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Authors: Agatha Christie
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when I turn in.'
'Why don't you go and look now, so we can talk about her later?'
'If you want to, I'll go now,' he smiled at her.
He left the room and went up the stairs. Yes, she was sharp, old Mathilda. This was the face. This was the face remembered and had seen. A pretty girl brought home by his great-great-great-grandfather, if that were enough great's...
She must be about twenty. She came here and was very gay, rode splendorously, danced magnificiently, and men fell in love with her. But she had been faithful, at least that was what everybody said. She went with her husband to many foreign embassies and always came back with him. They had children, three of four, it seemed. Through one of these children her face, her nose, the curve of her neck, went down to him and his sister Pamela.
'Did you find her?' Lady Matilda asked when her nephew came back to her. 'An interesting face, isn't it?'
'Yes, and very pretty too.'
'It's better to be interesting than pretty. But you weren't in Hungary nor in Austria, were you? You wouldn't find someone looking like her in Malaya. She wouldn't be there sitting at a table, taking notes or proofreading speeches, or anything like that. She was a wild creature by conviction. Had adorable manners and was well-bred, but she was wild. Wild as a bird. She didn't know the meaning of the word danger.'
'How do you know so much about her?'
'Oh, I haven't known her in person. I was born a few years after her death. But even so, I always took an interest in her. She was bold, you know? Very bold. There were many strange stories about her, about the things she got involved.'
'And how did her husband react to that?'
'I guess he worried too much,' said Lady Matilda. 'But, they say he adored her. Talking of which, Staffy, did you ever read “The prisoner of Zenda”?'
'“The prisoner of Zenda”? Seems familiar...'
'Of course it's familiar. It's a book.'
'Yes, yes, I know it's a book.'
'You wouldn't know it, I guess. It's not from your time. But when I was a girl... it was the first touch of romance we knew. There weren't pop singers nor The Beatles. Only romantic novels. We weren't allowed to read them in the morning. Only in the afternoon.'
'What extraordinary rules,' said Sir Stafford. 'Why was it wrong to read novels in the morning?'
'Well, in the morning, you know, the girls were supposed to do something useful. You know, arranging the flowers or polishing the silver portrait frames. All these things that young girls were supposed to do. Studying a bit with the governess... all these things. In the afternoon we wee allowed to read stories and novels, and “The prisoner of Zenda” was usually the first that we got hold of.'
'A very pretty story, very respectable, wan't it? I seem to remember something about it. Perhaps I did read it. All very pure, I suppose. Not too sexy?'
'Certainly not. We didn't have sexy books. We had romance. The Prisoner of Zenda was very romantic. One fell in love, usually, with the hero, Rudolf Rassendyll.'
'I seem to remember that name too. Bit florid, isn't it?'
'Well, I still think it was rather a romantic name. Twelve years old, I must have been. It made me think of it, you know, your going up and looking at that portrait. Princess Flavia,' she added.
Stafford Nye was smiling at her.
'You look young and pink and very sentimental,' he said.
'Well, that's just what I'm feeling. Girls can't feel like that nowadays. They're swooning with love, or they're fainting when somebody plays the guitar or sings in a very loud voice, but they're not sentimental. But I wasn't in love with Rudolf Rassendyll. I was in love with the other one - his double.'
'Did he have a double?'
'Oh yes, a king. The King of Ruritania.'
'Ah, of course, now I know. That's where the word Ruritania comes from: one is always throwing it about. Yes, I think I did read it, you know. The King of Ruritania, and Rudolf Rassendyll was stand-in for the King and fell in love with
'Why don't you go and look now, so we can talk about her later?'
'If you want to, I'll go now,' he smiled at her.
He left the room and went up the stairs. Yes, she was sharp, old Mathilda. This was the face. This was the face remembered and had seen. A pretty girl brought home by his great-great-great-grandfather, if that were enough great's...
She must be about twenty. She came here and was very gay, rode splendorously, danced magnificiently, and men fell in love with her. But she had been faithful, at least that was what everybody said. She went with her husband to many foreign embassies and always came back with him. They had children, three of four, it seemed. Through one of these children her face, her nose, the curve of her neck, went down to him and his sister Pamela.
'Did you find her?' Lady Matilda asked when her nephew came back to her. 'An interesting face, isn't it?'
'Yes, and very pretty too.'
'It's better to be interesting than pretty. But you weren't in Hungary nor in Austria, were you? You wouldn't find someone looking like her in Malaya. She wouldn't be there sitting at a table, taking notes or proofreading speeches, or anything like that. She was a wild creature by conviction. Had adorable manners and was well-bred, but she was wild. Wild as a bird. She didn't know the meaning of the word danger.'
'How do you know so much about her?'
'Oh, I haven't known her in person. I was born a few years after her death. But even so, I always took an interest in her. She was bold, you know? Very bold. There were many strange stories about her, about the things she got involved.'
'And how did her husband react to that?'
'I guess he worried too much,' said Lady Matilda. 'But, they say he adored her. Talking of which, Staffy, did you ever read “The prisoner of Zenda”?'
'“The prisoner of Zenda”? Seems familiar...'
'Of course it's familiar. It's a book.'
'Yes, yes, I know it's a book.'
'You wouldn't know it, I guess. It's not from your time. But when I was a girl... it was the first touch of romance we knew. There weren't pop singers nor The Beatles. Only romantic novels. We weren't allowed to read them in the morning. Only in the afternoon.'
'What extraordinary rules,' said Sir Stafford. 'Why was it wrong to read novels in the morning?'
'Well, in the morning, you know, the girls were supposed to do something useful. You know, arranging the flowers or polishing the silver portrait frames. All these things that young girls were supposed to do. Studying a bit with the governess... all these things. In the afternoon we wee allowed to read stories and novels, and “The prisoner of Zenda” was usually the first that we got hold of.'
'A very pretty story, very respectable, wan't it? I seem to remember something about it. Perhaps I did read it. All very pure, I suppose. Not too sexy?'
'Certainly not. We didn't have sexy books. We had romance. The Prisoner of Zenda was very romantic. One fell in love, usually, with the hero, Rudolf Rassendyll.'
'I seem to remember that name too. Bit florid, isn't it?'
'Well, I still think it was rather a romantic name. Twelve years old, I must have been. It made me think of it, you know, your going up and looking at that portrait. Princess Flavia,' she added.
Stafford Nye was smiling at her.
'You look young and pink and very sentimental,' he said.
'Well, that's just what I'm feeling. Girls can't feel like that nowadays. They're swooning with love, or they're fainting when somebody plays the guitar or sings in a very loud voice, but they're not sentimental. But I wasn't in love with Rudolf Rassendyll. I was in love with the other one - his double.'
'Did he have a double?'
'Oh yes, a king. The King of Ruritania.'
'Ah, of course, now I know. That's where the word Ruritania comes from: one is always throwing it about. Yes, I think I did read it, you know. The King of Ruritania, and Rudolf Rassendyll was stand-in for the King and fell in love with
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