by E. Nesbit
The sun woke him next morning. A bath was set out ready for him, and also a new suit of clothes exactly like his old ones.
“Oh, I see,” he said, “this is a poor-house, where the State takes care of poor travellers who haven’t money to spend on hotels. I am very lucky to have found it. And how delicately it’s all done! The Guardians of the Poor arrange everything so beautifully, and then keep out of the way to avoid being thanked.” When he had had breakfast in the hall, still seeing no one, he started to walk home, and on his way through the gardens he remembered Beauty’s wish, and stopped to gather her a rose from one of the flower-covered trellises.
Then suddenly with a fierce and frightening howl a great shaggy beast leapt out from behind a magnolia tree, and shook a knobbly club in his face.
“Ungrateful wretch!” growled the Beast. “You have been treated like a prince in my house, and in return you steal my roses. Prepare to die.”
“Oh, please don’t!” said the merchant. “I am so sorry. I never meant... Oh, my lord, spare me!”
“I’m not a lord—I’m a beast,” said the creature; and so he was—something between a bear and a hyena, with a dash of monkey and something of the elephant.
“Good Beast,” said the merchant through chattering teeth, “I only just took one rose for my daughter. She is so fond of roses.”
“How many daughters have you?” asked the Beast.
“Three,” said the merchant. “Oh, spare me for their sakes!”
“Very well,” said the Beast, “I’ll let you off this time if one of your daughters will come here and die instead of you. That’s all I have to say. Good-morning. If you or your daughter aren’t here by tea-time tomorrow—I shall call at your house and take the whole family.”
“I am at your mercy,” said the poor merchant. “I will come back myself tomorrow, in plenty of time for your tea. Of course, I sha’n’t allow my daughters to sacrifice themselves for me.”
“Humph!” said the Beast. “I’ll order a carriage for you—you’ll get home quicker; and it can call for you tomorrow and bring you back—you or your daughter.”
The carriage was very comfortable, but the merchant was on thorns. The only comfort was that the Beast had insisted on his taking a big chest of gold, and the thought that this was now on the box beside the coachman, and would presently be a handsome dowry and livelihood for his daughters, consoled him a little.
When he got home he sent away the carriage, and kissed his children.
“What’s in the chest, father?” said the elder ones, speaking both at once and in a very great hurry. “Is it our presents?”
“It is the money for you to live on when I am dead,” said the father. “That is the only present I have brought; that and this rose for my Beauty, which has cost her father’s life.”
And he told them what had happened.
“Ah,” said the eldest sister, “this is your doing! If you hadn’t tried to be so extra humble and unselfish this wouldn’t have happened. You might at least cry, like us.”
“I’ve nothing to cry about,” said Beauty, hugging her father; “it’s my rose, and I’m going to pay for it.”
“I shouldn’t dream of allowing such a thing,” said the merchant crossly.
“I’d much sooner die all in a minute,” said Beauty, “than be miserable all my life long at the thought that I’d caused my father’s death.”
“Nonsense,” said her father. “I shall go back tomorrow, as I said.”
“If you do,” said Beauty, “I shall go with you. And if you go without me, I shall follow you.”
“You’re a naughty, obstinate girl,” said the merchant angrily; and then he burst into tears, and caught her in his arms, and said she was his dear love and his own treasure. You see, he was rather upset.
Beauty got her father to herself while the sisters examined the chest.
“I will hang myself down the well the minute you’re gone if you leave me behind,” said she; and that settled it.
“After all,” said the merchant, “he may spare you more readily than me. How could any one be beast enough to hurt even a hair of your dear head?”
And so it happened that just about tea-time Beauty and her father arrived at the Beast’s mansion. There was no one about, but food was put ready as before. When the merchant saw this he began to be more cheerful, and, having been there already, felt almost at home, and showed Beauty the fine furniture and rich hangings as though he had invented them himself. “See,” he said, “how beautifully everything is arranged for us. Here’s your room, next to mine—see, ‘Beauty’s Bedroom’ set on the door in pearls. He’d never have gone to all this trouble and expense if he meant to kill you. Now come to supper, my child. The game pies here are first-rate!”
So they had supper together, and each, by trying to cheer up the other, cheered himself up at the same time, as so often happens.
They slept well, and next morning it was actually pleasant to walk in the rose-garden. They could not believe that the owner of this beautiful house, who had shown them such hospitality, could really mean to kill either of them. And they were right, as people so often are when they look upon the bright side of things.
For the Beast appeared from behind the magnolia so suddenly that Beauty could not help giving one little scream.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Beast, in tones so gentle as to sound extremely odd from that great shaggy, fierce-toothed mouth. “Don’t be afraid. No one is going to hurt you. Do you come of your own free will?”
“Yes—oh, yes,” said Beauty.
“Thank you,” said the Beast; “you’re a good girl. Now, Sir Merchant, goodbye; and if you come back I shall certainly make you sorry for it.”
The merchant had to go. And when the carriage which took him away was out of sight the Beast turned to Beauty and said:
“All my house is yours, but the west wing is especially your own. See, there is a door that leads straight into it from the rose-garden. I shall not bore you with my company, for I know quite well how stupid I am; but I hope you’ll allow me to see you once a day, for a few moments after supper.”
He bowed, as politely as any beast could, and left her; and Beauty, of course, instantly explored the west wing. All the rooms were furnished exactly as she would have furnished her home herself if she had had the money. There were good books, good pictures, beautiful carvings, soft carpets and curtains of her favourite colours, lutes and pear-drums and guitars, flowers in every room, and in every room the air of welcome which is the most charming of all furniture.
And in her boudoir was a mirror as big as the side of a state-coach, and in it she could see anything she chose to wish to see. She wished to see her father, and saw him leaning back in the carriage, with tears running down his face.
This made her cry too, and she had no heart to explore her house further; but presently she said, “Come, Beauty, don’t be a silly little coward,” and dried her eyes and went and practised for an hour at the harpsichord.
After supper that night the violet velvet curtain that hung over the door stirred and was lifted. There stood the Beast.
“May I come in?” he said.
“Yes,” said Beauty, resolved not to be frightened.
“I am very ugly, am I not?” said the Beast.
“You are, rather,” said Beauty, “but you are very kind to me.”
“I am ugly, and I am stupid,” said he. “In fact, I am a perfect beast.”
“Nobody’s really stupid if they know they’re not clever,” said Beauty.
“I hope you’ll be happy here,” said he.
“You are very kind,” said she.
“I can’t think of anything else to say,” said the Beast, “except one thing.”
“What’s that?” said Beauty, encouragingly.
“Beauty, will you marry me?” said he.
“No, thank you, Beast,” said Beauty.
And he sighed and walked heavily out of the ro
om on his great hairy beast-feet.
Every night he came to see her, and every night tried to talk, but the only really interesting thing he ever said was, “Beauty, will you marry me?” He said that every night; and every night Beauty said, “No, thank you, Beast.”
This went on for three months, and then one morning when Beauty looked in the mirror, as she always did, to see how her father was getting on, she saw him ill in bed, and her sisters just starting off, very gaily dressed, for a water-picnic; for the Beast’s money had provided them with the kind of friends that money can buy.
She looked for the Beast everywhere that day, but could not find him. At supper-time he came as usual, and was horrified to find her with red eyes, and swollen nose, and all the marks of having cried most of the day.
“What is it, my dear Beauty, my Dear?” he cried. “Do you really hate me so? Are you so unhappy with me? Very well; go. I can bear anything rather than to see you cry. Leave me. I cannot live without you—but I would rather die than keep you against your will.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said Beauty, “I wasn’t crying for that. I am fond of you, really I am, though I can’t marry you. And I should be quite contented to stay here for ever with you. But my father is ill.”
Then she told him what she had seen in the mirror.
“Let me go home for a week,” she said, “and I’ll faithfully come back at the end.”
“I will—oh, I will,” said the Beast. “How can I refuse you anything that you ask me, however much I suffer? Take this ruby ring, put it on your right hand when you go to bed tonight, and you’ll wake up in your old home. On the last night of the week put it on your left hand, and you’ll wake up here. And remember, dear Beauty, if you don’t come back it will kill me.”
Beauty did as she was told, and next morning awoke in her own little white bedroom, with the red vine tendrils looking in at the window.
She found her father ill, but she kissed him better in five minutes, for he was only ill of grief at the loss of her. And by the end of the week he was as well as ever.
Now though the magic ring that brought Beauty home had also brought two chests of fine clothes and jewels, and though Beauty had given nearly all these things to her sisters, yet still they hated her and cursed her. So they made a wicked plot, and put sleepy herbs in her supper chocolate, so that she slept without waking for thirty-six hours.
“Now she has broken her word,” said the elder, “and the Beast will kill her when she does go back.”
Beauty did not know that she had missed a day, and put on the ring a day late, without knowing it. She woke in her pearl and white room at the Beast’s house—and only then did she know that she had broken her word, and had stayed away for more than the week. She knew it by the date marked by the calendar of living roses, that changed, all of its own live cleverness, every day. She remembered then the queer taste of the supper chocolate, and how drowsy and ill she had felt in the morning, and she guessed the truth.
“He will have thought me faithless,” she said; “he will have been very unhappy. But he’ll forgive me at supper-time, when I tell him all about it.”
And the day seemed as though it would never be done. She longed for supper-time, to tell all about it and be forgiven.
Supper-time came at last, but no Beast. Beauty grew more and more anxious and unhappy. She had put on the loveliest of all the lovely dresses that the Beast had given her, so as to please the eyes that she knew loved to see her beauty beautifully set. She waited and waited and waited till the clock struck eleven, and then she could bear it no longer. She caught up her white satin train and ran through all the rooms of the mansion, calling:
“Beast! Beast! Where are you?”
And nothing answered her but the desolate echoes of the empty house.
Then she ran out into the garden, and up and down the rose walks and the jasmine alleys, where still the flowers were blooming in summer glory, though everywhere else it was chill October. And now she cried, “Beast, dear Beast, where are you?”
And still there came no answer.
The splendour of the full moon lighted the gardens as with a pale dream-daylight. As she ran down the grass alley where the statues stood she saw by the fountain something dark that lay along the ground against the white marble of the fountain’s basin.
In a moment she was leaning over it. It was the Beast. Dead! Dead? No—but hardly living; yet she could feel his heart beat faintly through his thick fur.
She sank down on the dewy grass, pulled his head on to her lap, and put her arms round his shaggy neck.
“Oh, Beast, dearest, don’t die,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear it if you die. I can’t live without you. It wasn’t my fault I was late—oh, believe me it wasn’t! Oh, don’t die, dearest—don’t die and leave me!”
The Beast opened his sad eyes and looked at her.
“I’m dying, Beauty,” he said, so low that she could hardly hear him. “You don’t love me. This is only pity. Goodbye.”
“Not love you!” cried Beauty. “Oh, dearest, can’t you see that I’m crying my eyes out? Only live, and you shall see whether I love you!”
Then the Beast once again put the old question, very faint, very hopeless.
“Beauty,” he said, “will you marry me?”
“Ah!” said Beauty, “that I will!” And she tightened her arms round his neck and kissed him between the eyes.
Then in a moment the whole house glowed with light—coloured lamps hung like magic fruit from all the trees; and in her arms instead of the Beast’s head was the head of the handsomest prince in the world. He sprang to his feet and kneeled before her.
“You have given me life, and love,” he said. “I was changed to a beast by wicked fairies, and condemned to be a beast till someone should truly love me. Dearest, we shall be the happiest couple in the world!”
They were. The old father made his home with them; but the wicked sisters, as soon as they breathed the air of that garden, were turned to stone. Their hearts were stone already, and the rest was easy to the good fairy who had watched over the Beast and led his dear Beauty to him.
They stand as statues at the lodge gates of that mansion to this day.
JACK THE GIANT-KILLER
IN THE LONG-AGO days of King Arthur, who invented round tables, there was a sort of plague of giants in the West Country—just as nowadays there are plagues of wasps, and mosquitoes, and millionaires; and the giants threatened to spread, like other plagues, till they had eaten up all nice, proper-sized people in England. But this dreadful thing did not happen, because there was a boy named Jack, who cared for nothing in the world but killing giants. Now when a boy—or a girl either, for that matter—cares only for one thing, that is the thing it will do, and do well. Jack did so well at the giant-killing that though he lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago, yet to this day whenever people speak of “The Giant-Killer” every one knows that they mean Jack, and could not possibly mean anyone else.
From the time when Jack was quite little he used to listen (with his mouth open) to the stories that grown-up people told as they sat round the wood fire on winter nights, or lounged of a summer evening on the village green. In those days people had no books to read, and couldn’t have read them if they had had them, so that stories were remembered, and told again and again. And among the stories that Jack heard, of dragons and enchanters and witches and fairies, were stories of giants, and these were the tales he loved. When the other children, playing on the smooth sea-sand between the rocks, took sticks and tried to draw men and women and dogs and horses, it was always giants that Jack wanted to draw, and this needed so much room that the other children used to tell him to go away and find a bit of sand of his own to draw on. They liked it better when Jack divided the boys of the village into two bands, and they all played at battles and sieges among the rocks and caves, exactly as boys do now.
His father, who kept the ferry-boat at the mouth of the river, sometimes used
to say, “When Jack grows up he shall be a ferry-man”; and then Jack never said a word, good or bad, but in his heart he used to say, “When I grow up I will be a giant-killer.”
It happened, however, that he was to be what he wished to be, even before he grew up.
One night as he and his father were sitting by the fire waiting for supper to be ready—a very nice supper of boiled shoulder of kid, with leeks and onions—an enormous hand came down the chimney, lifted the lid off the pot, and flung it rattling and hissing among the wood ashes. Then a great finger and thumb picked the meat out of the broth, and meat and hand disappeared up the chimney.
“Hullo!” said Jack, “there’s nice manners for you!”
“You don’t expect manners from giants,” said Jack’s father. “I know who it is that’s stolen our supper. I heard there was a giant called Cormoran, come to live on the mountain, but I never thought he’d demean himself to take our poor little bit of supper. Why, they say he makes nothing of going home with a dozen oxen over his shoulder, and a few score of swine strung on a bough, as we string herrings on a withy.”
“Does he so?” said Jack. “Well, he has taken our supper, and left us only a leeky swill of broth to comfort our stomachs withal. There shall be a reckoning to pay for this same supper.”
“Big words, my boy,” said his father, “big words! Sop your bread and sup your broth, and get you to bed, for bread and broth’s all our supper this night.”
Jack sopped his bread and supped his broth, and got to bed; but he did not get to sleep. He knew there was some way of doing what he meant to do, and there should be no sleep for him till he found that way. And before dawn the way was found. Jack got up from his tossed bed of dry forest leaves, took his father’s lanthorn, and a pickaxe, and a horn. Then out he went to the mountain his father had told him of; and there was the castle where the giant lived whose great red hand had come down the chimney and taken the meat out of the pot.
