Sleeping Beauty and other fairy tales (version 2) — Beauty and the Beast

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

Once upon a time, in a country a long way from here, there stood a flourishing city, full of commerce; and in that city lived a merchant so lucky in all his ventures that it seemed as if fortune waited on his wishes.

But while enormously rich, he had a very long family of six sons and six daughters; and as yet not one of them was settled in life.

The boys were too young to go out in the world; and the girls, who had everything at home the heart could desire, were in no hurry to risk a change by choosing a husband, although many rich and noble suitors paid court to them.

But one day an unexpected disaster brought this pleasant state of things to an end.

Their house caught fire and was burnt to the ground;

and with it perished not only the magnificent furniture, but the merchant's account books, bank notes, gold and silver, and the precious wares on which his wealth depended.

Scarcely anything was saved.

This was but the beginning of their misfortunes.

Their father, who up to now had prospered in everything he touched, lost in a very short while every ship he had upon the sea.

Some were wrecked, others captured by pirates.

His agents failed; his clerks in foreign countries proved unfaithful; and, in short, from the height of riches he suddenly fell into the direst poverty.

Nothing was left to him but one poor little country cottage, at least a hundred leagues from the city in which he had lived.

In this he was driven to find refuge, and to this he carried off his family, who were in despair since the overthrow.

The daughters especially could not endure the thought of dwelling in such a den (as they called it).

At first they had felt sure that on hearing the news their suitors would be tripping one another up in haste to renew their offers of marriage.

But in this they were soon undeceived.

Their downfall was no sooner known than all these flattering wooers took to their heels in a troop.

They fared no better with their intimate friends, who at once dropped their acquaintance.

Nay, those to whom our merchant had formerly shown the greatest kindness were now the most eager to speak ill of him.

So nothing was left for this hapless family but to take their departure from the city and shut themselves up in the cottage, which stood in the depth of a dismal and almost trackless forest.

No servants now to wait on them!

The sons tilled the ground and swept out the farm sheds; and the daughters, dressed like country girls in coarse linen frocks, were forced to turn their delicate hands to the roughest employment and live on hard fare of which there was little enough.

Only the youngest daughter showed a brave heart.

She had been despondent as any of them to begin with; but after weeping--as well she might--for her father's misfortunes, she recovered her natural gaiety, made the best of things, tried to forget how ungrateful the world had been, kept her father and her brothers amused with her cheerful wit, and after she had done her work, would sing and play.

But her sisters would not join with her in making the best of things.

'It is very easy for you to be happy,' the eldest grumbled.

'You have low tastes and were born for this kind of life.'

The fact is, they were all jealous of her because of her sweet temper and good looks.

So beautiful, indeed, was this youngest sister that in the old days every one had agreed to call her _Beauty_--by that and by no other name she was known.

Alone of them she might easily, in the first days of their ruin, have found a husband; but she could not think of this while she could be of use to help and console her family.

Two years passed, and there came news which seemed to offer a hope to escape.

One of their father's ships, long supposed to be lost, had arrived in port with a rich cargo.

The message further advised his return to the city with speed, or his, agents might sell the goods too cheaply and he would lose his gains.

So, whilst his children danced with joy at the news, the merchant set about preparing for his long journey.

In their transport his daughters loaded him with commissions for gowns and jewels it would have taken a fortune to buy.

Only _Beauty_ would not ask for anything.

Her father, noting her silence, interrupted the others who still kept adding to their list of requirements.

'Well, _Beauty_,' he said, 'and what shall I bring home for you?

Surely you, too, wish for something?'

'Dear father,' she answered, 'I wish for the most precious thing in the world; and that is to see you home again safe and sound.'

This answer covered the sisters with confusion, and vexed them so that one of them, speaking up for the others, said tartly: 'This small miss is putting on airs.

She thinks, no doubt, she cuts a figure with her affected fine sentiments!'

Her father, however, was touched by her good feeling.

Nevertheless he told her to choose something--'For,' said he, 'at your age it is only natural to like dresses and pretty presents.'

'Well, dear father,' said she, 'since you insist, I will beg you to bring me home a rose.

I have not seen one since we came to live here, and I love roses.'

In this way _Beauty_ contrived to obey her father and yet to put him to no expense.

The day came for the merchant to embrace them all and bid them farewell.

He made the best of his way to the great city; and arrived there to be met with a great disappointment.

To be sure his vessel had come safely to port; but his partners, believing him dead, had taken possession of it and divided the cargo between them.

To make good his claim he was forced to bring a number of tedious law-suits.

He won them in the end; but only to find, after six months of trouble and expense, that he was almost as poor as when he started.

To make his misery complete he was forced to travel back in the winter, in the most inclement weather; so that by the time he reached the skirts of the forest he was ready to drop with fatigue.

But reminding himself that his home was now not many leagues away, he called up what strength, remained to him.

As he pushed on through the forest, night overtook him; and in the piercing cold, half buried--his horse and he--in the deep snow that hid every pathway, the poor merchant feared that his last hour had come.

Not so much as a hut did he pass.

The only shelter to be found was the trunk of a hollow tree; and there he cowered through the long night, kept awake by his hunger and the howling of the wolves.

Nor did the day bring him much comfort: for thick snow lay everywhere, and not a path was to be seen.

It was only after a weary search that he managed to recover his horse, which had wandered away and partly sheltered itself in another hollow tree.

He mounted, and now in a little while discovered a sort of track which presently grew easier.

Following this, he found himself in an avenue of trees, at the entrance of which he halted and rubbed his eyes.

For no snow had fallen in this avenue, and the trees were tall orange-trees, planted in four rows and covered with flowers and fruit; and here and there among the trees were statues, some of single figures, others of groups representing scenes of war, but all coloured like real life.

At the end of the avenue, straight in front of him, rose a magnificent castle in many terraces.

The merchant rode around to the stable courtyard, which he found empty; and there, with half-frozen hands, he unbridled and stabled his horse.

Within the doorway he found a staircase of agate with balusters of carved gold.

He mounted it and passed through room after room, each more splendidly furnished than the last.

They were deliciously warm, too, and he began to feel his limbs again.

But he was hungry; where could he find some one to give him food?

Everywhere was silence; and yet the place had no look of being abandoned.

Drawingrooms, bedchambers, galleries--all stood unlocked....

At last, tired of roaming, he came to a halt in an apartment where some one had lit a bright fire.

A sofa drawn up cosily beside it, invited him to sit and warm his limbs; and resting there, he closed his eyes and fell into deep and grateful slumber.

As weariness had sent him to sleep, so hunger awoke him.

He opened his eyes and saw at his elbow a table with meats and wine upon it.

He had been fasting for more than twenty-four hours, and lost no time in falling-to.

He hoped that he might soon have sight of this most hospitable entertainer, whoever he might be, and an opportunity of thanking him.

Still no one appeared; and now this good food did for him what fatigue had done before.

He dropped off again into an easy slumber which lasted for four hours almost.

Again awaking, he saw at his elbow another small table--of porphyry this time--upon which the unknown hands had set out a dainty meal of cakes, crystallised fruits and liqueurs.

To this, too, he did justice.

But, as the time still passed and no one appeared, he began to feel terrified, and resolved to search once more through all the rooms....

But still he found no one.

[Illustration: He had been fasting, for more than twenty-four hours, and lost no time in falling to.

] He was standing lost in thought, when of a sudden it came into his mind that some kindly power had perhaps prepared this palace of wonder for him, that it with all its riches might indeed be his.

Possessed by this notion he once again made a tour of the rooms and took stock of their treasures, planning in his mind how he would divide them amongst his children, assigning this apartment to one and that to another, and whispering to himself what joy he would carry home after all from his journey.

Then he went down into the garden, where--though it was the depth of winter--the birds were singing and the air breathed the scent of a thousand flowers.

'Surely,' he told himself, 'my daughters will be happy here and never desire any more to go back to the city.

Quick!

Let me saddle my horse at once and ride home with the news!'

The way to the stable was an alley fenced on either hand with palings, and over the palings hung great clusters of roses in bloom.

They reminded him of his promise to _Beauty_.

He plucked one, and was about to pluck a whole nosegay, when he was startled by a horrible noise behind him, and attempted to turn.

But behind him stood a hideous _Beast_ who was overtaking him and reaching out towards him.

'Who gave you leave to pluck my roses?'

roared this monster.

'Was it not enough that I made you welcome in my palace and treated you kindly?

And you show your gratitude by stealing my flowers!

But your insolence shall not go unpunished!'

The good merchant, terrified no less by the sight of this _Beast_ than by his threats, let drop the rose and flung himself on his knees.

'My Lord,' he cried, 'have pity on me!

I am not ungrateful; but after all your kindness I could not guess that so small a thing would offend you.'

This speech did not at all abate the _Beast's_ wrath.

'Hold your tongue, sir,' he commanded, 'if you can offer me nothing but flatteries and false titles.

I am not "my lord."

I am the _Beast_; and your words will not save you from the death you deserve.'

The merchant, although in fear of his life, plucked up courage to tell the monster that the rose which he had been bold to pluck was for one of his daughters, by name _Beauty_.

Then, in hope either to delay the _Beast's_ vengeance or to touch his compassion, he launched into the tale of all his misfortunes, and of his reasons for the journey, not forgetting to mention _Beauty_ again and her request.

The _Beast_ considered for a moment before answering him in a somewhat milder tone: 'I will forgive you; but only on condition that you give me one of your daughters.

_Some one_ must make amends for this trespass.'

'Heaven forgive me,' the merchant entreated, 'but how can I promise such a thing!

Even were I cruel enough to purchase my life at the cost of a child, on what excuse could I bring her?'

'No excuse is necessary,' replied the _Beast_ shortly.

'Whichever you bring must come here of her own free will, or not at all.

Go home and try if there be one brave and loving enough to sacrifice herself to save your life.

You seem to be an honest man.

Give me your word to return here at the end of a month and bring whichever of your daughters you can persuade to come with you.

If you can persuade none of them, you must come alone; and I warn you that, if you fail of it, I shall come and fetch you.'

What was the poor man to do?

He promised, for he saw death staring him in the face; and having given his promise he hoped to be allowed to depart.

But the _Beast_ informed him that he could not go until next day.

'Then,' said he, 'at daybreak you will find a horse ready for you who will carry you home in less than no time.

Now go and eat your supper, and await my commands.'

The merchant, more dead than alive, crept back to his rooms.

There, before a blazing fire, he found a delicious supper spread, inviting him to eat.

But so distraught was he, that no food, however delicious, could have tempted him had he not been afraid that the _Beast_ might be hiding somewhere to watch him.

In fear of this he forced himself to sit and taste of the dishes.

A loud noise in the next room warned him that the _Beast_ was coming.

Since he could not escape, he mustered what courage he could to conceal his terror, and faced about to the doorway.

'Have you made a good supper?'

was the _Beast's_ first question.

The merchant in humblest voice answered that, thanks to his host's kind attention, he had fared excellently well.

'I am paying you a visit,' said the _Beast_, 'to warn you again to be honest with your daughter.

Describe me to her just as I am.

Let her be free to choose whether she will come or no; but tell her that, her course once chosen, there can be no retreat, nor even reflection after you have brought her to me.

To break faith then will avail nothing: she will but destroy you without winning her own release.'

Again the spirit-broken merchant repeated his promise.

The _Beast_ appeared to be content at length.

'Retire to bed now,' he commanded, 'and do not get up to-morrow until you see the sun and hear a golden bell rung.

Then, before starting, you will find breakfast laid for you here; your horse will be standing ready saddled in the courtyard; and you may carry back the rose to your daughter _Beauty_--as you call her.

For the rest, I count on seeing you back in a month's time.

So, farewell.'

The merchant, who dared not disobey a single one of these orders, retired to bed at once, though without any temptation to sleep; and again, though he passed a wretched night, he was punctual to rise with the sun.

A golden bell rang; and prompt on the sound he found breakfast laid, still by unseen hands.

After breakfast he went down to the stables, and on his way paused to pick up the rose, which lay in the alley where it had dropped from his hand.

It was fresh as ever, and smelt as sweetly as though it yet grew on the tree.

A few paces further on he found his horse standing ready saddled, with a handsome cloak of furs, far warmer than his own, lying across the saddle.

He put it on and mounted, and now he had to wonder at yet another miracle.

His horse set off at an incredible speed, so that before he could even turn in the saddle the palace had sunk out of sight.

Could the horse have felt the weight on the good man's mind, it had never made such a pace.

But it took its own way, insensible to rein or bridle; nor halted until it reached the door of the cottage.

The merchant's sons and daughters had rushed out at his approach;

though it was not until he drew quite close that they recognised their father in this horseman superbly cloaked, with a rose at his holster, and mounted on a horse that travelled at such a speed.

When they recognised him, they made sure that he brought the best of news.

But the tears that trickled down his cheeks as he dismounted told them another story.

His first motion then was to pluck the fatal rose from the pommel and hand it to _Beauty_, saying: 'Here is what you asked me to bring.

You little know what it will cost you all.'

This, and his sorrowful look, gave the eldest daughter her cue.

'I was certain of it!'

she said.

'Did I not say, all along, that to force a rose at this time of the year would cost you more than would have bought presents for all the rest of us?

A rose, in mid-winter!

and such a rose!

There--one has only to look at it to see that you took good care _Beauty_ should have her present, no matter at what cost to us!'

'It is all too true,' answered their father sorrowfully, 'that this rose has cost me dear--far dearer than all the presents you others begged of me.

But the cost is not in money; for would to God I could have bought it with the last penny in my purse!'

His speech, you may be sure, excited their curiosity, and they gave him no rest until he had told the whole of his story.

It left their hopes utterly dashed: and the daughters lamented their lot, while their brothers hardily declared that they would never allow their father to return to this accursed castle--they would march thither in a body and destroy the horrible _Beast_ who owned it.

But their father assured them that he had given his word and would rather die than break it.

Thereat the sisters turned upon _Beauty_ and started to upbraid and rail against her.

'It is all your fault,' they declared; 'and this is what comes of your pretended modesty!

Why could you not have asked for dresses and jewels as we did?

Even if you could not get them, at least the demand would have cost nothing.

But you chose to be singular--you, with your precious rose!

and now our father must die, and we must all suffer through your affectation!'

Poor _Beauty_ controlled her tears and answered them: 'Yes, I am to blame for all this, though, indeed, dear sisters, I did it innocently;

for how could I guess that to ask for a rose in the middle of summer, as it was then, would give rise to all this misery?

But what does that matter?

Innocent or guilty, I cannot allow you to suffer for what was my fault; and so I will go back with our father to save him from his promise.

That will be in a month's time, and in this little month, I beg of you, let us be happy together without reproaches.'

At first her brothers would not hear of any such sacrifice, and her father was equally set against it, until the sisters again fired up in their jealousy and accused him of being distressed only because it happened to be _Beauty_; if another of his daughters (they hinted) had offered to pay this price for his life, he would have accepted it cheerfully enough!

_Beauty_ closed this talk by saying firmly that, whether they wished it or not, she would go--'And who knows,' said she, forcing a brave smile, 'but this fate of mine, which seems so terrible, may cover some extraordinary and happy fortune?'

She said it merely to hearten them;

but her sisters, fancying her deluded by vanity and self-conceit, smiled maliciously and applauded.

So their father gave way, and it was agreed that _Beauty_ must go.

For her part she desired only that the few days remaining to her might be as happy as possible; and so, as they passed she spoke little of what was before her, and, if at all, only to treat it lightly and as a piece of good fortune.

When the time drew near she shared up all her trinkets and little possessions with her sisters--for, badly as they had treated her, they were the only friends she had.

Yet jealousy had made their hearts so wicked that when the fatal day arrived they actually rejoiced to hear the neighing of a horse which, punctually sent by the _Beast_, arrived at the door of the cottage.

[Illustration: Soon they caught sight of the castle in the distance.

] The brothers would have rushed out and slain the beautiful animal;

but _Beauty_, mastering their anger with a few tender words, bade her father mount into the saddle; and so, after bidding her sisters farewell with a tenderness that forced them to weep at the last, climbed to the pillion behind him quite as if she were setting out for a holiday.

They were off!

The horse seemed to fly rather than to gallop; so smoothly that _Beauty_ could scarcely feel the motion save by the soft wind that beat on her cheek.

Soon they caught sight of the castle in the distance.

Her father, less happy than she, again and again asked and begged her to alight and return--a most idle offer, for he had no real control of the reins.

But _Beauty_ did not listen, because her mind was made up.

Nevertheless, she was awed, and all the more when, as the fleet horse galloped up to the courtyard, they were met by a great salvo of guns and, as the echoes died away, by the sound of soft music within the palace.

The horse had come to a stop, by a flight of agate steps; a light shone down these steps from a porchway within which the violins kept their throbbing.

_Beauty_ slipped down from the saddle, and her father, alighting after her, took her by the hand and led her to the chamber in which he had first supped; where, sure enough, they found a cheerful fire and a score of candles lit and burning with an exquisite perfume, and--best of all--a table laid with the daintiest of suppers.

The merchant, accustomed to the ways of their host, knew that the supper was meant for them, and _Beauty_ fell-to with a good appetite.

Her spirits indeed were rising.

There had been no sign of any _Beast_ in all the many rooms through which she had passed, and everything in them had seemed to breathe of gaiety and good living.

But this happy frame of mind did not last long.

They had scarcely finished supper when the _Beast_ was heard coming through the distant rooms.

At the sound--the heavy padding of his feet, the roar of his breath--_Beauty_ clung to her father in terror, and had almost fainted against the arm which he flung around her.

But when the _Beast_ stood before her in the doorway, after a little shudder she walked towards him with a firm step, and, halting at a little distance, saluted him respectfully.

This behaviour evidently pleased the _Beast_.

After letting his eyes rest on her face for a while, he said, in a tone that might well have struck terror into the boldest heart (and yet it did not seem to be angry):-- 'Good evening, my good sir!

Good evening, _Beauty_!'

The merchant was too far terrified to find his voice; but _Beauty_ controlled hers and answered sweetly:-- 'Good evening, _Beast_!'

'Have you come here of your own free will?'

asked the _Beast_.

'And are you willing to let your father return and leave you here?'

_Beauty_ answered that she was quite willing.

'Indeed?

And yet what do you suppose will happen to you after he has gone?'

'Sir,' said _Beauty_, 'that is as it pleases you, and you only can tell.'

'Well answered,' replied the _Beast_; 'and since you have come of your own accord, you shall stay.

As for you, my good sir,' said he to the merchant, 'you will take your departure at sunrise.

The bell will give you warning; delay not to rise, eat your breakfast, and depart as before.

But remember that you are forbidden ever to come within sight of my palace again.'

Then, turning to _Beauty_, he said:-- 'Take your father into the next room, and choose between you everything you think will please your brothers and sisters.

You will find there two travelling trunks: fill them as full as they will hold.'

Sorrowful as she was at the certainty of losing her father so soon and for ever, _Beauty_ made ready to obey the _Beast's_ orders, and he left them as he had come, saying:-- 'Good night, _Beauty_!

Good night, good sir!'

When they were alone, _Beauty_ and her father went into the next room, which proved to be a store-chamber piled with treasures a king and queen might have envied.

After choosing and setting apart in heaps,--one for each of her sisters,--the most magnificent dresses she could find, _Beauty_ opened a cupboard which had a door of crystal framed in gold, and stood for a moment dazzled by the precious stones that lay piled on every shelf.

After choosing a vast number and adding them to her heaps, she opened yet another wardrobe and found it full of money in gold pieces.

This set her pondering.

'I think, father,' she said, 'that we had better empty these trunks again, and fill them with money.

For money can always be turned to account, whereas to sell these precious stones you would have to go to some jeweller, who very likely would cheat you, and perhaps be suspicious of them.

But with these pieces of gold you can buy land, houses, furniture, jewels--what you will--and no one will ask any questions.'

Her father agreed.

Yet he first of all tried to make room for the money by emptying out the few things he had packed for himself.

But this was no good: for it seemed that the trunks were made in folds which opened the wider the more he put in.

Somehow the more they packed, the more room there seemed to be, and they ended by replacing all the dresses and precious stones they had taken out.

But now the trunks were so heavy that an elephant would have sunk under them.

'It is all a cheat!'

cried the merchant.

The _Beast_ is mocking us, and only pretended to give us these things, knowing that I could not carry them away.'

'Wait a little,' advised _Beauty_.

'That would be a sorry jest, and I cannot help thinking that the _Beast_ is honest; and that since he offered these gifts he will find you also the means to carry them.

The best thing we can do is to strap up the trunks and leave them ready here.'

So they did this and went back to the little room, where to their amazement they found a breakfast laid on the table.

For a moment they could scarcely believe that the night had flown by whilst they were occupied in ransacking the treasure chamber and packing the trunks.

But, glancing at the windows, they saw that day was indeed breaking;

and presently a bell sounded, warning the merchant to eat quickly and depart.

He finished his meal, and they went down together to the courtyard, where two horses stood ready--the one laden with the two trunks, the other saddled for the merchant to ride.

And now _Beauty_ and her father would fain have spent a long time in bidding one another farewell.

But the two horses neighed and pawed the ground so impatiently that he was afraid to linger.

Tearing himself from his daughter's arms he mounted in haste, and could scarcely turn to say good-bye before both horses sprang away swift as the wind and he was lost to sight in an instant.

Poor _Beauty_!

She gazed and gazed through her tears, and so mounted the stairs sorrowfully back to her own chamber.

On reaching it she felt herself oppressed with sleepiness, for she had passed the night without undressing, and, moreover, for a month past her sleep had been broken and haunted with terrors.

So, having nothing better to do, she went to bed, and was nestling down in the perfumed sheets when her eyes fell on the little table by the bedside.

Some one had set a cup of hot chocolate there, and, half asleep, she reached out her hand for it and drank it; whereupon her eyes closed and she fell into a delicious slumber, such as she had not known since the day when her father brought home the fatal rose.

She dreamed that she was walking alongside an endless canal, the banks of which were bordered with tall orange-trees and myrtles in flower.

There, as she wandered disconsolately lamenting her fate, of a sudden a young _Prince_ stood before her.

He was handsome as the God of Love in picture-books, and when he spoke it was with a voice that went straight to her heart.

'Dear _Beauty_,' he said, 'you are not so unfortunate as you suppose.

It is here you shall find the reward of your goodness, denied to you elsewhere.

Use your wits to find me out under the disguise which hides me--that is, if as I stand here now you find me not altogether contemptible.

For I love you tenderly--you alone--and in making me happy you can attain to your own happiness.

Beloved, never distrust your own true heart, and it shall lead you where the heart has nothing left to desire!'

So saying, the charming apparition knelt at her feet, and again besought her to accept his devotion and become mistress over all his life.

'Ah!

What can I do to make you happy?'

she asked earnestly.

'Only be grateful,' he answered, 'and do not believe all that your eyes would tell you.

Above all, do not abandon me until you have rescued me from the cruel sufferings I endure.'

With that the dream melted away, but only to be succeeded by another.

She found herself face to face with a stately and beautiful lady; and the lady was speaking to her with dignity, yet most kindly.

'Dear _Beauty_,' she said, 'do not grieve for what you have left behind; a far higher destiny lies before you.

Only, if you would deserve it, beware of being misled by appearances.'

_Beauty_ found her dreams so agreeable that she was in no hurry at all to awake, and even when her eyes opened to the daylight she had more than half a mind to close them again.

But a clock, chiming out her own name twelve times, warned her that it was midday and time to get up.

She rose, therefore, and found her dressing-table set out with brushes and combs and everything she could want; and having dressed carefully, and with a lightness of heart for which she found it hard to account, she passed into the next room and found her dinner on the table.

Dinner does not take very long when you are all by yourself.

_Beauty_, when she had eaten enough, sat down on a sofa and began to think of the handsome youth she had seen in her dream.

'He told me I could make him happy.

Why, then, it must be that the horrible _Beast_, who appears to be master here, is keeping him a prisoner.

How can I set him free?...

They both warned me not to trust to appearances.

It is all very puzzling....

But one thing is clear at any rate, that I am very silly to be vexing my head over a dream.

I will forget all about it, and look for something to do to amuse myself.'

She sprang up, and started to make a tour of discovery through the many rooms of the palace.

They were even grander than she had expected.

The first she entered was lined with mirrors from floor to ceiling, where she saw herself reflected on every side.

The next thing to catch her eye was a bracelet, hanging from one of the chandeliers.

Set in the bracelet was a gold locket, and opening this she was startled indeed;

for it contained a portrait in miniature of the gallant youth she had seen in her dream.

She could not be mistaken; so closely were his features engraved on her memory--yes, and, it may be, on her heart.

She slipped the bracelet on her wrist, without stopping to think that it did not belong to her, and went on to explore further.

She passed into a long picture gallery, and there again she met the _Prince's_ face.

It smiled down at her, this time from a life-sized portrait, and it seemed to smile so wistfully that she caught herself blushing.

From the gallery her steps had led her to a chamber filled with instruments of music.

_Beauty_ was an accomplished musician; so, sitting down, she amused herself by tuning and trying over one instrument after another; but she liked the harp best because that went best with her voice.

Leaving the music-room at length, she found herself in a long chamber like the picture gallery, but lined with books.

It held an immense library; and _Beauty_, ever since she had lived in the country, had been forced to do without reading, for her father had sold all his books to pay his debts.