“Oh no,” I said hastily, trying to be polite. “Will you walk a little? I love to see the sun set over a garden, and yours are so fine.” We walked in silence for a minute or two; I’ve had better ideas, I thought, taking three steps to his one, although I could see that he was adjusting his pace to mine as best he could. Presently I said, a little out of breath, but finding the silence uncomfortable: “Sunset was my favourite time of the day when we lived in the city; I used to walk in our garden there, but the walls were too .high. When the sky was most beautiful, our garden was already dark.”
“Sunset no longer pleases you?” the Beast inquired, as one who will do his duty by the conversation.
“I’d never seen a sunrise—I was always asleep,” I explained. “I used to stay up very late, reading. Then we moved to the country—I suppose I like sunrise best now; I’m too tired, usually, by sunset, to appreciate it, and I’m usually in a hurry to finish something and go in to supper—or I was,” I said sadly. Longing for home broke over me suddenly and awfully, and closed my throat.
We came to a wall covered with climbing roses which I recognized at once: This must be where Father had met the Beast. We went through the break in the wall, and I looked around me at the glorious confusion; the Beast halted a few steps behind me. Then suddenly in a final fierce bloom of light before it disappeared, the sun filled the castle and its gardens with gold, like nectar in a crystal goblet; the roses gleamed like facets. We both turned towards the light, and I found myself gazing at the back of the Beast’s head. I saw that the heavy brown mane that fell to his shoulders was streaked with grey. The light went out like a snuffed candle, and we stood in soft grey twilight; the sky the sun had left behind was pink and lavender.
The Beast turned back to me. I could look at him fairly steadily this time. After a moment he said harshly: “I am very ugly, am I not?”
“You are certainly, uh, very hairy,” I said.
“You are being polite,” he said.
“Well, yes,” I conceded. “But then you called me beautiful, last night.”
He made a noise somewhere between a roar and a bark, and after an anxious minute, I decided it was probably a laugh. “You do not believe me then?” he inquired.
“Well’—no,” I said, hesitantly, wondering if this might anger him. “Any number of mirrors have told me otherwise.”
“You will find no mirrors here,” he said, “for I cannot bear them: nor any quiet water in ponds. And since I am the only one who sees you, why are you not then beautiful?”
“But—” I said, and Platonic principles rushed into my mouth so fast that they choked me silent. After a moment’s reflection I decided against a treatise on the absolute, and I said, to say something: “There’s always Greatheart. Although I’ve never noticed that he minds how I look.”
“Greatheart?”
“My horse. The big grey stallion in your stable.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, and looked at the ground.
“Is anything wrong?” I said anxiously.
“It would have been better, perhaps, if you had sent him back with your father,” said the Beast.
“Oh dear—is he not safe? Oh, tell me nothing will happen to him! Could I not send him back now? I won’t have him hurt,” I said.
The Beast shook his head. “He’s safe enough; but you see—beasts—other beasts don’t like me. You’ve noticed that nothing lives in the garden but trees and grass and flowers, and rocks and water.”
“You’ll not hurt him?” I said again.
“No; but I could, and horses know it. As I recall, your father’s horse would not come through my gates a second time.”
“That’s true,” I whispered.
“There’s no need to worry. You know now. You look after him well, and I will take care to stay away from him.”
“Perhaps—perhaps it would be better if he went home,” I said, although my heart sank at the thought of losing him. “Could you—send him?”
“I could, but not in any fashion that he would understand, and it would drive him mad. He will be all right.”
I looked up at him, wanting to believe him, and found to my surprise that I did. I smiled. “All right.”
“Come; it’s getting dark. Shall we go in? May I join you at your dinner?”
“Of course,” I said. “You are master here.”
“No, Beauty; it is you who are mistress. Ask for anything I can give you, and you shall have it.”
“My freedom” sat on my tongue, but I did not say it aloud.
“Is your room as you wish? .Is there anything you would change?”
“No—no. Everything is perfect. You are very kind.”
He brushed this away impatiently. “I don’t want your thanks. Is the bed comfortable? Did you sleep well last night?”
“Yes, of course, very well,” I said, but an involuntary gesture of my hands caught his eye.
‘
‘What have you done to your hands?’’ he demanded.
“I—oh—” I said, and realized I could not lie to him, although I did not understand why. “Last night—I tried to go out of my room. The door wouldn’t open, and—I was frightened.”
“I see,” he said; it was no more than a rumble deep in his chest. “It was on my orders that the door was locked.”
“You said I had nothing to fear,” I said.
“That is so; but I am a Beast, and I cannot always behave prettily—even for you,” he replied.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I did not understand.” There was something about the way he stood there without looking at me: Resignation born of long silent hopeless years sat heavily on him, and I found myself involuntarily anxious to comfort him. “But I am quite recovered now in my mind—and see: I am sure my hands are nearly healed too.” I pulled the bandages off as I spoke, and held my hands out for inspection. I had forgotten my ring; the diamonds and the bright ruby eyes caught a few drops of the last daylight and glittered.
“Do you like your ring?” he asked after a pause, looking at my hands.
“Yes,” I said. “Very much. And thank you for the rose seeds, too. I planted them right after Father came home, and they bloomed the day I left—so I can remember the house all covered with them,” I said wistfully.
‘Tm glad. I tried to hurry them along, of course, but it’s rather difficult to do at a distance.”
“Is it?” I said, not sure if an answer was required; and I remembered how the vines nearest the forest had grown the fastest. “And thank you for all the lovely things in Father’s saddle-bags—it was very kind of you.”
“I am not kind—you know you are thinking right now that you would much rather be without rings and roses and lace tablecloths, and be home again instead—and I don’t want your gratitude. I told you that already,” he said roughly. After a moment he continued in a different tone: “It was difficult to know what to send. Emeralds, sapphires, the usual king’s ransom and so forth, I didn’t think would be much good to you. Even gold coins might be difficult to use.”
“You chose very well,” I said.
“Did I really?” he sounded pleased. “Or are you just being polite again?”
“No, really,” I said. “I used two of the candles myself, reading. It was very extravagant of me, but it was wonderful to have good, even light to read by.”
“I sent more candles this time,” he said. “And furs, and cloth. I didn’t want to send more money.”
Blood money, I thought.
“It’s dark,” he said. “Your dinner will be waiving. Will you take my arm?”
“I’d rather not,” I said.
“Very well,” he replied.
“Let’s hurry,” I said, looking away from him. “I’m very hungry.”
The dining hall lit up at our approach. I had noticed without thinking about it that while dusk was falling as we stood in the gardens, and the pedestal lanterns were lighting elsewhere, we stood among the roses in a little pool of shadow, and the lanterns that lined our path back towards the castle remained dark.