The Penguin Book of Dragons

by The Penguin Book of Dragons (retail) (epub)

  St. George had at last prevailed on his horse to stand steady, and was looking round him as he wiped his brow. Catching sight of the Boy, he smiled and nodded, and held up three fingers for an instant.

  “It seems to be all planned out,” said the Boy to himself. “Round Three is to be the finishing one, evidently. Wish it could have lasted a bit longer. Whatever’s that old fool of a dragon up to now?”

  The dragon was employing the interval in giving a ramping-performance for the benefit of the crowd. Ramping, it should be explained, consists in running round and round in a wide circle, and sending waves and ripples of movement along the whole length of your spine, from your pointed ears right down to the spike at the end of your long tail. When you are covered with blue scales, the effect is particularly pleasing; and the Boy recollected the dragon’s recently expressed wish to become a social success.

  St. George now gathered up his reins and began to move forward, dropping the point of his spear and settling himself firmly in the saddle.

  “Time!” yelled everybody excitedly; and the dragon, leaving off his ramping, sat up on end, and began to leap from one side to the other with huge ungainly bounds, whooping like a Red Indian. This naturally disconcerted the horse, who swerved violently, the Saint only just saving himself by the mane; and as they shot past the dragon delivered a vicious snap at the horse’s tail which sent the poor beast careering madly far over the Downs, so that the language of the Saint, who had lost a stirrup, was fortunately inaudible to the general assemblage.

  Round Two evoked audible evidence of friendly feeling towards the dragon. The spectators were not slow to appreciate a combatant who could hold his own so well and clearly wanted to show good sport; and many encouraging remarks reached the ears of our friend as he strutted to and fro, his chest thrust out and his tail in the air, hugely enjoying his new popularity.

  St. George had dismounted and was tightening his girths, and telling his horse, with quite an Oriental flow of imagery, exactly what he thought of him, and his relations, and his conduct on the present occasion; so the Boy made his way down to the Saint’s end of the line, and held his spear for him.

  “It’s been a jolly fight, St. George!” he said with a sigh. “Can’t you let it last a bit longer?”

  “Well, I think I’d better not,” replied the Saint. “The fact is, your simple-minded old friend’s getting conceited, now they’ve begun cheering him, and he’ll forget all about the arrangement and take to playing the fool, and there’s no telling where he would stop. I’ll just finish him off this round.”

  He swung himself into the saddle and took his spear from the Boy. “Now don’t you be afraid,” he added kindly. “I’ve marked my spot exactly, and he’s sure to give me all the assistance in his power, because he knows it’s his only chance of being asked to the banquet!”

  St. George now shortened his spear, bringing the butt well up under his arm; and, instead of galloping as before, trotted smartly towards the dragon, who crouched at his approach, flicking his tail till it cracked in the air like a great cart-whip. The Saint wheeled as he neared his opponent and circled warily round him, keeping his eye on the spare place; while the dragon, adopting similar tactics, paced with caution round the same circle, occasionally feinting with his head. So the two sparred for an opening, while the spectators maintained a breathless silence.

  Though the round lasted for some minutes, the end was so swift that all the Boy saw was a lightning movement of the Saint’s arm, and then a whirl and a confusion of spines, claws, tail, and flying bits of turf. The dust cleared away, the spectators whooped and ran in cheering, and the Boy made out that the dragon was down, pinned to the earth by the spear, while St. George had dismounted, and stood astride of him.

  It all seemed so genuine that the Boy ran in breathlessly, hoping the dear old dragon wasn’t really hurt. As he approached, the dragon lifted one large eyelid, winked solemnly, and collapsed again. He was held fast to earth by the neck, but the Saint had hit him in the spare place agreed upon, and it didn’t even seem to tickle.

  “Bain’t you goin’ to cut ’is ’ed orf, master?” asked one of the applauding crowd. He had backed the dragon, and naturally felt a trifle sore.

  “Well, not to-day, I think,” replied St. George, pleasantly. “You see, that can be done at any time. There’s no hurry at all. I think we’ll all go down to the village first, and have some refreshment, and then I’ll give him a good talking-to, and you’ll find he’ll be a very different dragon!”

  At that magic word refreshment the whole crowd formed up in procession and silently awaited the signal to start. The time for talking and cheering and betting was past, the hour for action had arrived. St. George, hauling on his spear with both hands, released the dragon, who rose and shook himself and ran his eye over his spikes and scales and things, to see that they were all in order. Then the Saint mounted and led off the procession, the dragon following meekly in the company of the Boy, while the thirsty spectators kept at a respectful interval behind.

  There were great doings when they got down to the village again, and had formed up in front of the inn. After refreshment St. George made a speech, in which he informed his audience that he had removed their direful scourge, at a great deal of trouble and inconvenience to himself, and now they weren’t to go about grumbling and fancying they’d got grievances, because they hadn’t. And they shouldn’t be so fond of fights, because next time they might have to do the fighting themselves, which would not be the same thing at all. And there was a certain badger in the inn stables which had got to be released at once, and he’d come and see it done himself. Then he told them that the dragon had been thinking over things, and saw that there were two sides to every question, and he wasn’t going to do it any more, and if they were good perhaps he’d stay and settle down there. So they must make friends, and not be prejudiced; and go about fancying they knew everything there was to be known, because they didn’t, not by a long way. And he warned them against the sin of romancing, and making up stories and fancying other people would believe them just because they were plausible and highly-coloured. Then he sat down, amidst much repentant cheering, and the dragon nudged the Boy in the ribs and whispered that he couldn’t have done it better himself. Then every one went off to get ready for the banquet.

  Banquets are always pleasant things, consisting mostly, as they do, of eating and drinking; but the specially nice thing about a banquet is, that it comes when something’s over, and there’s nothing more to worry about, and to-morrow seems a long way off. St. George was happy because there had been a fight and he hadn’t had to kill anybody; for he didn’t really like killing, though he generally had to do it. The dragon was happy because there had been a fight, and so far from being hurt in it he had won popularity and a sure footing in society. The Boy was happy because there had been a fight, and in spite of it all his two friends were on the best of terms. And all the others were happy because there had been a fight, and—well, they didn’t require any other reasons for their happiness. The dragon exerted himself to say the right thing to everybody, and proved the life and soul of the evening; while the Saint and the Boy, as they looked on, felt that they were only assisting at a feast of which the honour and the glory were entirely the dragon’s. But they didn’t mind that, being good fellows, and the dragon was not in the least proud or forgetful. On the contrary, every ten minutes or so he leant over towards the Boy and said impressively: “Look here! you will see me home afterwards, won’t you?” And the Boy always nodded, though he had promised his mother not to be out late.

  At last the banquet was over, the guests had dropped away with many good-nights and congratulations and invitations, and the dragon, who had seen the last of them off the premises, emerged into the street followed by the Boy, wiped his brow, sighed, sat down in the road and gazed at the stars. “Jolly night it’s been!” he murmured. “Jolly stars! Jolly little pl
ace this! Think I shall just stop here. Don’t feel like climbing up any beastly hill. Boy’s promised to see me home. Boy had better do it then! No responsibility on my part. Responsibility all Boy’s!” And his chin sank on his broad chest and he slumbered peacefully.

  “Oh, get up, dragon,” cried the Boy, piteously. “You know my mother’s sitting up, and I’m so tired, and you made me promise to see you home, and I never knew what it meant or I wouldn’t have done it!” And the Boy sat down in the road by the side of the sleeping dragon, and cried.

  The door behind them opened, a stream of light illumined the road, and St. George, who had come out for a stroll in the cool night-air, caught sight of the two figures sitting there—the great motionless dragon and the tearful little Boy.

  “What’s the matter, Boy?” he inquired kindly, stepping to his side.

  “Oh, it’s this great lumbering pig of a dragon!” sobbed the Boy. “First he makes me promise to see him home, and then he says I’d better do it, and goes to sleep! Might as well try to see a haystack home! And I’m so tired, and mother’s—” here he broke down again.

  “Now don’t take on,” said St. George. “I’ll stand by you, and we’ll both see him home. Wake up, dragon!” he said sharply, shaking the beast by the elbow.

  The dragon looked up sleepily. “What a night, George!” he murmured; “what a—”

  “Now look here, dragon,” said the Saint, firmly. “Here’s this little fellow waiting to see you home, and you know he ought to have been in bed these two hours, and what his mother’ll say I don’t know, and anybody but a selfish pig would have made him go to bed long ago—”

  “And he shall go to bed!” cried the dragon, starting up. “Poor little chap, only fancy his being up at this hour! It’s a shame, that’s what it is, and I don’t think, St. George, you’ve been very considerate—but come along at once, and don’t let us have any more arguing or shilly-shallying. You give me hold of your hand, Boy—thank you, George, an arm up the hill is just what I wanted!”

  So they set off up the hill arm-in-arm, the Saint, the Dragon, and the Boy. The lights in the little village began to go out; but there were stars, and a late moon, as they climbed to the Downs together. And, as they turned the last corner and disappeared from view, snatches of an old song were borne back on the night-breeze. I can’t be certain which of them was singing, but I think it was the Dragon!

  * * *

  —

  “Here we are at your gate,” said the man, abruptly, laying his hand on it. “Good-night. Cut along in sharp, or you’ll catch it!”

  Could it really be our own gate? Yes, there it was, sure enough, with the familiar marks on its bottom bar made by our feet when we swung on it.

  “Oh, but wait a minute!” cried Charlotte. “I want to know a heap of things. Did the dragon really settle down? And did—”

  “There isn’t any more of that story,” said the man, kindly but firmly. “At least, not to-night. Now be off! Good-bye!”

  “Wonder if it’s all true?” said Charlotte, as we hurried up the path. “Sounded dreadfully like nonsense, in parts!”

  “P’raps its true for all that,” I replied encouragingly.

  Charlotte bolted in like a rabbit, out of the cold and the dark; but I lingered a moment in the still, frosty air, for a backward glance at the silent white world without, ere I changed it for the land of firelight and cushions and laughter. It was the day for choir-practice, and carol-time was at hand, and a belated member was passing homewards down the road, singing as he went:—

  Then St. George: ee made rev’rence: in the stable so dim,

  Oo vanquished the dragon: so fearful and grim.

  So-o grim: and so-o fierce: that now may we say

  All peaceful is our wakin’: on Chri-istmas Day!

  The singer receded, the carol died away. But I wondered, with my hand on the door-latch, whether that was the song, or something like it, that the dragon sang as he toddled contentedly up the hill.

  YOUR KINDNESS QUITE UNDRAGONS ME1

  No author of children’s literature rivalled the industry of the English writer Edith Nesbit (1858–1924), who wrote dozens of stories for young people at the turn of the twentieth century. While Nesbit is best known for her influential fantasy novel The Five Children and It (1902) and its sequels, she also wrote playful short stories featuring dragons as farcical villains. Many of these appeared in The Strand Magazine in the 1890s and were published as a collection called The Book of Dragons in 1901. Later in her career, Nesbit composed a story about a princess and a dragon who rebelled against the roles of victim and villain imposed upon them by the literary tradition and chose instead to become friends. This tale, “The Last of the Dragons,” was published posthumously in 1925.

  Of course you know that dragons were once as common as motor-omnibuses are now, and almost as dangerous. But as every well-brought-up prince was expected to kill a dragon, and rescue a princess, the dragons grew fewer and fewer till it was often quite hard for a princess to find a dragon to be rescued from. And at last there were no more dragons in France and no more dragons in Germany, or Spain, or Italy, or Russia. There were some left in China, and are still, but they are cold and bronzy, and there were never any, of course, in America. But the last real live dragon left was in England, and of course that was a very long time ago, before what you call English History began. This dragon lived in Cornwall in the big caves amidst the rocks, and a very fine dragon it was, quite seventy feet long from the tip of its fearful snout to the end of its terrible tail. It breathed fire and smoke, and rattled when it walked, because its scales were made of iron. Its wings were like half-umbrellas—or like bat’s wings, only several thousand times bigger. Everyone was very frightened of it, and well they might be.

  Now the King of Cornwall had one daughter, and when she was sixteen, of course she would have to go and face the dragon: such tales are always told in royal nurseries at twilight, so the Princess knew what she had to expect. The dragon would not eat her, of course—because the prince would come and rescue her. But the Princess could not help thinking it would be much pleasanter to have nothing to do with the dragon at all—not even to be rescued from him.

  “All the princes I know are such very silly little boys,” she told her father. “Why must I be rescued by a prince?”

  “It’s always done, my dear,” said the King, taking his crown off and putting it on the grass, for they were alone in the garden, and even kings must unbend sometimes.

  “Father, darling,” said the Princess presently, when she had made a daisy chain and put it on the King’s head, where the crown ought to have been. “Father, darling, couldn’t we tie up one of the silly little princes for the dragon to look at—and then I could go and kill the dragon and rescue the prince? I fence much better than any of the princes we know.”

  “What an unladylike idea!” said the King, and put his crown on again, for he saw the Prime Minister coming with a basket of new-laid Bills for him to sign. “Dismiss the thought, my child. I rescued your mother from a dragon, and you don’t want to set yourself up above her, I should hope?”

  “But this is the last dragon. It is different from all other dragons.”

  “How?” asked the King.

  “Because he is the last,” said the Princess, and went off to her fencing lessons, with which she took great pains. She took great pains with all her lessons—for she could not give up the idea of fighting the dragon. She took such pains that she became the strongest and boldest and most skilful and most sensible princess in Europe. She had always been the prettiest and nicest.

  And the days and years went on, till at last the day came which was the day before the Princess was to be rescued from the dragon. The Prince who was to do this deed of valour was a pale prince, with large eyes and a head full of mathematics and philosophy, but he had unfortunately neglected his fen
cing lessons. He was to stay the night at the palace, and there was a banquet.

  After supper the Princess sent her pet parrot to the Prince with a note. It said:

  “Please, Prince, come on to the terrace. I want to talk to you without anybody else hearing. —The Princess.”

  So, of course, he went—and he saw her gown of silver a long way off shining among the shadows of the trees like water in starlight. And when he came quite close to her he said: “Princess, at your service,” and bent his cloth-of-gold-covered knee and put his hand on his cloth-of-gold-covered heart.

  “Do you think,” said the Princess earnestly, “that you will be able to kill the dragon?”

  “I will kill the dragon,” said the Prince firmly, “or perish in the attempt.”

  “It’s no use your perishing,” said the Princess.

  “It’s the least I can do,” said the Prince.

  “What I’m afraid of is that it’ll be the most you can do,” said the Princess.

  “It’s the only thing I can do,” said he, “unless I kill the dragon.”

  “Why you should do anything for me is what I can’t see,” said she.

  “But I want to,” he said. “You must know that I love you better than anything in the world.”

  When he said that he looked so kind that the Princess began to like him a little.

  “Look here,” she said, “no one else will go out tomorrow. You know they tie me to a rock and leave me—and then everybody scurries home and puts up the shutters and keeps them shut till you ride through the town in triumph shouting that you’ve killed the dragon, and I ride on the horse behind you weeping for joy.”

  “I’ve heard that that is how it is done,” said he.

  “Well, do you love me well enough to come very quickly and set me free—and we’ll fight the dragon together?”