The Princess Bride

Well, I’m an abridger, so I’m entitled to a few ideas of my own. Did they make it? Was the pirate ship there? You can answer it for yourself, but, for me, I say yes it was. And yes, they got away. And got their strength back and had lots of adventures and more than their share of laughs.

But that doesn’t mean I think they had a happy ending either. Because, in my opinion anyway, they squabbled a lot, and Buttercup lost her looks eventually, and one day Fezzik lost a fight and some hot-shot kid whipped Inigo with a sword and Westley was never able to really sleep sound because of Humperdinck maybe being on the trail.

I’m not trying to make this a downer, understand. I mean, I really do think that love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. But I also have to say, for the umpty-umpth time, that life isn’t fair. It’s just fairer than death, that’s all.

She looked at Westley. “You all right? I was worried about you back on the bed there. Your eyes rolled up into your head and everything.”

“I suppose I was dying again, so I asked the Lord of Permanent Affection for the strength to live the day. Clearly, the answer came in the affirmative.”

“I didn’t know there was such a Fellow,” Buttercup said.

“Neither did I, in truth, but if He didn’t exist, I didn’t much want to either.”

The four great horses seemed almost to fly toward Florin Channel.

“It appears to me as if we’re doomed, then,” Buttercup said.

Westley looked at her. “Doomed, madam?”

“To be together. Until one of us dies.”

“I’ve done that already, and I haven’t the slightest intention of ever doing it again,” Westley said.

Buttercup looked at him. “Don’t we sort of have to sometime?”

“Not if we promise to outlive each other, and I make that promise now.”

Buttercup looked at him. “Oh my Westley, so do I.”

“To the pain means this: if we duel and you win, death for me. If we duel and I win, life for you. But life on my terms.”

“Meaning?” It could all still be a trap. His body was at the ready.

“There are those who credit you with skill as a hunter, though I find that doubtful.”

The Prince smiled. The fellow was baiting him. Why?

“And if you hunt well, then surely, when you tracked your lady, you must have begun at the Cliffs of Insanity. A duel was fought there and if you noted the movements and the strides, you would know that those were masters battling. They were. Remember this: I won that fight. And I am a pirate. We have our special tricks with swords.”

It was 5:53. “I am not unfamiliar with steel.”

“The first thing you lose will be your feet,” Westley said. “The left, then the right. Below the ankle. You will have stumps available to use within six months. Then your hands, at the wrist. They heal somewhat quicker. Five months is a fair average.” And now Westley was beginning to be aware of strange changes in his body and he began talking faster, faster and louder. “Next your nose. No smell of dawn for you. Followed by your tongue. Deeply cut away. Not even a stump left. And then your left eye—”

“And then my right eye and then my ears, and shall we get on with it?” the Prince said. It was 5:54.

“Wrong!” Westley’s voice rang across the room. “Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish—every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries ‘Dear God, what is that thing?’ will reverberate forever with your perfect ears. That is what ‘to the pain’ means. It means that I leave you to live in anguish, in humiliation, in freakish misery until you can stand it no more; so there you have it, pig, there you know, you miserable vomitous mass, and I say this now, and live or die, it’s up to you: Drop your sword!”

The sword crashed to the floor.

It was 5:55.

“Hello! HELLO. MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA. YOU KILLED MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE!”

“No—”

“Offer me money—”

“Everything,” the Count said.

“Power too. Promise me that.”

“All I have and more. Please.”

“Offer me anything I ask for.”

“Yes. Yes. Say it.”

“I WANT DOMINGO MONTOYA, YOU SON OF A BITCH,” and the six-fingered sword flashed again.

The Count screamed.

“That was just to the left of your heart.” Inigo struck again.

Another scream.

“That was below your heart. Can you guess what I’m doing?”

“Cutting my heart out.”

“You took mine when I was ten; I want yours now. We are lovers of justice, you and I—what could be more just than that?”

The Count screamed one final time then fell dead of fear.

Inigo looked down at him. The Count’s frozen face was petrified and ashen and the blood still poured down the parallel cuts. His eyes bulged wide, full of horror and pain. It was glorious. If you like that kind of thing.

Inigo loved it.

Power was flowing up from Inigo’s heart to his right shoulder and down from his shoulder to his fingers and then into the great six-fingered sword and he pushed off from the wall then, with a whispered, “…hello… my name is… Inigo Montoya; you killed… my father; prepare to die.”

And they crossed swords.

The Count went for the quick kill, the inverse Bonetti.

No chance.

“Hello… my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father… prepare to die…”

Again they crossed, and the Count moved into a Morozzo defense, because the blood was still streaming.

Inigo shoved his fist deeper into himself. “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.”

The Count retreated around the billiard table.

Inigo slipped in his own blood.

The Count continued to retreat, waiting, waiting.

“Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.” He dug with his fist and he didn’t want to think what he was touching and pushing and holding into place but for the first time he felt able to try a move, so the six-fingered sword flashed forward—

—and there was a cut down one side of Count Rugen’s cheek—

—another flash—

—another cut, parallel, bleeding—

“Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.”

“Stop saying that!” The Count was beginning to experience a decline of nerve.

Inigo drove for the Count’s left shoulder, as the Count had wounded his. Then he went through the Count’s left arm, at the same spot the Count had penetrated his. “Hello.” Stronger now.

“Hello!

Count Rugen drew his sword.

“…sorry, Father… I’m sorry…”

‘I DON’t WANT YOUR “SORRY”! MY NAME IS DOMINGO MONTOYA AND I DIED FOR THAT SWORD AND YOU CAN KEEP YOUR “SORRY.” IF YOU WERE GOING TO FAIL, WHY DIDN’t YOU DIE YEARS AGO AND LET ME REST IN PEACE?’ And then MacPherson was after him too—“Spaniards! I never should have tried to teach a Spaniard; they’re dumb, they forget, what do you do with a wound? How many times did I teach you—what do you do with a wound?”

“Cover it…” Inigo said, and he pulled the knife from his body and stuffed his left fist into the bleeding.

“Highness,” he said, in one last attempt, “I have not yet, from a single spy, heard a single word about a single plot against the Princess.”

“I have it on unimpeachable authority that there will be an attempt made to strangle the Princess this very night.”

“In that case,” Yellin said, and he dropped to one knee and held out the envelope, “I must resign.” It was a difficult decision—the Yellins had headed enforcement in Florin for generations, and they took their work more than seriously. “I am not doing a capable job, sire; please forgive me and believe me when I say that my failures were those of the body and mind and not of the heart.”

Prince Humperdinck found himself, quite suddenly, in a genuine pickle, for once the war was finished, he needed someone to stay in Guilder and run it, since he couldn’t be in two places at once, and the only men he trusted were Yellin and the Count, and the Count would never take the job, being obsessed, as he was these days, with finishing his stupid Pain Primer. “I do not accept your resignation, you are doing a capable job, there is no plot, I shall slaughter the Queen myself this very evening, you shall run Guilder for me after the war, now get back on your feet.”

Yellin didn’t know what to say. “Thank you” seemed so inadequate, but it was all he could come up with.

“Once the wedding is done with I shall send her here to make ready while I shall, with boots carefully procured in advance, make tracks leading from the wall to the bedroom and returning then from the bedroom to the wall. Since you are in charge of law enforcement, I expect you will not take long to verify my fears that the prints could only be made by the boots of Guilderian soldiers. Once we have that, we’ll need a royal proclamation or two, my father can resign as being unfit for battle, and you, dear Yellin, will soon be living in Guilder Castle.”

Yellin knew a dismissal speech when he heard one. “I leave with no thought in my heart but to serve you.”

“Thank you,” Humperdinck said, pleased, because, after all, loyalty was one thing you couldn’t buy.

One last thing: Hiram, my editor, felt the Miracle Max section was too Jewish in sound, too contemporary. I really let him have it on that one; it’s a very sore point with me, because, just to take one example, there was a line in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where Butch said, ‘I got vision and the rest of the world wears bifocals,’ and one of my genius producers said, ‘That line’s got to go; I don’t put my name on this movie with that line in it,’ and I said why and he said, ‘They didn’t talk like that then; it’s anachronistic.’ I remember explaining, ‘Ben Franklin wore bifocals—Ty Cobb was batting champion of the American League when these guys were around—my mother was alive when these guys were alive and she wore bifocals.’ We shook hands and ended enemies but the line stayed in the picture.

And so here the point is, if Max and Valerie sound Jewish, why shouldn’t they? You think a guy named Simon Morgenstern was Irish Catholic? Funny thing—Morgenstern’s folks were named Max and Valerie and his father was a doctor. Life imitating art, an imitating life; I really get those two confused, sort of like I can never remember if claret is Bordeaux wine or Burgundy. They both taste good is the only thing that really matters, I guess, and so does Morgenstern, and we’ll pick it up again later, thirteen hours later, to be precise, four in the afternoon, two hours before the wedding.

“Liar! Liar!” shrieked suddenly from the now open trap door.

Miracle Max whirled. “Back, Witch—” he commanded.

“I’m not a witch, I’m your wife—” she was advancing on him now, an ancient tiny fury—“and after what you’ve just done I don’t think I want to be that any more—” Miracle Max tried to calm her but she was having none of it. “He said ‘true love,’ Max—even I could hear it—’true love,’ ‘true love.’”

“Don’t go on,” Max said, and now there was pleading coming from somewhere.

Valerie turned toward Inigo. “He is rejecting you because he is afraid—he is afraid he’s done, that the miracles are gone from his once majestic fingers—”

“Not true—” Max said.

“You’re right,” Valerie agreed, “it isn’t true—they never were majestic, Max—you were never any good.”

“The Ticklish Cure—you were there—you saw—”

“A fluke—”

“All the drowners I returned—”

“Chance—”

“Valerie, we’ve been married eighty years; how can you do this to me?”

“Because true love is expiring and you haven’t got the decency to tell why you won’t help—well I do, and I say this, Prince Humperdinck was right to fire you—”

“Don’t say that name in my hut, Valerie—you made a pledge to me you’d never breathe that name—”

“Prince Humperdinck, Prince Humperdinck, Prince Humperdinck—at least he knows a phony when he sees one—”

Max fled toward the trap door, his hands going to his ears.

“But this is his fiancée’s true love,” Inigo said then. “If you bring him back to life, he will stop Prince Humperdinck’s marriage—”

Max’s hands left his ears. “This corpse here—he comes back to life, Prince Humperdinck suffers?”

“Humiliations galore,” Inigo said.

“Now that’s what I call a worth-while reason,” Miracle Max said. “Give me the sixty-five; I’m on the case.”

Inigo didn’t much want to answer that, since it might have sounded strange admitting they’d only met once alive, and then to duel to the death. “How do you mean exactly?” he replied.

“Well, for example,” Max said, “was he ticklish or not?”

“Ticklish?” Inigo exploded angrily. “Ticklish! Life and death are all around and you talk ticklish!”

“Don’t you yell at me,” Max exploded right back, “and don’t you mock my methods—tickling can be terrific in the proper instances. I had a corpse once, worse than this fella, mostly dead he was, and I tickled him and tickled him; I tickled his toes and I tickled his armpits and his ribs and I got a peacock feather and went after his belly button; I worked all day and I worked all night and the following dawn—the following dawn, mark me—this corpse said, ‘I just hate that,’ and I said, ‘Hate what?’ and he said, ‘Being tickled; I’ve come all the way back from the dead to ask you to stop,’ and I said ‘You mean this that I’m doing now with the peacock feather, it bothers you?’ and he said, ‘You couldn’t guess how much it bothers me,’ and of course I just kept on asking him questions about tickling, making him talk back to me, answer me, because, I don’t have to tell you, once you get a corpse really caught up in conversation, your battle’s half over.”

“Tr… ooooo… luv…”

Fezzik grabbed onto Inigo in panic and they both pivoted, staring at the man in black, who was silent again.” ‘True love,’ he said,” Inigo cried. “You heard him—true love is what he wants to come back for. That’s certainly worth while.”

“Sonny, don’t you tell me what’s worth while—true love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. Everybody knows that.”

“Then you’ll save him?” Fezzik said.

“Yes, absolutely, I would save him, if he had said ‘true love,’ but you misheard, whereas I, being an expert on the bellows cram, will tell you what any qualified tongue man will only be happy to verify—namely, that the f sound is the hardest for the corpse to master, and that it therefore comes out vuh, and what your friend said was ‘to blove,’ by which he meant, obviously, ‘to bluff’—clearly he is either involved in a shady business deal or a card game and wishes to win, and that is certainly not reason enough for a miracle. I’m sorry, I never change my mind once it’s made up, good-by, take your corpse with you.”