William Goldman

“You think this is a trap, then?” the Count asked.

“I always think everything is a trap until proven otherwise,” the Prince answered. “Which is why I’m still alive.”

(At this point in the story, my wife wants it known that she feels violently cheated, not being allowed the scene of reconciliation on the ravine floor between the lovers. My reply to her—

This is me, and I’m not trying to be confusing, but the above paragraph that I’m cutting into now is verbatim Morgenstern; he was continually referring to his wife in the unabridged book, saying that she loved the next section or she thought that, all in all, the book was extraordinarily brilliant. Mrs. Morgenstern was rarely anything but supportive to her husband, unlike some wives I could mention (sorry about that, Helen), but here’s the thing: I got rid of almost all the intrusions when he told us what she thought. I didn’t think the device added a whole lot, and, besides, he was always complimenting himself through her and today we know that hyping something too much does more harm than good, as any defeated political candidate will tell you when he pays his television bills.

The thing of it is, I left this particular reference in because, for once, I totally happen to agree with Mrs. Morgenstern. I think it was unfair not to show the reunion. So I wrote one of my own, what I felt Buttercup and Westley might have said, but Hiram, my editor, felt that made me just as unfair as Morgenstern here. If you’re going to abridge a book in the author’s own words, you can’t go around sticking your own in. That was Hiram’s point, and we really went round and round, arguing over, I guess, a period of a month, in person, through letters, on the phone. Finally we compromised to this extent: this, what you’re reading in the black print, is strict Morgenstern. Verbatim. Cut, yes; changed, no. But I got Hiram to agree that Harcourt would at least print up my scene—it’s all of three pages; big deal—and if any of you want to see what it came out like, drop a note or postcard to Hiram Haydn at Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 757 Third Avenue, New York City, and just mention you’d like the reunion scene. Don’t forget to include your return address; you ‘d be stunned at how many people send in for things and don’t put their return address down. Harcourt agreed to spring for the postage costs, so your total expense is the note or card or whatever. It would really upset me if I turned out to be the only modem American writer who gave the impression that he was with a generous publishing house (they all stink—sorry about that, Mr. Jovanovich), so let me just add here that the reason they are so generous in paying this giant postage bill is because they fully expect nobody to write in. So please, if you have the least interest at all or even if you don’t, write in for my reunion scene. You don’t have to read it—I’m not asking that—but I would love to cost those publishing geniuses a few dollars, because, let’s face it, they’re not spending much on advertising my books.

(At this point in the story, my wife wants it known that she feels violently cheated, not being allowed the scene of reconciliation on the ravine floor between the lovers. My reply to her is simply this: (a) each of God’s beings, from the lowliest on up, is entitled to at least a few moments of genuine privacy. (b) What actually was spoken, while moving enough to those involved at the actual time, flattens like toothpaste when transferred to paper for later reading: “my dove,” “my only,” “bliss, bliss,” et cetera. (c) Nothing of importance in an expository way was related, because every time Buttercup began “Tell me about yourself,” Westley quickly cut her off with “Later, beloved; now is not the time.” However, it should be noted, in fairness to all, that (1) he did weep; (2) her eyes did not remain precisely dry; (3) there was more than one embrace; and (4) both parties admitted that, without any qualifications whatsoever, they were more than a little glad to see each other. Besides, (5) within a quarter of an hour, they were arguing. It began quite innocently, the two of them kneeling, facing each other, Westley holding her perfect face in his quick hands. “When I left you,” he whispered, “you were already more beautiful than anything I dared to dream. In our years apart, my imaginings did their best to improve on your perfection. At night, your face was forever behind my eyes. And now I see that that vision who kept me company in my loneliness was a hag compared to the beauty now before me.”

“Enough about my beauty,” Buttercup said. “Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I’ve got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.”

“Throughout eternity I shall do that very thing,” he told her. “But now we haven’t time.” He made it to his feet. The ravine fall had shaken and battered him, but all his bones survived the trip uncracked. He helped her to her feet.

“Westley?” Buttercup said then. “Just before I started down after you, while I was still up there, I could hear you saying something but the words were indistinct.”

“I’ve forgotten whatever it was.”

“Terrible liar.”

He smiled at her and kissed her cheek. “It’s not important, believe me; the past has a way of being past.”

“We must not begin with secrets from each other.” She meant it.

He could tell that. “Trust me,” he tried.

“I do. So tell me your words or I shall be given reason not to.”

Westley sighed. “What I was trying to get through to you, beloved sweet; what I was, as a matter of accurate fact, shouting with everything I had left, was: ‘Whatever you do, stay up there! Don’t come down here! Please!’”

“You didn’t want to see me.”

“I think we can slow down a bit now,” he told her, slowing down a bit. “They’re still well behind.”

Buttercup took a deep breath of relief.

Westley made a show of checking their surroundings. Then he gave her his best smile. “With any luck at all,” he said, “we should soon be safely in the Fire Swamp.”

Buttercup heard his speech, of course. But she did not, she did not, take it well…

“It will all be happy at the end. Consider: a little over three years ago, you were a milkmaid and I was a farm boy. Now you are almost a queen and I rule uncontested on the water. Surely, such individuals were never intended to die in a Fire Swamp.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Well, because we’re together, hand in hand, in love.”

“Oh yes,” Buttercup said. “I keep forgetting that.”

“Of course I wanted to see you. I just didn’t want to see you down here.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because now, my precious, we’re more or less kind of trapped. I can’t climb out of here and bring you with me without it taking all day. I can get out myself, most likely, without it taking all day, but with the addition of your lovely bulk, it’s not about to happen.”

“Nonsense; you climbed the Cliffs of Insanity, and this isn’t nearly that steep.”

“And it took a little out of me too, let me tell you. And after that little effort, I tangled with a fella who knew a little something about fencing. And after that, I spent a few happy moments grappling with a giant. And after that, I had to outfake a Sicilian to death when any mistake meant it was a knife in the throat for you. And after that I’ve run my lungs out a couple of hours. And after that I was pushed two hundred feet down a rock ravine. I’m tired, Buttercup; do you understand tired? I’ve put in a night, is what I’m trying to get through to you.”

“I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Quit bragging.”

“Stop being rude.”

“When was the last time you read a book? The truth now. And picture books don’t count—I mean something with print in it.”

Buttercup walked away from him. “There’re other things to read than print,” she said, “and the Princess of Hammersmith is displeased with you and is thinking seriously of going home.” With no more words, she whirled into his arms then, saying, “Oh, Westley, I didn’t mean that, I didn’t, I didn’t, not a single syllabub of it.”

Now Westley knew that she meant to say “not a single syllable of it,” because a syllabub was something you ate, with cream and wine mixed in together to form the base. But he also knew an apology when he heard one. So he held her very close, and shut his loving eyes, and only whispered, “I knew it was false, believe me, every single syllabub.”

And that out of the way, they started running as fast as they could along the flat-rock floor of the ravine.

Prince Humperdinck just stared. He sat astride a white, studying the footsteps down on the floor of the ravine. There was simply no other conclusion: the kidnapper had dragged his Princess into it.

Count Rugen sat alongside. “Did they actually go in?”

The Prince nodded.

Praying the answer would be “no,” the Count asked, “Do you think we should follow them?”

The Prince shook his head. “They’ll either live or die in there. If they die, I have no wish to join them. If they live, I’ll greet them on the other side.”

“It’s too far around,” the Count said.

“Not for my whites.”

“We’ll follow as best we can,” the Count said. He stared again at the Fire Swamp. “He must be very desperate, or very frightened, or very stupid, or very brave.”

“Very all four I should think,” the Prince replied…

She remained unconscious for a very long time. Westley busied himself as best he could, cleansing the Snow Sand from ears and nose and mouth and, most delicate of all, from beneath the lids of her eyes. The length of her quietness disturbed him vaguely; it was almost as if she knew she had died and was afraid to find out for a fact that it was true. He held her in his arms, rocked her slowly. Eventually she was blinking.

For a time she looked around and around. “We lived, then?” she managed finally.

“We’re a hardy breed.”

“What a wonderful surprise.”

“No need—” He was going to say “No need for worry,” but her panic struck too quickly. It was a normal enough reaction, and he did not try to block it but, rather, held her firmly and let the hysteria run its course. She shuddered for a time as if she fully intended to fly apart. But that was the worst. From there, it was but a few minutes to quiet sobbing. Then she was Buttercup again

“You know the Dread Pirate Roberts? You are friendly with such a man?”

“It’s a little more than that,” Westley said. “I don’t expect you to quite grasp this all at once; just believe it’s true. You see, I am the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

“I fail to see how that is possible, since he has been marauding for twenty years and you only left me three years ago.”

“I myself am often surprised at life’s little quirks,” Westley admitted.

“Did he, in fact, capture you when you were sailing for the Carolinas?”

“He did. His ship Revenge captured the ship I was on, The Queen’s Pride, and we were all to be put to death.”