“They came to a palace with a hundred rooms, each more evil than the last, and were met by the king and his demonic courtiers. Infernal music began to play and they began to dance; they danced till their shoes were torn to shreds. The king ordered wine to be served to the guests. The nobleman took a goblet from the tray, drank the wine, and put the goblet in his pocket. At last the party was over; the princesses said farewell to their demon cavaliers, promised to come again the next night, returned home, undressed, and went to sleep.
“The next morning the king summoned the needy nobleman. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘have you discovered what my daughters do every night?’ ‘I have.’ ‘Then where do they go?’ ‘To the underground kingdom, to the accursèd king, and there they dance all night.’ The king went pale with rage and fear and summoned his daughters and began to question them: ‘Where were you last night?’ The princesses denied everything. ‘We did not go anywhere,’ they said. ‘It must be that mice have destroyed our shoes.’ The king said: ‘Have you not been with the accursèd king? This nobleman testifies against you and is ready to offer proof.’ ‘Father, he cannot offer proof, for he slept all night long like the dead.’ The needy nobleman drew the golden flower and the goblet from his pocket. ‘Here is the proof.’ The princesses had no choice but to confess everything to their father. He ordered the passage to the underground kingdom to be bricked up, and married his youngest daughter to the needy nobleman. From the beginning, the nobleman expected nothing of his wife, but as the years passed she gradually became all that his heart could have asked for.”
Chapter Eleven
No one spoke for a time when the abbot’s tale ended. At last the abbot said, his voice slightly quaking, his gentle lips atremble, “There are three basic theories about the world, Prince. One is that it is essentially good, one is that it’s essentially evil, and one is that it’s neutral. What a wise man understands is that none of that is true. The world is a hodge-podge. Our human business, therefore — since our chief attribute is consciousness, and our greatest gift from God is, as Dante said, free will — our human business is to clarify, that is, sort things out, put the good with the good and the evil with the evil and the indifferent with the indifferent. Only when reality is properly sorted out can there be stability or hope for the future in either the individual or the state.”
“Hmm,” said the prince.
“That,” said the abbot, “is the reason you have really no choice, as a prince and a feeling creature, but to kill the dragon Koog.”
“I’m not sure I follow the logic,” the prince said.
“What could be simpler, my dear prince? A dragon is a confusion at the heart of things, a law unto himself. He embraces good, evil, and indifference; in his own nature he makes them indivisible and absolute. He knows who he is. Surely you see that!”
For a moment the prince did not answer; no sound whatever came from him through the darkness. Then: “Perhaps I’m a little tired,” he said.
“Put it this way,” said the abbot. “Dragons all love life’s finer things — music, art, treasure — the works of the spirit; yet in their personal habits they’re foul and bestial — they burn down cathedrals, for instance, and eat maidens — and they see in their whimsical activities no faintest contradiction!” The words made the abbot gasp, as if the deep immorality of dragons was somehow personally threatening. Almost with a snarl the old man continued: “Dragons never grow, never change. Did you ever hear of a dragon committing suicide? Of course not! Believe me, nothing in this world is more despicable than a dragon. They’re a walking — or flying — condemnation of all we stand for, all we pray for for our children, nay, for ourselves. We struggle to improve ourselves, we tortuously balance on the delicate line between our duties to society and our duties within — our duties to God and our own nature.”
He grew more animated. The room was in absolute darkness now, the fire in the hearth had died completely, but Armida could hear the abbot pacing, hurrying back and forth, occasionally bumping into the little table. He continued: “We human beings glimpse lofty ideals, catch ourselves betraying them, and sink to suicidal despair — despair from which only the love of our friends can save us, since friends see in us those nobler qualities we ourselves, out of long familiarity, have forgotten we possess. That, of course, is why the suicidal person is so difficult around his friends. I know all about these things, believe me. I don’t live here at Suicide Leap for nothing! ‘Get rid of all friends,’ thinks the poor mad suicidal, ‘and the end becomes a possibility.’ So he insults his friends, teaches himself to hate them; yet even then secretly he hopes they will save him; even then he reaches out, bawls for new friends! Ah, these contradictions! Fiends are legion, we discover; our noblest hopes grow teeth and pursue us like tigers! Well, never mind; to be human is, inevitably, to hate oneself sometimes, to hunger for the perfect stability and in a way the perfect justice — or at least perfect punishment for our numerous imperfections — called death. What was I talking about? Ah! Yesss, the dragon. Old Koog.”
He stopped pacing, stood perfectly still, lost in blackness. “A dragon, my dear prince, light of my life, has no such feelings as these I’ve just described. His existence is a malevolent joke on ours, a criticism, cosmically unfair. While the good man throws away his life to gain life, twists and strains and, with luck, transcends himself — by perilous battle achieves self-respect and the honest admiration of his neighbors and friends — and while the bad man with still a speck of decency throws away his for the love of that microscopic speck, the dragon flies out in the service of mad whim or sits at his ease for a thousand years on his useless emeralds and rubies, his gold cups and silver cups, and scornfully laughs! Does that really not disturb you, Prince Christopher? Do you feel no rage at all at a thing like that?”
After a moment Prince Christopher’s voice came from the darkness: “Perhaps I should sleep on it.”
“Yes, certainly,” said the abbot. Quite suddenly, he showed his age: his voice was pure exhaustion. “Forgive me, I’ve kept all of you up too long.” Without another word, he went to a door and threw it open. Feeble light crept in. “This way,” said the abbot. The prince put down his brandy glass and came over to touch Armida’s shoulder. She pretended to awaken, though in fact, of course, she’d been spying intently all the while. She sat up, flapped her lashes once or twice, then rose. The abbot stood waiting, hands in his cassock. Armida went to waken the dwarf. When her fingertips touched him, Chudu the Goat’s Son gave a start and hurriedly turned himself into a book; then, fully awake, turned back into himself. “I dozed off,” he said.
“It’s time for bed,” said Armida, and took a step toward the abbot. Now the dwarf, too, was on his feet, limping toward the light. The abbot led them down flagstoned hallways and across a stretch of grass to the monks’ dormitory — there was a mumble of praying voices — and when they reached the place gave them three rooms. The dwarf said as Armida was about to close the door, “Did I miss anything?”
“I’m not sure,” said Armida.
Something in her voice made Chudu the Goat’s Son look harder at her face, but she was imitating her step-sister again, so there was nothing there to read.
“Good night,” she said, and closed the door.