The Dragonfly Pool

The band, which had played various national anthems, broke into “God Save the King.” Then the distinguished gentleman with the long gray hair, flanked by the mayor and his aldermen, came down the platform, greeting each group, shaking hands. It was the minister of culture, Prince Karil’s uncle Fritz, who had come in person to welcome them.

When he reached the Deldertonians he spoke to them in perfect English.

“We are particularly glad to welcome you to Bergania,” he said, “because as you may know our beloved queen came from your country. The links between Bergania and Britain have always been strong.”

Everyone looked around for Matteo, expecting him to reply, but he had vanished and Magda was silent, overcome by shyness. But the minister had seen the book under her arm and reached out for it.

“Ah, Schopenhauer,” he said. “You are interested in his work?”

Magda blushed. “I am writing a thesis on his stylistic influences,” she said.

“How interesting. I myself have always been fascinated by his views on Reason and the Will, but alas there is so little time to pursue such things.” He pulled himself up. “Now here is the program for the week,” he said, handing Magda a brochure. “There will be two days to rest and to see our beautiful country. Then on Monday the festival will be opened officially and the dancing will begin. We have buses ready to take you to your camp, and tonight there will be dinner at the Blue Ox. Here you have a map of the city, a timetable, and a list of excursions.”

It was only as they were making their way to the buses waiting in the station forecourt that Matteo came to join them.

“Where have you been?” asked Barney. “You were supposed to greet the minister.”

Matteo gestured to a clump of aspens on the embankment.

“The perfect habitat for the poplar moth. I saw one as long as my thumb.”

The children did not ask if he had brought it back. Matteo never killed the butterflies he found . . .

The field in which the dancers’ bell tents had been pitched was a pleasant place—by the side of the river and adjoining the park with its bandstand and pavilion and its pool full of carp. At the far end of the park, the ground sloped upward toward the hill where the palace stood. Behind the palace—as everywhere in Bergania—one could see the mountain peaks.

Each group of dancers had been given two tents, and there was a flag on top of the tent poles to show which nationality they belonged to. The British were in the tents next to the bridge which crossed the river on to the promenade and into the town. Beside them were the Germans, with the other nationalities strung out along the bank. There was a washhouse and toilet block shared by all the groups. The Yugoslavs, who had arrived earlier on a bus from the south, were already busy splashing and showering and singing, while their teachers, two large and cheerful ladies, were rinsing their feet in the sinks meant for washing up.

A wooden platform had been erected close by so that the visitors could practice their dances, but the actual festival would be held in the town’s main square. Fortunately Matteo had stopped chasing butterflies and looking at the view, and in a short time the sleeping bags were arranged in the two tents, with Magda and the girls in one, and Matteo and the boys, with the boxes of costumes, in the other, and it was time to cross the bridge and make their way to the Blue Ox for supper.

The Blue Ox was on the promenade: an old-fashioned hotel and inn which was the favorite gathering place for the people of the town. It had a big terrace overlooking the river, and tables with red-and-white checked tablecloths were set out under a chestnut tree. Inside, everything was very large and very solid and made of wood. The benches gleamed with polish, there were stands with salted pretzels on the tables, and the walls were covered in antlers and the stuffed heads of mountain goats.

The landlord, Herr Keller, was the kind of man one would expect an innkeeper to be: genial and burly with a big stomach and a loud laugh.

It was clear that he was a staunch royalist, because for every pair of antlers or stuffed goat, there was a portrait of the king. Johannes III was pictured with whiskers and before he had grown them. He was pictured on horseback and at the head of a procession and just standing very straight in his uniform with his decorations on his chest. There were a number of pictures, too, of Queen Alice but these were draped in black crepe and had been for the last eight years, since she died.

Herr Keller spoke a little English and, with Magda translating, the children were made acquainted with the history of the Royal House of Bergania.

“What about the prince?” asked Tally. “Aren’t there any pictures of him?”

Herr Keller frowned and said that His Highness hated to be photographed.

“Why?” asked Verity. “Is there something wrong with him?”

“Certainly not,” said Herr Keller, offended. “He is a very nice-looking boy. I can show you a picture in the smoking room.”