Beauty x 3 Part One

Once upon a time in an Apa far, far away... And later on a listgroup devoted to discussion of the works of the veteran British fantasy writer, Diana Wynne Jones; in one of what has come to be obvious to all is a recurring series of discussions regarding her novel, Fire and Hemlock (a general favorite), the question regarding the nature (and gender) of heroism was rather more than lightly touched upon. Among the references which came into play in the course of that particular iteration of the Once and Future Discussion were several mentions of Robin McKinley's classic novel; Beauty.

I had at that point in time quite recently managed to get an essay based upon McKinley's more recent retelling of this story down onto paper after two years of good intentions, and mentioned as much. The piece was far too long for posting in the body of an e-mail message. One of the members emailed me wanting to see the article, however. I ultimately split it up into four sections and posted them to the list after all.

Those four pieces have been recombined here, edited, brought a bit more up to date and lightly rewritten to produce the present article.

First, allow me to clarify that by the phrase "a fictional dialogue", I do not mean the art of writing dialogue between fictional characters in one's own stories. I am referring to the cases where a book itself may be interpreted as a response and/or rebuttal of virtual "statements" posed by the existence of a book or books by other authors. In the 18th century, Samuel Richardson and Henry Fielding engaged in what has been pointed out to be exactly such a "battle of books" throughout an extended, and far from good-natured "dialogue" between them over just what a "novel" ought to be.

This sort of dialogue is far from extinct. While I am not aware of any overt, blatant example in progress between two novelists today, the practice of post and repost between published works by various authors undoubtedly continues, even if it may sometimes take place less than intentionally. And, indeed, identifying what appear to be traces of such "dialogues" is an interesting experience. One of those things to make you go, "Hmmm?" The following examines what I believe may turn out to be one such dialogue.

Or, then again, not.

There are certain tales which resonate. These particular tales touch something so basic to the human spirit that some version of them is to be found in every civilization that has ever been known to the brotherhood of man (assuming that there is such a thing as the brotherhood of man). Sometimes these stories are mere tale "types", reduced to their lowest common denominators. Sometimes they develop with relatively sophisticated themes encapsulating portraits of a specific society. Often a particular version will spin off and endure, having taken on a life of its own.

Several of these tale types are easily recognized. There is the clever peasant tale, wherein a representative of the common people gets the better of his "appointed" masters. In many cases this representative is a child, most typically the one voted "least likely to succeed" of his or her family. In other variants, "he" may be a practitioner of some occupation or craft generally not regarded as high status. The "masters" may be literally the protagonist's own employers, or they may be stylized as representatives of a foolish aristocracy, or they may be subjected to more brutal symbolism and represented by some form of monster or ogre. Many of these "clever peasant" tales bear a strong family resemblance to the Trickster tales of various mythological explanations for the workings of the cosmos.

Just as persistent as the tales of clever peasants are the tales of the dispossessed innocent (a prince or princess usually) who must by determination, virtue and/or the making of prudent alliances struggle to regain their proper place, reestablishing and confirming the rightness of "things as they are". Unlike the peasant tale, which seems to generate fairly spontaneously, representatives of this form are frequently traceable to a specific origin in a courtly "art tale", although these were often based on older, oral versions in turn.

A familiar subset of the story of the dispossessed innocent is the straightforward tale of virtue rewarded. In this form, the protagonist is not necessarily born to rule, although s/he is usually from a social stratum which is shown to be somewhere above that of the peasant. The persistent theme of this tale type is that whatever the original rank of the protagonist may be, s/he is inherently superior to it. This is acknowledged in the ultimate conclusion of the tale in which the protagonist is inevitably rewarded by an elevation to a higher social class than the one into which s/he was born, usually by means of a marriage into royalty. The most recognizable and persistent representative of this tale type is, of course, that of Cinderella, a tale which, traditionally, incorporates some degree of the theme of the dispossessed into its starting point as well, thereby maximizing the protagonist's opportunities to display his or her superiority over what are stated to be his or her natural peers.

This tale type has a corresponding dark version, equally recognizable. These are tales which also exist in many forms, across many nations. Sleeping Beauty, in its expanded version, is one such dark story. Donkeys kin is another. All of these "virtue rewarded" tales, both the light and the dark, have proved singularly attractive to modern storytellers who have been bitten by the urge to do a retelling. And, perhaps, the most popular of all the variants for this purpose, even more so than that of Cinderella herself, appears to be the story of Beauty and the Beast.

The story of Beauty and the Beast is in some regards so closely related to that of Cinderella that one might as well regard the two as being in the nature of first cousins. Belle is born into a lower estate than that of Lady Ella, being the daughter of a merchant, rather than that of a minor noble. And her mate, once disenchanted, is generally not the ruler of some great nation, but, at best, an isolated princeling and, more typically, a simple, if wealthy, country nobleman. Each lady begins with the handicap of having been dispossessed of her rightful position in society. In Ella's case, her place has been usurped by rivals. In Belle's the whole family has endured financial ruin and has been forced to remove from their home and even the City which once stood witness to their former wealth and influence.

But from this point the two tales diverge. Where magical aid is offered to Ella, almost by right of inheritance, magic first arrives on Belle's doorstep not as an aid, but as a challenge and a threat. And, where Ella has only to follow her mentor's instructions and to be her own virtuous self, Belle must, without any instructions, conform her actions into those stated in the terms of the binding of an ancient enchantment in order to break it.

Over the past 3—4 decades there have been several popular retellings of Belle's story. The details have varied from tale to tale. In the traditional version, Belle, like Ella, is one of three young women, the daughters of her father's household. Where Ella's foils are mere stepsisters and spiteful with it, Belle's are her own sisters, but they are (generally) no nicer for that detail. In the oldest of the traditional versions, they have typically been portrayed as shallow, vain and ambitious. Indeed, the most difficult thing to swallow in these particular versions is the storyteller's insistence that Belle pined for her home and her sisters' company.

Prior to the Disney version, the most popularly known retelling of this story was probably the film version directed by Jean Cocteau. In that version, a fairly new (and highly cinematic) element was introduced into the traditional mix in the person of the Beast's handsome, but vicious, rival. This element was carried over into Disney's more recent retelling. Another fairly recent dramatic retelling of the story was a made-for-television movie in the '70s or early '80s starring Mr. and Mrs. George C. Scott. While this adaptation was not quite so popular as Scott's rendition of Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, it was interesting in that – for one thing – Belle was portrayed as being almost as snappish as her sisters, giving the three young women at least some family resemblance, and, second, that once disenchanted the beast was not revealed as a blandly handsome young princeling, but as a stately and powerful man in his prime. (Scott, even then, conformed to no one's ideal of a young Adonis.)

But, for those of us who read, the quintessential retelling of this story appeared in 1978 with the publication of Robin McKinley's BEAUTY. For all that there have been multiple retellings by others both before and since, none have come close to displacing it from its position as "the" retelling of this particular story.

And, then, in 1997, seemingly out of the blue, McKinley suddenly chose to retell the same story all over again, nearly 20 years later.

Why? Who can say. We will probably never know the whole truth of the matter. Nor is this knowledge really any of our business. The author's own endnotes claim that the story surfaced as a side-bar to the recent sale of the small New England cottage and garden which had been her home for some years prior to her marriage.

And far be it from me to call the author's own version of events into question. Still, I cannot but wonder whether there may not be other contributing factors to her decision. In particular, I cannot quite manage to dismiss from my own mind the question of whether in 1997's ROSE DAUGHTER (which reportedly sprang onto the page in a bare six months) we might not be seeing yet another example of what I have come to think of as the "Lackey Effect."

The writing of fiction is not really as isolated an occupation as it appears. In some ways, in a era when publishers' parent corporations seem to regard the selling of books rather in the nature of the selling of packets of soap flakes, it seems to be a highly competitive endeavor. Particularly within such artificially narrowed confines as the rather specialized field of traditional fairytale retellings. I have commented before (elsewhere) on the way such things appear to go in cycles.

For some years now I have periodically groused about the determination of all the world and its aunt to perpetually retell the tale of Tam Lin. I will not subject you to it again here. However I do get the distinct feeling that when the literary pack has gotten its collective teeth into some particular tale, at least some of the versions that result are largely driven by a determination to "tell the story and tell it better, damnit, BETTER than the rest of these paltry scribblers! HA! (That'll show 'em!)" – Or something to that effect.

And there is absolutely no question that Mercedes Lackey is a phenomenon. Within the science fiction & fantasy field I have certainly seen other new authors hit big and become successful. I have seen several authors who became successful early in their careers, either strengthen their craft, or not, and either settle into their place in the general field with a larger or smaller determined following, or loose momentum and fall by the wayside. But I don't know that I have ever seen anything to compare with the sheer impact that Mercedes Lackey made over a mere 12 years. For that matter, at the time of this writing, I was not convinced that she had quite reached the leveling-off stage of her career yet. (Note from 2002; I think she probably has by now.) Although her momentum had slowed, it remained a juggernaut that appeared virtually unstoppable.

It would be all very well if such a high tide raised all boats, but while Lackey appears to be doing her part towards sharing the good fortune, even while extending her own influence, by engaging in an impressive number of projects co-written with a circle of writing partners among her family and friends, it can hardly make it easy for anyone outside this charmed circle who writes any story type with a grain of similarity (difficult to avoid) to make much of an individual impact on their own. Within the field, they might as well be going head-to-head with Steven King.

This must be all the more galling due to the distinctly sleazy air which seems to pervade much of the work with which Lackey is associated. I cannot help but detect a far-from-faint smugness and a congratulatory tone in the narrative voice (directed at the reader), which, contrasted with the self-flagellation indulged in by, or the torment inflicted upon, most of her viewpoint characters is more than a little repellent. Frankly, I sometimes have found that reading Lackey is a bit like being forced through circumstances to loiter in an environment in which the video system is perpetually gabbling out The Jerry Springer Show. To be quite honest, it is not actually this air of shoddiness in Lackey's work to which I object, but the sheer unwitting vulgarity of it. Vulgarity ought never to be so unconscious.

And, in this 12 years of Lackey's ascendancy, she has already managed to generate some at least temporarily deathless clichés with which it seems fairly easy for writers of greater skill, or subtlety, to have a great deal of fun. This is only one of the noticeable responses to the "Lackey Effect". One which we on the DWJ list have seen in action quite recently in Diana Wynne Jones's TOUGH GUIDE/DARK LORD duo (which I contend is all the more rewarding to those who had the persistence to actually make it all the way through a particular Lackey/Dixon production entitled BLACK GRYFFON). In fact, now that I think of it, The Jerry Springer Show in some ways makes an extraordinarily good comparison in that, either as painful irritant or guilty pleasure, (and, I must confess, my own reactions to Ms. Lackey's work partakes of both extremes) it has the end result of reminding us all of just how embarrassingly short a distance stands between even the best genre fiction and the hair-drier book. (i.e., something designed to keep you placid and immobile until the torture is over.)

Because Lackey wouldn't be where she is without some very, very real strengths, the greatest of which is that; By ghod, she can tell a story! The fact that some of these are the kind of stories which never actually reach the brain is, for these purposes, immaterial. And in this regard I can say that Mercedes Lackey unquestionably writes the very best sort of hair-drier book. The sort of book you might casually pick up to browse – and when you finally come to yourself you find you're on page 97 and it is 11:30 at night. But this, and the fact that Ms Lackey has some other, very real, strengths as a writer, does not matter.

What matters here, is that in addition to exhaustively exploring her own sub-world of Valdemar, and those other separate or shared realities in which she has made her name one to conjure with, she has also recently joined the ranks of authors who have taken it upon themselves to retell traditional fairytales. If I am to be honest – which I generally do at least attempt – I must admit that I do not find Lackey's fairytale retellings anywhere near as obnoxious as some of her other work. Fairytales already carry a strong aura of the hairdrier about them. Plus, there are so many varied "takes" on them already that one more by yet another fantasy writer, even if one with a virtual cult following, and whose crown seems to have been unaccountably inherited from some successful purveyor of bodice rippers (although if there is anything to the theory of reincarnation, I think we may be witnessing the return of Francis Hodgson Burnett), is hardly worth more than a shrug or a raised eyebrow.

In any event, in 1995 Mercedes Lackey brought out THE FIRE ROSE. And, in fact, THE FIRE ROSE is a very enjoyable read. It is, of course, yet another retelling of Beauty and the Beast. Having come out in 1995, THE FIRE ROSE was unlikely to have altogether escaped the influence of the 1991 Disney version, with which it shares several elements of greater or lesser importance.

At least two of these elements were directly inherited from McKinley's BEAUTY. (Which was brought to the attention of the screenwriters in charge of the development of the script by a Disney employee as soon as the project was announced.) One if these elements is Beauty's love of reading (to be strictly accurate, in both McKinley and Lackey's versions this quality was actually a love of learning, but the Disney studios no doubt considered that eccentricity a little too radical), and the second element is the strong presence within the confines of the story, of a of a horse. Once again, Disney watered down the element to the point of rendering it vestigial, in both printed versions the horse is an almost essential character to the plot's development. Also in common with Disney (and Cocteau), Lackey's version features a handsome but vicious rival to her heroic Beast.

While I hardly think that THE FIRE ROSE might have been the major moving factor toward giving us ROSE DAUGHTER, I do wonder whether the publication of yet another Beauty and the Beast retelling by so dominant a writer as Lackey unquestionably is – at this point in time – might not, in conjunction with the letting go of what had once been a happy home, have helped to jog McKinley into an exploration of whether she had, after all, said all that she had to say about this particular tale, and whether or not, over the intervening years, she may have come to some different conclusions regarding it. Which certainly appears, to me, to be the case.

Beauty x 3 (Part Two)

Warning! SPOILERS

The first thing one realizes upon embarking on ROSE DAUGHTER is how very young McKinley must have been when she wrote BEAUTY. There is a sweetness, an openhearted innocence about BEAUTY which you realize that almost no writer (other than perhaps Nancy Atherton) would be able to get away with in these disillusioned days where most of the world seems to have become resigned to middle age. The contrast is almost enough to make you weep. By yet further contrast, the story of ROSE DAUGHTER is told to us in the same voice which had just previously told us DEERSKIN, and like DEERSKIN, however attractive the characters may be, it is not a particularly likeable story.

Some comparisons are in order;

In the traditional version (a parable of an arranged marriage if there ever was one), the version which most modern authors use as their starting point, Beauty is the youngest of three sisters, the sweetest and the most despised. There is no real reason for this last detail, it seems to be a mere hobgoblin consistency with generic folktale tradition. Their father is a merchant who has lost his fortune. The family is forced to cut back its expenses and to remove from the costly city in favor of a humble cottage in the countryside. Since there is no money, the girls must now do their own housework. Beauty is the only one who does not spend a great deal of time complaining of this, which gains her no respect from her family. Into the middle of this situation there comes a glimmer of hope. One of their father's ships may not have been lost after all. He makes the journey back to the city in hopes this may be true. His older daughters greedily ask him to bring them back jewels and luxuries. Beauty, when asked, insipidly begs him for a simple rose.

The hope was false. The merchant's luck is indeed out. In fact, so far out is his luck that on his journey home, he goes astray in a storm and is in danger of loosing even his life. By chance he stumbles into the grounds of a grand, deserted palace where he is mysteriously fed and housed for the night. Upon taking his leave in the morning, he makes the mistake of picking a rose for his youngest daughter. In keeping with his luck overall, this arouses the rage of a monstrous Beast who demands his life in forfeit. Upon begging for mercy the merchant is told that he may instead give the monster his rose-loving daughter. The monster states that she, at least, will come to no harm from him.

To no reader's very great surprise, Beauty insists upon being the requisite sacrifice to save her father's life. The merchant conducts her to the (obviously enchanted) palace where the Beast welcomes her and sends her father away loaded with treasure enough to reestablish himself and his family.

At this point we all get time out to wallow in luxury for a while as Beauty becomes accustomed to a standard of living that most of us would like to be entitled to, and the Beast repeatedly pesters her to marry him. Despite these unwanted proposals, Beauty grows, over the ensuing months, to be quite fond of "her" Beast.

Then, for no particular reason that anyone has ever been able to discern, or explain, Beauty becomes consumed with homesickness and a longing to see her father (well, that's understandable, I suppose) and also her nasty sisters (that's not. At all). She begs the Beast for a holiday. He agrees to it upon conditions. She must return to the palace by the specified time or her coach will turn back into a pumpkin and she will be in rags. (Well, actually, no. That's not it. In fact he doesn't always specify the ultimatum. But she, and we, are never left in any doubt that there is one.)

So Beauty makes a flying visit home. She has a wonderful time showing her riches off to her relieved father and her resentful sisters, both of whom have made grand but unhappy marriages in the interim. Of course she overstays, and has to make her way back to the palace under her own power, her magical transport having just as well have turned back into a pumpkin.

She typically finds the Beast's palace in a state of complete squalor of neglect and no sign of her Beast. After turning the place inside out she eventually comes upon him dying of despair over her betrayal. She cries out that she loves him and wants to marry him. He turns into a handsome princeling. She demands to know where her Beast has gotten to. He claims to be her Beast and calls up a wedding celebration. Finis.

Well. Okay. That's the story according to tradition. According to McKinley's BEAUTY in 1978;

Beauty is the youngest of three sisters. Her name is not Beauty. Beauty is a pet name from childhood which has almost become an embarrassment to her, but one which she seems unable to shed. Her older sisters are both beautiful and good, and anyone with a proper way of thinking would value them. Beauty, presently going through a scrawny, spotty stage, has clearly decided that she is the "plain, clever one" of the family. Shortly after her eldest sister's engagement to one of their father's most promising young sea captains, the family's fortune takes a severe decline due to bad weather, shipwrecks and other events beyond human control. The prospective son-in-law's ship goes missing and no further word of it is heard. The family is eventually rolled up, their properties sold or auctioned off to cover debts. The only bright spot in the picture is the engagement of the second sister to a nice young man who is proposing to return to his county district and take up work as a blacksmith. The merchant, who had originally been a carpenter, agrees to join them and bring the rest of his family.

The world in which this takes place is a generic "fairytale countryside" one, with the feel of vaguely 16th—18th century. It is a rationalist world in which magic is scoffed at by any person of education or urbanity and whatever magic is practiced is regarded as silly charms and country superstition.

The family leaves the city with their remaining worldly goods, laden with gifts from well-wishers, the most conspicuous of which is a large, very valuable horse which Beauty had raised from a foal. The family eventually reaches the village of Blue Hill, and uncomplainingly rolls up its collective sleeves and gets to work settling in. The second daughter and her blacksmith marry and start their own family, and all goes reasonably well for a couple of years. The family appears to have outdistanced its bad luck and they prosper in a modest way.

As always, news of the false hope reaches them and the merchant must travel back to the city to investigate. In McKinley's version he asks if the girls want him to bring them something from the city. The two elder daughters sweetly tell him just to return safely. Beauty, in order to be saying anything at all, asks for rose seeds. From this point the tale follows the traditional version, the ship was not that of the oldest sister's fiancée, but a much smaller one. It and its goods were sold off for too small a sum to reestablish the merchant in business. And he finds that he hasn't the heart to start over in the City in any case. After taking care of his obligations, he purchases a good horse with the little cash left over, but is unable to find rose seeds for Beauty. He returns to the country without them, goes astray in a storm and is sheltered and fed in a grand, but apparently deserted palace. He picks a rose, rouses a Beast and shows up on his own doorstep at the tail end of a blizzard with the rose and a tale of a monster who demands his daughter or his life.

His formerly empty saddlebags turn out to be filled with treasure. Including a box containing a ring, and rose seeds for Beauty.

As always, Beauty is strong-minded enough to force her father to take her to the palace where she is welcomed by the Beast, apologizes for her "misleading nickname" – unnecessarily. She has outgrown her scrawny, spotty stage by this time, although with the only mirror in the cottage in her sister's room, she does not realize this. Nor is she likely to discover it now, for there are no mirrors in the Beast's (obviously enchanted) palace. Her father is sent off with another cargo of gifts, and it isn't until afterwards that the Beast discovers with some dismay that Beauty has brought her horse.

In any case we all get to wallow in luxury for a while, as Beauty settles into life in the palace. This period is enlivened by a running battle between Beauty and her two invisible servants who keep trying to dress her as a princess, which she considers inappropriate for a "plain little thing" like herself. It is also illuminated by Beauty's project to get her horse to tolerate the Beast's presence, her exploration of a library containing all the finest literary works of the past or future, and Beauty's steady attempt to figure out just what is going on in this place. After an incident which provokes a mini-crisis, she begins to discover that she is now able to understand her servants' language, and by covertly listening to their conversations realizes that she has been brought here to break an enchantment. She is not able to discover just how she is to do this by eavesdropping, however.

The factor which propels us into the next stage of the proceeding is the Beast's revealing to Beauty a scrying glass in which she views her family. More particularly, she sees that her oldest sister has received a proposal of marriage from the local clergyman. (Obviously, this is not a Catholic country.) Their second sister encourages her to accept since her first love is lost and the preacher sincerely loves her. Beauty idly wonders aloud what did happen to the young sea captain, whereupon the glass shows that he has not only survived, but he has just returned to port.

Well, clearly she must go to her family and tell her sister not to marry the preacher, since she still loves the sea captain – who, it turns out, was not lost. The Beast reluctantly agrees that Beauty may visit her family for a week, but that she must return before the week's end, or he will die.

Despite the warning she allows herself to be persuaded to stay an extra day, nightmares send her off the next morning and she is soon lost in the forest. She and her horse wander the whole day and only find the palace road as the sun sets. They make their way back to the palace by moonlight and Beauty finds the house deserted and the Beast dying. She revives him, he welcomes her home and she tells him that she will marry him. The enchantment is ended her family is brought to the palace for the wedding. Finis.

As a grace note, since the Beast's enchantment had dragged on for centuries, he is no longer young. This Beauty's bridegroom is not the usual young princeling, but a handsome, powerful nobleman in his prime.

Beauty x 3 (Part Three)

Warning! More SPOILERS

According to Lackey in THE FIRE ROSE, the story goes as follows;

Beauty is an only child. Her name is not Beauty, it is Rosalind, Rose for short. Her father was not a merchant, but a professor at the University of Chicago. Rose is a graduate student working towards her Ph.D. Her father lost his fortune some time ago and Rose had been making shift with their straightened circumstances for years. As the story opens, her father is has just died, his income ended with him and she is destitute. It is autumn, 1905.

The Beast, Jason Cameron, is a magician. For this particular series (she has since produced three other tales set in this particular reality), Lackey has adopted the interpretation of magick working in accordance with the four elements. In most people these elements are sufficiently blended that none predominates, but when there is an imbalance, the individual possess a magickal nature and can learn mastery of his or her own predominating element. Cameron is a Fire-master. Out of hubris he attempted a magic which was not of his own element, and it went perilously wrong. He has trapped himself in a botched spell which has left him physically half man and half wolf. With paws he is unable to write, and his wolf's eyes can no longer make out the cramped, handwritten text of his grimoires and other books of the arcane arts which he is studying in order to try to find a method of reversing the spell. He has retired to a mansion on his own private spur line south of San Francisco (in public life he is an obscenely wealthy railroad baron). He has also dismissed his human servants and is currently served only by salamanders and his secretary/apprentice, a handsome but vicious young man who has proved to be too lazy and undisciplined to learn what is needed in order to further his own magickal education.

The Beast has had his salamanders searching for young women whose education would enable them to read his books to him and help him in his research. (He prefers the idea of a woman assistant since he believes that a woman would be less likely to prove a danger to him.) Of the handful of candidates which the salamanders have located, Rose’s qualifications come closest to his needs. He sends a letter, by salamander, to her mentor asking him for assistance in finding a tutor for a pair of imaginary children. The qualifications requested are of course Rose’s. The deal is sweetened by promises of a very good salary, and occasional holidays into the city for cultural events. A railroad ticket is included. Rose, of course, cannot afford to refuse and sets off for San Francisco.

As soon as possible after her arrival at the mansion, Rose is informed of the deceit. There are no children, her employer has been injured in an accident and is no longer able to do his own research, that is to be her job. Since he is also disfigured, she will read his research materials to him through a speaking tube. They will not meet face to face – oh, and she may find some of the things he asks her to read rather peculiar. Her salary and the other perks mentioned in his offer remain the same, and, in addition he will have the catalogues from the booksellers in the city conveyed to her so she may order whatever she may require for her own research. Rose who has few options, considers the changed agenda and agrees.

Whereupon we all take some time out to wallow in luxury while Rose becomes familiar with the manor, the library, the grounds and the work required of her. (Lackey seems particularly fond of wallowing in luxury, and will do so quite shamelessly given any good reason.)

During this period, Jason's secretary/apprentice, one Paul DuMond, tries to insinuate to Rose that she is not safe here and should "trust" him to help her. She finds him repellent. Rose also makes the acquaintance of the other significant living creature on the estate, Jason’s horse. This is a splendid copper-red stallion, the gift from another Firemaster, who is attended to by Jason's salamanders, but otherwise has been left in isolation since Jason’s "accident". Since the horse will not tolerate DuMond near him, he has been left at liberty in a field without companions. He seems to like Rose, but since she does not ride she is of no help in exercising him and can only provide a bit of company. Meanwhile, the head salamander informs Jason that while Rose has some fire in her, her nature is mostly air. Or, in other words, that Rose also has a magickal nature and could be trained as a Master of Air. Jason suddenly has hope (and a good deal of relief) that he might be able to train her to the degree that she can be an active assistant to him in the work of his restoration, since he can no longer trust DuMond. (Who he sends off to the city on business for a week to get him out of the way.)

During DuMond’s week in the city we follow him and discover that he has already betrayed Jason’s condition to a rival who has possession of the spell that Jason is looking for and does not mean to let him have it. He offers to tutor DuMond in other ways to power since Jason is clearly not intending to further DuMond's education any farther.

Rose has found the things she is asked to read very peculiar, but can understand how someone who cannot be helped by modern science might very well try to find answers in the occult. Since Jason now knows that she could also become a practitioner, he has the salamander add an elementary apprentice text into the stack of his own researches and waits for her to read it during the week of DuMond's absence. This she does and is shocked to realize that it makes a certain weird kind of sense.

She immediately gets on the horn (sorry, tube) to Jason asking for explanations and he tells her what he is, how his mansion is run and proves it to her. He explains to her that she could also learn if she wishes. She thinks it over and accepts the offer. The chief obstacle now passed, they get into the search for the missing spell with a will and burn the midnight oil for several weeks until Jason sends her off to the city on one of the promised holidays, complete with excursions to theater and bookshops.

Rose returns from her holiday to a crisis. Jason has decided to test a possible modification of the original spell while the sun or moon or whatever is favorable and has sent DuMond off to dinner away from the estate. The effort (unsuccessful) leaves him in desperate case and the salamanders (who cannot touch living flesh without burning it) call on her to help. So she finally meets her employer face to face and gets a considerable shock.

Meanwhile, DuMond meets the rival sorcerer over dinner and the rival recommends that he find some reason to be relocated to Oakland in order to further his education.

Rose, although considerably shaken soon recovers and is able to contemplate meeting her employer again. DuMond manufactures a crisis in one of Jason’s Oakland companies and gets himself sent off there to deal with it for the next few months. Jason begins to contemplate that if DuMond makes a go of that he might be able to send him off to manage some holding in another part of the world and so be rid of him. With DuMond out of the way Rose and Jason begin her training, continue his research, and deepen their own acquaintance. Over the next few weeks Rose realizes that she has fallen in love with him. He realizes that he has fallen in love with her. Neither, of course says anything to the other.

As a side project, Rose manages to familiarize Jason’s horse to Jason’s new scent to the point that he will tolerate his master despite the transformation. Both Jason and the horse are touchingly grateful.

The rival and DuMond, meanwhile, have been exploring the paths to power a la Alister Crowley via sex, drugs and general bloodletting (not, of course, their own). The rival wants to get his hands on Rose in case she has learned some of Jason’s secrets and can be used. He insinuates a number of suggestions to this effect to DuMond, who, drugged to the gills, decides to take the rival’s yacht, land on the beach below the manor and abduct her. He manages to catch her unaware but she puts up a fight and he isn't having things all his own way. A watchful salamander yells for Jason who is out on his horse. Jason rides to the rescue, the wolf takes over and he tears out DuMond’s throat.

Rose is thoroughly shocked. Jason is appalled and sends her away to the city for her own safety. While they are trying to get their heads in order and figure out what to do now, the rival approaches Rose at the opera and offers her his "help". This is in the evening of April 17. In the morning all hell breaks loose. The manor has been spelled against the worst of the earthquake (by a local Earthmaster – Jason reciprocated by spelling the Earthmaster's shop against fire) but Jason is frantic with worry about Rose alone in the city. He spends a great part of his magic to take himself there to find her. He does find her – struggling with his rival. There is a confrontation, the salamanders are called in, Rose calls up her sylphs and tells them to help Jason and the city goes up in smoke. The bad guy gets roasted, taking the needed spell with him. The good guys are spent and make their way back to the mansion by donkey cart with the exhausted local masters of Earth and Air. Jason and Rose are married. Jason remains half beast. Finis.

Beauty x 3 (Part Four)

Warning! Yet more SPOILERS

According to McKinley's ROSE DAUGHTER in 1997;

Beauty is the youngest of three sisters. Her name is Beauty. All three of the girls are beautiful, but in this particular culture one tends to earn one’s name by occupation or character, and Beauty, being quiet and retiring does not appear to have any stronger characteristic upon which to hang a new name. She is very sweet, and the peacemaker of her father’s household, which needs one. It is not a happy home. Not because the people in the family are particularly bad sorts, but they – and the chief servants – are all fairly difficult people to be around and most of the time everybody in the household seems to be either angry or unhappy. Or both.

For example; Beauty’s two older sisters are splendid young women, but cannot be easy to live with. The eldest inherited their mother's intrepid courage and has earned herself the name of Lionheart. The second inherited their mother's brilliant wit and has earned herself the name of Jeweltongue. Both have exceedingly dominant personalities. Their father, by contrast appears to have none at all, being distinguished only by being identified as the richest merchant in the city. At the beginning of the story, anyway.

The first and biggest major difference between the two McKinley versions of this tale is that while the world of BEAUTY was a rationalist one in which magic was considered superstition and folly, in the world of ROSE DAUGHTER magic is known to work.

Consequently, all of the most ambitious practitioners of magic gravitate to the cities to make their fortunes. There are many levels of magic workers, among them, magicians, sorcerers, fortune tellers and seers. One of the more humble, but most welcome of these are the greenwitches, purveyors of garden magic and small useful spells. It is soon fairly clear to the reader, although never actually stated in the text, that had Beauty’s father not turned utterly against all magic after his wife’s pet magic workers failed to prevent her death, and had Beauty been given training, Beauty, a great lover of gardens and all plants, might well have been a greenwitch herself.

A major difference between this world and our own is that, unlike our world in which roses are grown in virtually every country worldwide, in the world in which Rose Daughter takes place, roses are very rare, since only great love or great magic can induce them to bloom. Due to their father’s revulsion of feeling against all forms of magic, all three girls are forbidden to have anything to do with it. Nevertheless, the two eldest still occasionally purchase street spells, and Beauty maintains a friendship with the magical creature of a local retired sorcerer.

And just what is this creature, may one ask?

It is a salamander.

As in BEAUTY, the great blow falls after an engagement, but before a wedding. In this version, both older sisters have made brilliant matches and are planning a double wedding. Ten days before the wedding takes place, the word of their father’s ruin becomes public. Both suitors break off their engagements, and before the day is out all of the servants have left, many unofficially, taking with them various valuable household goods in lieu of wages, without, needless to say, permission, realizing that the family no longer has the resources to pursue them. The three sisters are left alone in the house with their father, who is a broken man. This fall is far harder than the one McKinley sketched out in ’78. This time it is not mere financial loss which faces their father, but disgrace and probably debtors’ prison. Their father’s kin no longer wish to know them and their former friends have utterly turned away.

Thrown upon their own resources, Lionheart, who enjoys a challenge, takes to fighting the kitchen into submission. Jeweltongue looks after their father and sees to the running of what household is left to them. Beauty starts sifting through the papers from their father's office to try to discover if there is anything which might offer them some hope of a future. In this manner she discovers a lawyer’s document dating from the year she herself was two years old stating that the three girls had been left a cottage in the country. None of the creditors want a piece of property so far from the city, so they girls decide to remove to it.

Their house, and what is left of their valuable goods are put up for auction, hoping that the sale will bring enough to keep their father out of gaol. During their last weeks in the city Beauty visits the many retired servants and other people who had given homes to the dogs, horses and other creatures which had not managed to work out in the family's former life-style and asks their advice on the skills which they will need for living out in the country. This information she writes down to take with her. In the midst of this, her friend the salamander offers her a gift as well and grants her "a small serenity".

The journey is harsh and unpleasant. Their father, still in deep shock, is weak and wandering in his wits and the carters’ convoy which they have paid nearly their last funds to join regards them as unwelcome. An early winter strands them all in a small town no more than halfway to their goal. During the winter Lionheart’s skill in cookery, Jeweltongue’s with her needle and Beauty’s peacekeeping finally earn them the carters’ respect. At last, at the earliest turn of spring they reach their goal. Not bucolic Blue Hill this time round, but the more dubiously named village of Longchance.

Nevertheless, Rose Cottage turns out to be unexpectedly sound, even though it has stood vacant for many years, and the three sisters throw themselves into bringing it into order. Their father sleeps a great deal but gradually seems to begin to recover his wits. Once the house is brought into order, and the meadow returned to meadow rather than being lost to woodland, Beauty begins the job of recovering the garden. One of the many mysteries about the place is the identity of all the vicious thornbushes which cover much of the house and have produced an impenetrable thicket in the middle of the garden itself.

Once the basics are under control, the two elder sisters begin to put their own plans into action. Lionheart cuts her hair, and, disguising herself as a boy, takes a position in the stables of the local squire. Jeweltongue strikes up a friendship with the village draper and eventually manages to get a commission to sew for the squire’s sister, which soon escalates into a budding dressmaker’s business. The family begins to be able to meet its expenses, and there is hope that they may be able to save enough to have the thatch replaced before the old one quite begins to leak. Beauty has her hands full with the garden and her vegetable patch and the thornbushes which to all of their astonishment have turned out to be rose bushes. Blooming rosebushes!

Their life in Longchance is far from easy, but is a vast improvement over ruin in the city. And Longchance is a generally pleasant place and they manage to make friends there. Their father continues to improve and has taken to scribbling, although none of the girls know what his writings are about since he keeps it in his pockets by day and under his pillow at night.

In the second year their father takes up bookkeeping for some of the village businesses. Beauty also learns that the old woman who left them the cottage had been the region’s last greenwitch, although nowadays no magic worker will settle in the area. And the sisters begin to hear rumors of a curse regarding Rose Cottage – but only if three sisters should happen to live there (by this time everyone believes that Lionheart is a boy), and the legend of an ancient sorcerers’ battle which had taken all of the magic away from the district.

In their third year, the letter comes telling of the return of one of the merchant's ships. Against his daughters’ advice he makes the journey back to the city. It was a mistake from the beginning. The ship was seized by creditors despite impoundment, and there is nothing left. He had much to do to avoid starving in the City over the winter, and at the first sign of spring sets out on his return with a borrowed pony, empty-handed.

He goes astray in a storm, is housed and fed in an apparently empty palace, given a new suit of clothes and served breakfast at a table with enough food for six and a red rose in a silver vase. He takes the rose with him, rouses a Beast who demands his life. Begs pardon and tries to explain that the rose is for his daughter. The Beast demands his daughter in his place. He is given a month to comply.

In this version, the Beast was once a sorcerer who called himself a philosopher and got too close to The Mysteries. The touch of their guardians made him as they were. In addition, a terror driving onlookers to madness hangs about him. His exile was originally self-imposed, but initially other sorcerers could still visit him, and it was the wrath one of these which has turned his exile into a prison.

Well, as usual, Beauty insists on being the sacrifice. In this version their father has fallen ill again soon after making his way home, and she slips away, bidding her sisters good-bye, before he recovers, setting forth on foot with a bundle containing slips from her own roses and rose hips full of seeds. The magic sets her on the path and she reaches the palace by midday. The salamander’s gift enables her to face the Beast without gibbering into madness.

And, no, for a change we do not take time out to wallow in luxury. Instead, luxury rolls over us like the sea and we are hard put not to drown in it. For the opulence of the Beast’s palace is diseased. It is a hateful, shifting, crushingly oppressive penance which he, and Beauty, and the reader himself must just stoically endure. The greatest mercy which Beauty is granted is that the opulence of her own rooms is stable. It does not shift or mutate into other forms when her eye turns elsewhere and so she is better able to bear it. By some mercy, the part of the enchantment on the place which inhabits in her own rooms also lacks the spiteful quality which permeates the rest of the palace, so she can even draw some comfort from it. For once, Beauty is not here to rest and recover from honest poverty and to live the life of an idle "lady". She certainly will not be dawdling about in a library. She soon discovers that she has come here to work. In fact, she has come here to work like a navvy. The Beast’s roses are dying. The one her father stole was one of the last. She has been brought here to save them.

Out of a glasshouse once bursting with roses, only one bush still blooms. The bush from which the rose her father stole had grown. She sets about her task at once. The glasshouse is not like the palace. It is an extravagant, exuberant folly, and here the enchantment appears to be consistently benign and helpful – for which she has ample cause to be grateful, for she has undertaken a backbreaking task. Each endless day of the week she slaves away in the glasshouse, clearing out dead wood, planting her seeds and cuttings and tending what live plants remain. Although the Beast has claimed that no other creature (apart from Fourpaws, a small, pastel calico cat who sometimes chooses to share his exile) will come near to the place where he is, each day another creature, or type of creatures, appears for Beauty to direct to its, or their, proper place(s). As though in her own insignificant self she were reforging the place’s links to the natural world.

At night Beauty dreams of her family. In her dreams their lives have moved ahead of hers, for although she has been gone only a few endless days, in her dreams their lives have hastened on several months, and she sees small changes creeping into Rose Cottage. She dreams that Jeweltongue, to that young woman’s dismay, has caught the eye of the squire’s eldest son, a handsome, spoiled, spiteful young cub. She dreams that Lionheart’s masquerade has been discovered by the squire’s second son, a far better young man than his brother. She dreams that Jeweltongue and their father enjoy a growing friendship with the village’s young baker. She dreams that her father has taken to writing poetry.

And by daylight she labors in the glasshouse and begins to learn something of the palace and its surroundings. She learns the way into the woods where she makes a bonfire of garden rubbish, and the ways into the orchard and kitchen garden. She learns that the power of the enchantment which holds the place can touch nothing living, which is why the roses, untended, had begun to die. She also learns to pity the Beast for the clumsiness which, along with his ignorance, had prevented him from tending the roses himself. She also learns that her father was not the first traveler who had sheltered there, and that the others had all at length run away at the sight of the Beast, or had been driven away by the loneliness and silence. She learns that the Beast would not have harmed her father if he had returned alone. And, somehow, no doubt due to the enchantment of the place, before the first week is out she sees that her cuttings have taken and the seeds have sprouted.

And in the night before her fifth day she catches sight of the old woman, who even the Beast does not realize lingers nearby, supplying the palace with butter and cheese. The next night Beauty follows her, and finds her in a forest meadow with her flock of ponies, horses, cows and sheep – and milky-pale unicorns, with silver shadows.

The next day is the day of the requisite crisis. In the midst of what had been an innocent, if somewhat dangerous, investigation of the glasshouse’s weathervane, the enchantment of the place abruptly turns on Beauty and tries to kill her. In the midst of the ensuing storm, fighting for her life, she is thrown into a vision of her father and Jeweltongue – at a poetry reading of all things. The same storm that batters her also rages in Longchance. Beauty’s presence is taken for that of a ghost, one known to have manifested before. The hostess is cajoled into telling the ghost’s story, which turns out to be one version of the legend of the ancient sorcerers’ battle, and its connection to the greenwitch of Rose Cottage.

And, then, into the midst of all this "atmosphere" strides young Jack Trueword, the squire’s eldest son, with a spiteful grin and a second, cynically mocking version of the same story. He also breaks the news of Lionheart's masquerade, and taunts at them all with the curse of three sisters in Rose Cottage. This manages to upset everyone.

The vision ends. Beauty finds herself falling. She cannot save herself. The Beast saves her. Together they reach the ground in safety and take refuge from the storm inside the glasshouse. There is no more storm once they are inside the glasshouse, and the Beast’s roses have gloriously revived. Beauty begs the Beast to send her home, for her task is done, and she must learn the truth of her vision. He agrees to send her, knowing that it means his death. But, saying that as he brought her to him with a lie, it was only right that he should lose her. He sends her with a rose which will bring her back if she does not overstay.

Her return is a mistake on about the level of her father’s trip to the city. Jeweltongue and Lionheart, both rush home to find her lying on the hearthrug deep in a sleep from which she will not rouse. When she finally does come round, they learn, in the scant hour or two given to them, that time in Longchance has passed as a month to each day that Beauty has spent in the Palace, that both sisters had been escorted home that evening by a cat whose description matches that of Fourpaws, and that if Beauty really feels about the Beast the way she seems to be acting as if she feels, then she had best go ahead and marry him. At which point Lionheart points out that the last petal is falling from the rose, and Beauty knows that the Beast is dying, and her way back is lost.

It takes her the rest of the night and well into the following day to return. The enchantment is still working against her. And, once returned, the shifting palace thwarts her in her attempt to reach the glasshouse. At length, as night is falling, she escapes from the house into the wild wood, and stumbles, lost, into her bonfire clearing where a unicorn has been standing guard over the unconscious Beast. He is not yet quite dead. She speaks the traditional formula and rather than bringing about the end of the enchantment, all hell breaks loose all over again. Absolutely nothing in this version of the tale is ever going to be easy.

Beauty is given a choice. She may break the enchantment, return the Beast to what he once was with all his greatness, and with all its temptations, or she may take him, as he is, back to Longchance and be the sister-in-law of the baker and the squire’s horse-breeding son. She makes her choice, and she chooses to keep him a Beast.

All the forces of evil magic are ranging against them for the final confrontation of the sorcerers’ battle which was begun so long ago. The old woman, who is of course the long missing greenwitch of Rose Cottage, her unicorns and the two guardians of the Mysteries whose touch had made the Beast what he is stand on their side. As Beauty watches the enemy's forces assembling she finally, at long last, becomes angry, and, taking strength from the salamander’s gift, she faces the enemy and sends it away.

The palace is a prison no longer. The aura of terror which hung about the Beast has departed, and the air is filled with birdsong.

Certain factors are constant. In all versions it is admitted that, by whatever means, the Beast has gotten himself into this fix by his own actions, whether it be rudeness to the apparently inferior, a falling from grace, or by seeking after forbidden knowledge. Beyond that, it is clear that these are three widely different stories, which have no reason to lean on each other for support.

And, while there are also some detectable small, amused tweaks at the Disney version to be found in ROSE DAUGHTER, even the bad behavior of Jack Trueword is not enough to cause more than a slight nod of recognition. One is left feeling vaguely that it is a pity that we cannot see the tale over again from the point of view of Lionheart or Jeweltongue. For these young women are not the sweet, virtuous, but ultimately very conventional girls that Grace and Hope were in '78. These are two young women of strong character, who clearly have stories of their own. Ones which we will now probably never get to read. But, still, it does definitely seem to me to require altogether too much of a stretch to try to deny the presence of the Lackey effect.

Still, I may be exaggerating it. ROSE DAUGHTER is a powerful work, and whatever the reasons McKinley wrote it may have been, I am unabashedly grateful to have it.

In fact, I will go so far as to hope that some 20 years hence some other event or popular retelling will goad McKinley into telling this tale over to us for yet a third time. I should like to know what further changes may be rung upon this particular theme when she might choose to tell it in the voice of the crone.