes true.”

“That would be a shame. You know, what with the price of wheat these days, my estates aren’t doing as well as they used to, and I really hate unnecessary expense.”

“It might have been better if you had dreamt of the fair Queen.”

The colour drained from Lancelot’s face. It was true! For the last seven years he had dreamt of Guinevere every night, and now… he had even left her blessed name out of his morning prayers, for the simple reason that he had entirely forgotten to say them. And he’d been awake for a whole hour, and if the magician hadn’t mentioned her he wouldn’t have given her a moment’s thought.

Still in a daze, he took his leave of Klingsor and set off for the road that wound up the mountain. The magician stood waving after him.

“Not happy yet,” he murmured, stroking his beard. “He still hasn’t noticed the blissful transformation inside him. But sure enough, in time he’ll come to bless an old man’s memory.”

And he sobbed with emotion.

Lancelot trotted along the road for several hours, deep in thought. Then the way turned into a little beechwood. A woman on a donkey was approaching from the opposite direction. Before her and behind, the donkey’s back was piled high with fine-looking loaves. A baker’s wife, evidently.

“God give you good day,” he called out politely. The knight without a stain always made a point of greeting women first, including peasant women. The baker’s wife returned his greeting.

The wench was not unattractive. Indeed, her plump, homely manner had a fragrance of its own, like the bread.

“Aha, you must be Amalasuntha,” Lancelot began. “Didn’t your late grandfather make wafers for the Bishop, and didn’t you offer three candles last Easter so that you might see the Archangel Gabriel face to face?”

“No,” the woman replied.

“Ah, then your name can only be Merethén. Two of your four children have died of smallpox, but the third is doing wonderfully well. There is a blue hedgehog on the sign over your shop, and you are rather partial to trout?”

“No,” the woman replied.

“Right, that’s enough small talk,” said Lancelot. He dismounted, tied the woman’s donkey to a tree and lifted her down from its back. The loaves on either side stayed where they were.

Some time later they returned to the highway. Lancelot helped her back up onto the donkey, settled her in between the loaves, untied the beast and sent it off down the road. He stood for a while waving after them in a friendly fashion, then mounted his steed and continued on his way.

But he had gone barely five hundred paces when he suddenly tugged on the horse’s bit and stopped, rooted to the spot. He took out a finely embroidered kerchief and mopped his brow. It was dripping with cold sweat.

The penny had dropped.

“Everything seems to confirm,” he said quietly, “that I desire other women than the divine Guinevere.” He remained there for a whole hour, wondering what the explanation might be. During this time, to his horror and embarrassment, the image of the baker’s wife kept rising up before his mind’s eye, followed by a succession of others — a captain’s widow, two grape-picking wenches, a person of ill repute, and Guinevere’s three chambermaids. Only the Queen was missing.

In deep gloom he continued on his way until sunset. As night began to fall he passed through a rather charming little town with a handsome, high-roofed inn calling itself the Famous Griffin. He would gladly have stopped there for dinner, but it would have meant being late for the dragon. It usually emerged from its cave only in the early hours of darkness, to drink.

He arrived at a grim wood, where the strange shape of the trees, the dark green cliffs and fearsome airborne cries signalled the proximity of danger. He steadied the lance in his hand and, following his instinct, rode directly into the place where the air of menace seemed greatest. Only then did he begin to wonder why he had not encountered a single shepherd or ancient mountaineer warning him to proceed no further.

The way was precipitous, and, tormented by hunger, he was becoming ever more impatient. Finally he came across a great pile of human bones. At the start of the next turning he could see a cave. To the expert eye its shape betrayed, quite unmistakably, that it was tailor-made for a dragon. Bearing his lance stiffly before him (he had earlier taken care to remove the little English flag) he advanced warily.

But who could describe the rage he felt when, on reaching the entrance, he spotted a large notice announcing in flowery Gothic lettering that the dragon had since moved house, and now resided in the cave under the peak popularly known as the Dead Mountains’ Carnival Doughnut?

Lancelot knew only too well that the Dead Mountains lay some twenty miles to the north, and that, moreover, with its many precipitous ranges and three infamous passes where thieves waited to plunder travellers, the route, even ignoring the poor transport arrangements of the period, was not generally considered a very agreeable one.

After much humming and hawing, he turned his horse round, went back and stopped for the night at the Famous Griffin. Dinner began with some white breast of chicken, finely sliced, followed by a large carp, a highly spiced and very tasty leg of veal, some rather unusual regional pastries and a basket of superb apples. The wine was no less satisfactory. But the greatest surprise of all was that he wasn’t miserable.