Read Online The Princess Bride by William Goldman - Free Book Online Page A

heard.”
    “I hear you now, and I promise you this: I will never love anyone else. Only Westley. Until I die.”
    He nodded, took a step away. “I’ll send for you soon. Believe me.”
    “Would my Westley ever lie?”
    He took another step. “I’m late. I must go. I hate it but I must. The ship sails soon and London is far.”
    “I understand.”
    He reached out with his right hand.
    Buttercup found it very hard to breathe.
    “Good-by.”
    She managed to raise her right hand to his.
    They shook.
    “Good-by,” he said again.
    She made a little nod.
    He took a third step, not turning.
    She watched him.
    He turned.
    And the words ripped out of her: ”Without one kiss?”
    They fell into each other’s arms.

    There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C., when Saul and Delilah Korn’s inadvertent discovery swept across Western civilization. (Before then couples hooked thumbs.) And the precise rating of kisses is a terribly difficult thing, often leading to great controversy, because although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each element should receive. But on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.
    Well, this one left them all behind.

    The first morning after Westley’s departure, Buttercup thought she was entitled to do nothing more than sit around moping and feeling sorry for herself. After all, the love of her life had fled, life had no meaning, how could you face the future, et cetera, et cetera.
    But after about two seconds of that she realized that Westley was out in the world now, getting nearer and nearer to London, and what if a beautiful city girl caught his fancy while she was just back here moldering? Or, worse, what if he got to America and worked his jobs and built his farm and made their bed and sent for her and when she got there he would look at her and say, “I’m sending you back, the moping has destroyed your eyes, the self-pity has taken your skin; you’re a slobby-looking creature, I’m marrying an Indian girl who lives in a teepee nearby and is always in the peak of condition.”
    Buttercup ran to her bedroom mirror. “Oh, Westley,” she said, “I must never disappoint you,” and she hurried downstairs to where her parents were squabbling. (Sixteen to thirteen, and not past breakfast yet.) “I need your advice,” she interrupted. “What can I do to improve my personal appearance.”
    “Start by bathing,” her father said.
    “And do something with your hair while you’re at it,” her mother said.
    “Unearth the territory behind your ears.”
    “Neglect not your knees.”
    “That will do nicely for starters,” Buttercup said. She shook her head. “Gracious, but it isn’t easy being tidy.” Undaunted, she set to work.
    Every morning she awoke, if possible by dawn, and got the farm chores finished immediately. There was much to be done now, with Westley gone, and more than that, ever since the Count had visited, everyone in the area had increased his milk order. So there was no time for self-improvement until well into the afternoon.
    But then she really set to work. First a good cold bath. Then, while her hair was drying, she would slave after fixing her figure faults (one of her elbows was just too bony, the opposite wrist not bony enough). And exercise what remained of her baby fat (little left now; she was nearly eighteen). And brush and brush her hair.
    Her hair was the color of autumn, and it had never been cut, so a thousand strokes took time, but she didn’t mind, because Westley had never seen it clean like this and wouldn’t he be surprised when she stepped off the boat in America. Her skin was the color of wintry cream, and she scrubbed her every inch well past glistening, and that wasn’t much fun really, but wouldn’t Westley be pleased with how clean she was as she stepped off the boat in America.
    And