Previously in this series: Love You Forever. Original text by Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont.
There was once a rich merchant, who had three daughters. Being a man of sense and careful daughter-husbandry, he kept them well, for he always made money on his investments. The girls were exceedingly handsome, particularly the youngest. When she was little everybody admired her, and called her “The little Beauty;” so that, as she grew up, she still went by the name of Beauty, which made her sisters very jealous.
She would answer to no other name. She did not know how to protect herself from the envy of others, which is to say she did not know how to survive. Instead she read books.
The two eldest had a great deal of pride, because they knew their own worth. because they were rich. They went out every day to parties of pleasure, balls, plays, concerts, and so forth, and they laughed at their youngest sister, and they made themselves happy. They answered to their given names.
All at once the merchant lost his whole fortune, excepting a small country house at a great distance from town, and told his children with tears in his eyes, they must go there and work for their living.
Beauty at first was sadly grieved at the loss of her fortune; but she had ever found that if she made herself smaller, life would trouble her less. Beauty rose at four in the morning, and made haste to have the house clean, and dinner ready for the family. No one paid her for it, and no one thanked her for it, either, and so gradually she ceased to think of it as work and began to think of it as her nature. She expected it from herself as others expected it of her, and who can be grateful for what is supposed to come naturally?
After she had done her work, she read. Reading was, as ever, her great comfort. And still she only answered to Beauty. Her reasons were her own.
The family had lived thusly for about a year, when the merchant received a letter with an account that a vessel, on board of which he had effects, was safely arrived. This news had liked to have turned the heads of the two eldest daughters, who when they saw their father ready to set out, they begged of him to buy them new gowns, headdresses, ribbons, and all manner of trifles; but Beauty asked for nothing, for Beauty had ceased to think of herself. The house’s needs were her needs; the family’s comfort was her comfort. As she never thought of herself, no one thought of her; as she asked for nothing, no one brought her gifts.
“What will you have, Beauty?” said her father.
“Since you have the goodness to think of me,” answered she, “be so kind to bring me a rose.” It was a greater inconvenience disguised as a simple request. In trying not to think of herself, she burdened everybody.
Her father went on his journey. There were taxes and disputes and contentions for the merchandise, and after nearly coming to blows with envious men, he returned home, as poor as he had been when he left.
He was within a few day’s journey of home when he found himself lost in a dark forest. It rained fiercely on his head, and the wind rode so high that it threw him from his seat. As night fell, he heard the heavy pad of paws behind him and heard the hot breath of beasts beside him.
He perceived a light through a corridor of pines and rode toward it, finding himself at the entrance to a great fortress, flooded from top to bottom with light but devoid of movement.
He found no one inside the gate, but tied his horse within the stable and ventured indoors, where he was met with a large hall, and a blazing fire, and a full table, and empty chairs. He had forgotten to be wary of hospitality with no host, and drew near the fire to warm himself, congratulating himself on his narrow escape.
“I hope,” said he, “the master of the house, or his servants will excuse the liberty I take; I suppose it will not be long before some of them appear.”
He waited a considerable time, until it struck eleven, and still nobody came. At last he was so hungry that he could stay no longer, but took a chicken, and ate it in two mouthfuls, trembling all the while. After this he drank a few glasses of wine, and growing more courageous he went out of the hall, and crossed through several grand apartments with magnificent furniture, until he came to a garden.
Passing through an arbor of roses he remembered Beauty’s request to him, and gathered a branch on which were several; immediately he heard an unfriendly and an unwelcome noise, and saw such a frightful Beast coming towards him, that he was ready to faint away.
“You are very ungrateful,” said the Beast to him, in a darkling voice; “I have saved your life by receiving you into my castle, and, in return, you steal my roses, which I value beyond any thing in the world, but you shall die for it. I give you but a quarter of an hour to prepare yourself, and say your prayers.”
The merchant fell on his knees, and lifted up both his hands, “My lord,” said he, “I beseech you to forgive me, indeed I had no intention to offend in gathering a rose for one of my daughters, who desired me to bring her one.”
“My name is not My Lord,” replied the monster, “but Beast; I don’t love compliments. I like people to speak as they think; and so do not imagine I am to be moved by any flattering speeches. But you say you have got daughters. I will forgive you, on condition that one of them come willingly, and suffer for you. Let me have no words, but go about your business.”
The merchant was loath to part with any of his daughters to this monster, but he loved his own life, and fathers have given their daughters to monsters before. His decision caused him great grief, but never so great that he would have amended it. He took his horse from the stable and left the palace with a heavy heart and a heavier step.
Once home, his children thronged round him, but instead of returning their embraces, he looked upon them, and holding out the rose-branch in his hands, he burst into tears.
“Here, Beauty,” he said, “take these roses, but little do you know how dearly they will cost you and me.” He then related to them what had passed on the road. Immediately the two eldest set up lamentable outcries, and said all manner of ill-natured things to Beauty, who did not cry at all.
“See the little willful thing,” they said, “she would distinguish herself from us, and in the getting of a flower she has traded our name and our happiness. Our father will surely die of shame, and yet she does not so much as release a single tear.”
They did not think to blame their father, and, sorry as he was, he did not think to blame himself either.
“Can I bring my books with me?” Beauty asked, and no one objected, which was the closest she ever came to hearing Yes.
The horse took the direct road to the palace, and towards evening they saw it lit up like a furnace. The palace threw off such a great heat from the enormous fires stoked in each room that it melted the snow in a great ring around it.
The horse put itself in the stable, and the merchant and his daughter put themselves into the great hall. The table was set beautifully. The merchant had no heart to eat, but Beauty soon overcame his objections and convinced him to serve himself. A man who truly believes himself to be worthy of something will not punish himself overlong; Beauty’s father was no exception.
There was the heavy pad of paws in the hall, and the heavy breath of something in the doorway, and then the Beast was with them.
“Have you come willingly to me?” the Beast asked her. “Have you come of your own accord?”
“Ye — e — es,” she said, trembling. Her “no” wore the shape of a “yes,” and this lie was good enough for everyone involved.
The Beast responded, “Good.” He turned to her father. “Man, go your way tomorrow morning, and never think of coming here again.” The Beast moved, and then there was the heavy breath of something in the doorway, and then there was the heavy pad of paws on the stairs, and then there was nothing.
“Oh, daughter,” said the merchant, embracing Beauty, “I am almost frightened to death, believe me, you had better go back, and let me stay here.”
It did not count, and he did not mean it, but still he took credit for the making of the offer.
Her father could not help from crying as he left, but who can cry forever? And who can feel sorry forever? And who will not eventually excuse himself of guilt, if he lives long enough? Life held enough distractions that he quickly enough found pleasure in freedom, and did not wish to undo the trade he had made. And still he had two other daughters.
After he left, Beauty picked up one of her books, and pointed her face at it, and turned the pages, almost as if she were reading it. She was sick and hot from the nearness of the fire and the nearness of her fear.
As soon as he was gone, Beauty sat down in the great hall, and fell a crying likewise; but as she was mistress of a great deal of resolution, she recommended herself to God, and resolved not to be uneasy the little time she had to live; for she firmly believed Beast would eat her up that night.
Not all Beasts eat you up in a single night. Some Beasts devour by pieces, and still others make you consume yourself.
However, she thought she might as well walk about until then, and view this fine castle, which she could not help admiring; it was a delightful pleasant place, and she was extremely surprised at seeing a door, over which was written, “Beauty’s Library.” She opened it hastily, and was quite dazzled with the magnificence that reigned throughout; but what chiefly took up her attention, was a sweeping set of shelves bearing books the names of which she had never learned, a harpsichord, and several dozen music books.
“Well,” she said to herself, “perhaps I will be permitted some small pleasures here before I am killed.”
She noted with some surprise that the books she had brought herself were already shelved among the others, although she had not put them there herself.
Then she thought: “If I were going to be killed, the Beast would never have gone to such trouble creating a place for me.” This consideration filled her with courage, and she took a book from the shelf, and read these words, in letters of gold:
The library is yours.
The books are mine.
Your eyes are your own.
What you read is up to me.
Beauty thrust the book back onto the shelf and sat on her bed. She did not move for some time.
At noon she found dinner ready, and while at the table, heard an excellent concert of music, though without seeing anybody. I will have distractions but no companions here, she thought to herself. I will be left alone but given no privacy. She found that her hand shook so that she could not bring the fork to her lips. She found she laughed without meaning to. She found herself counting footsteps in the hall. She found herself looking at her feet rather than looking at her books.
“The books,” she heard. “Not yours.”
At night, as she was going to sit down to supper, she heard the noise Beast made, and then he was in the chair beside hers. “Beauty,” said the monster, “will you give me leave to see you sup?”
“That is as you please,” answered Beauty.
“No,” replied the Beast, “you alone are mistress here; you need only bid me gone, if my presence is troublesome, and I will immediately withdraw.”
“If I am mistress here,” Beauty asked without looking at him, “why am I mistress of a library of books I cannot read?”
“Why, Beauty,” he said lightly, tilting her chin so that she had nowhere to look but at him, “you are mistress of the house, and I am master of everything in it.” He dropped her chin and left his paw in her lap. It lay there like a dead thing. “Tell me,” he said, “do not you think me very ugly?”
Beauty said nothing.
“Come, you are mistress of your own voice; speak,” said the Beast.
Beauty opened her mouth.
“But remember I am master of all the words spoken in this house,” he said, taking her hands and pressing them tightly. “Remember that.”
“I think nothing of the kind,” she said.
“You may go to bed,” he told her, smiling. “I will eat your dinner for you.”
Beauty rose to leave. “Please endeavor to amuse yourself in your palace,” the Beast said after her, “for everything here is yours, and I should be very uneasy, if you were not happy.”
Beauty had nothing to say to that. She went to her bed and laid herself down in it.
“You have not been in your library yet today,” the Beast said the next week at supper. “Does it displease you?”
Beauty heard the command hiding within the question, and sat among the books all afternoon. She did not open the books. She did not open the curtains. She let the hours pass themselves over her.
That night at dinner, the Beast was especially kind. He heaped her plate with every kind of delicacy, and she ate them all.
Afterwards, he asked her: “Beauty, will you be my wife?”
She was some time before she dared answer, for she was afraid of using words that he did not want her to. At last, however, she said, “No.”
Immediately he got up and put out the fire in the hearth. “Good night, Beauty,” he said, as cheerful as ever. “Sleep well.”
That night, long after Beauty went to bed, she heard heavy steps in the hall outside her door. When she woke in the morning, every fire in the house had been extinguished, and the carpets and the drapes were full of smoke. When she went to the library, she saw the name of every one of the books had been smudged away with ash, black and nameless and eyeless.
The next night at dinner, the Beast stood in the doorway before entering the room. “Beauty,” he said kindly, as if to an untrained dog, “these chairs are for my wife. Are you my wife?”
“No, Beast,” she said.
“Then have you any right to sit on that chair?”
“No, Beast,” she said.
“Then where do you think you should sit, Beauty?”
Beauty took her plate and sat on the floor.
Beauty spent three months in the palace. Every evening Beast paid her a visit, and talked to her. And every night, before she went to bed, he always asked her, if she would be his wife.
One day she said to him, “Beast, you make me very uneasy, I wish I could consent to marry you, but I am too sincere to make you believe that will ever happen; I shall always esteem you as a friend, endeavor to be satisfied with this.”
“I must grieve, then,” said the Beast, “for, I know too well my own misfortune, but then I love you with the tenderest affection. If you will not marry me, perhaps I will die of grief.”
Beauty worked very carefully not to change the expression on her face.
“If you do not marry me,” the Beast said, “it might kill me, and then this house would have no master, and you would belong to no one.”
That night, Beauty took her covers and slept underneath her bed, and drew a blanket over her eyes. And she did not come out. And the Beast paced the halls, and he called after her, but he could not find her.
“Your poor Beast shall die of grief,” he said to her.
Beauty blushed at these words, but she did not come out.
“I would happily die,” the Beast said, “rather than cause you a moment’s unease. Is it your wish that I should die, Beauty?”
And Beauty said nothing, and she did not come out.
After three days, there were no steps in the hall, and there was no breath in the doorway, and Beauty came out. And there was no sign of the Beast anywhere in the house, and all of the fires were lit.
And Beauty went into the library, and sat down in it. She did not touch the books, for the books were still not hers, no matter how dead the Beast was. She was mistress of the house, but nothing in it was hers, not even herself, and perhaps she is sitting there still.
