The Princess Bride

'She delivers milk in the mornings,' Count Rugen said.

'And she is truly-without-question-no-possibility-of-error beautiful?'

'She was something of a mess when I saw her,' the Count admitted. 'But the potential was overwhelming.'

'A milkmaid.' The Prince ran the words across his rough tongue. 'I don't know that I could wed one of them even under the best of conditions. People might snicker that she was the best I could do.'

'True,' the Count admitted. 'If you prefer, we can ride back to Florin City without waiting.'

'We've come this far,' the Prince said. 'We might as well wai—' His voice quite simply died. 'I'll take her,' he managed, finally, as Buttercup rode slowly by below them.

'No one will snicker, I think,' the Count said.

'I must court her now,' said the Prince. 'Leave us alone for a minute.' He rode the white expertly down the hill.

Buttercup had never seen such a giant beast. Or such a rider.

'I am your Prince and you will marry me,' Humperdinck said.

Buttercup whispered, 'I am your servant and I refuse.'

'I am your Prince and you cannot refuse.'

'I am your loyal servant and I just did.'

'Refusal means death.'

'Kill me then.'

'I am your Prince and I'm not that bad—how could you rather be dead than married to me?'

'Because,' Buttercup said, 'marriage involves love, and that is not a pastime at which I excel. I tried once, and it went badly, and I am sworn never to love another.'

'Love?' said Prince Humperdinck. 'Who mentioned love? Not me, I can tell you. Look: there must always be a male heir to the throne of Florin. That's me. Once my father dies, there won't be an heir, just a king. That's me again. When that happens, I'll marry and have children until there is a son. So you can either marry me and be the richest and most powerful woman in a thousand miles and give turkeys away at Christmas and provide me a son, or you can die in terrible pain in the very near future. Make up your own mind.'

'I'll never love you.'

'I wouldn't want it if I had it.'

'Then by all means let us marry.'

Four

The Preparations

I DIDN'T EVEN know this chapter existed until I began the 'good parts' version. All my father used to say at this point was, 'What with one thing and another, three years passed,' and then he'd explain how the day came when Buttercup was officially introduced to the world as the coming queen, and how the Great Square of Florin City was filled as never before, awaiting her introduction, and by then, he was into the terrific business dealing with the kidnapping.

Would you believe that in the original Morgenstern this is the longest single chapter in the book?

Fifteen pages about how Humperdinck can't marry a common subject, so they fight and argue with the nobles and finally make Buttercup Princess of Hammersmith, which was this little lump of land attached to the rear of King Lotharon's holdings.

Then the miracle man began improving King Lotharon, and eighteen pages are used up in describing the cures. (Morgenstern hated doctors, and was always bitter when they outlawed miracle men from working in Florin proper.)

And seventy-two—count 'em—seventy-two pages on the training of a princess. He follows Buttercup day to day, month to month, as she learns all the ways of curtsying and tea pouring and how to address visiting nabobs and like that. All this in a satiric vein, naturally, since Morgenstern hated royalty more even than doctors.

But from a narrative point of view, in 105 pages nothing happens. Except this: 'What with one thing and another, three years passed.'

Five

The Announcement

THE Great Square of Florin City was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Humperdinck's bride-to-be, Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith. The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But then, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of her beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.

At noontime, Prince Humperdinck appeared at the balcony of his father's castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, that he was fine.

'My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting. As you must have heard, my honored father's health is not what it once was. He is, of course, ninety-seven, so who can ask more. As you also know, Florin needs a male heir.'

The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about.

'In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary. To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith. You do not know her yet. But you will meet her now,' and he made a sweeping gesture and the balcony doors swung open and Buttercup moved out beside him on the balcony.

And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Her figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. Her hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, she had tended it herself, whereas now she had five full-time hairdressers who managed things for her. (This was long after hairdressers; in truth, ever since there have been women, there have been hairdressers, Adam being the first, though the King James scholars do their very best to muddy this point.) Her skin was still wintry cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of her, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide her with a gentle, continually moving as she moved, glow.

Prince Humperdinck took her hand and held it high and the crowd cheered. 'That's enough, mustn't risk overexposure,' the Prince said, and he started back in toward the castle.

'They have waited, some of them, so long,' Buttercup answered. 'I would like to walk among them.'

'We do not walk among commoners unless it is unavoidable,' the Prince said.

'I have known more than a few commoners in my time,' Buttercup told him. 'They will not, I think, harm me.'

And with that she left the balcony, reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.

Wherever she went, the people parted. She crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of her, the people swept apart to let her pass. Buttercup continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored her instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting she was