Текст книги "Beauty"

Автор книги: Robin McKinley

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“What do you think of him?” the Beast asked.

I glanced at the picture again briefly. I thought: The artist was a genius, to catch that fire-eaten look. He must have been exhausted when he was done; I’m tired after only a few minutes of looking at the finished work. “I think he died young,” I said finally. A curious silence stepped in, took my words, and tapped and shook and rattled them together, as if they would ring clear as brass or silver; and then, disgusted, blew them away entirely.

I felt as if I were half-awakened from an uneasy sleep by the Beast’s words: “Let me show you the library.” We walked down a half flight of stairs; the Beast opened a door set in a pillared arch. I looked back for a moment, over his shoulder; the hall of paintings had faded to indecipherable, shadowy colours. But the young man of the last portrait lingered before my mind’s eye in a way that disturbed me. I hesitated on the brink of trying to find out why; but my courage failed me, as it had when I had first faced his likeness. I told myself a little too firmly that I was reacting only to his extraordinary physical beauty, and fairly forced him out of my mind. I glanced up at the Beast and found him looking down at me, one hand still on the library door. Where do you fit into all this? I thought; what has happened to the hand—

some family that has owned this land since before portraits were painted? Are you a door-keeper, a kind of silent Cerberus perhaps? And what marvels might you guard beyond those I see around me? And there my courage failed me a third time, because I suddenly remembered myself as a small and very ordinary mortal, far from home and family—alone except for this great Beast who stood beside me, within whose power I was caught, for ends I knew nothing of. I was afraid again, as I stared at the Beast, afraid much as I had been on the first night; but then it was as if my vision cleared. He was not the awful master here, but my friend and companion within the spellbound castle. He too had had to learn to find his way through the maze of rooms and corridors that now bewildered me; he had had to learn to cope with enchantments in unfamiliar languages. As he stared down at me I knew his eyes were kind, and a little anxious, even though I could not read the rest of his dark face. I smiled at him, the handsome family forgotten, then turned and went through the door.

This single room of the library was as large as our whole house in the city had been, and I could see more book-filled rooms through open doors in all directions, including a balcony overhead, all built from floor to high ceiling with bookshelves. “Oh my” I said. “How do you reach the top shelves?”

A miniature staircase, complete with a banister on one side, rolled up to me; I had the feeling that it would have cleared its throat respectfully if it had had a throat to clear. “You remind me of our butler in the city,” I said to it. “He stood at attention just the way you’re doing now. Do you clean silver as well as he did?” It moved in a half circle backwards, and I thought it was probably eyeing me in confusion.

“Don’t distress it,” said the Beast mildly. “It will try to clean silver to please you, and it isn’t built for it.”

I laughed. “Pardon me, sir,” I said to the waiting staircase. “I do not wish you to clean silver.” It settled down on its wheels with the faintest sigh of condensing springs. “Do you ever get yourself in messes by wishing inappropriate things?” I said to the Beast.

“No,” he replied. “My orders are obeyed, not my wishes.”

I turned my head away unhappily, but the rows of books tugged un repentantly at the edges of my sight. I walked like one bewitched to the nearest shelf. “I didn’t know there were so many books in the world,” I said caressingly, and the Beast’s answer was heard only in my ear and did not register in my brain: “Well, in fact, there aren’t,” he said.

I pulled a volume down at random, and opened it to the title page. “The Complete Poems of Robert Browning,” I read aloud, puzzled. “I’ve never even heard of him.” Pride before a fall, I thought. So much for my scholarship. The Beast said nothing; when I looked up at him he was watching me with a curious, intent expression. I put Browning back, and picked out another book. This one was called The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The next one was The Screwtape Letters. Then Kim. “Rudyard Kipling,” I said in despair. “This is a name? I’ve never heard of any of these people. And the paper is funny, and the shape of the letters. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” said the Beast; he sounded pleased, which I didn’t like, assuming that he was amused at my discomfiture. “This library is—well—” He paused. “Most of these books haven’t been written yet.” I looked at him stupidly, Kim still in my hand. “But don’t worry, they will be,” he said. There was a pause. “You might try the Browning,” he suggested gently. “It shouldn’t be too confusing. I’m very fond of his poetry myself.”

I should have long been past being shocked by anything in this castle, but I now discovered that I wasn’t. My dazed brain grasped at something more easily sensible. “You—you do read then,” I said, and added before I thought: “You can turn pages?”

The earthquaking rumble that served the Beast for a chuckle washed over me briefly, lifting the hair on the back of my neck. “Yes, after a fashion. You’ll find that some of my favorite books are somewhat battered about the corners.” I looked at him, slowly collecting my wits. “Look,” he said. He held one arm out, shook the lace back from his wrist, stretched the fingers of the hand. Their tips glittered. “They’re sort of semi-retractable; not nearly so well-designed as a cat’s,” he said. The fingers quivered and about six inches of shining curved claw suddenly appeared. The daggers that served as index finger and thumb curved and met. “The temptation is always to rip things up a bit when my clumsiness prevents me from turning a page neatly.” The claws clicked lightly together. He sounded almost merry; he rarely spoke of himself, and then his tone was usually grim and sad.

I was not frightened, but I was ashamed. “I’m sorry,” I said.

The claws retreated, and his arm dropped. “Don’t be,” he said. “I don’t mind telling you.” He looked at me. “But perhaps you mind being told.”

“No,” I said automatically; and then my slow thoughts caught up with me and told me that this was true. “No, I don’t mind.” We looked at each other for a moment. The sun shone through a window, then made its delicate, fawn-footed way across the broad inlaid floor, and found the Beast’s blue velvet shoulders to set on fire. “The sun,” I said abruptly. “Look, it’s stopped raining.” I went over to the window; the Beast joined me. The garden gleamed; the towers of the ancient castle looked young again, baptized by young rain. “I can take Greatheart out after all.”

“Yes,” said the Beast. “I am sure he is looking for you.” The light-heartedness was gone. “I will say farewell to you now,” he continued. “I will see you this evening,” He turned away.

“No—wait,” I said, and put a hand out, but did not quite touch the velvet arm. He paused and looked back at me. “Wait,” I repeated. “Greatheart likes whomever I like. Come with us.”

The Beast shook his head. “Thank you for the kindness of your offer, but no. It is not necessary, and I assure you it would not work. I will see you this evening.”

“Please,” I said.

“Beauty,” he said, “I can deny you nothing. Do not ask this. Greatheart loves you. Do not break his trust in you for no reason.”

“Please,” I said. “I am asking.”

There was a pause, but at last he said, as if the words were dragged from him like a blessing from a black magician, “Very well. I am sorry for this.”

“Come then,” I said. I went out through the door we had come in, and turned down the hall, away from the paintings. The Beast followed. In the usual fashion, I found my room around the next corner, and from there I could easily find the way down the great staircase to the front doors. I paused there and waited for the Beast. When he did not speak his mere presence could be oppressive; I felt as if I were waiting for a storm cloud to catch me up.

We went out into the courtyard together. The air was cool and damp against my cheek. “Not in the stable,” said the Beast. “Give the poor brute room, I will wait for you here.” He walked away from the stable wing to a bench at the edge of the garden on the opposite side, just inside the courtyard, and sat down. I went to fetch my horse.

He was glad to see me, and eager to go outside. I found that now that I had committed myself to this venture, I was frightened, and unhappily inclined to believe the Beast’s predictions. Greatheart had too much sense to walk into the dragon’s mouth merely because I asked him to. But it was too late now. After a moment’s reflection, I put on his saddle and bridle. I had no chance at all of arguing with him from the ground with nothing but a halter and rope for persuasion; mounted, at least I could stay with him—probably—until he could be reasoned with. Oh dear. Why did the Beast have to sound so forlorn just at the wrong moment?

Greatheart was a bit puzzled at being saddled at this hour, but he was willing enough. He was snorting with enthusiasm and pulling at the reins as the stable door opened for us.

I saw the change at once, and mounted hastily at the threshold. As soon as his head emerged, he flared his nostrils and blew, and swung his head towards the bench where the Beast sat. I could feel him turn to iron under my hand, and there was a glimpse of white around his eye. The door closed noiselessly behind us; the last little breath of warm hay-scented air stirred my hair. Great-heart hadn’t taken his eyes off the Beast; he was blowing unhappily, and spume began to form on his lips. I tightened the girths. Well, here we go, I thought, and gathered up the reins.

It took us fifteen minutes to cross a courtyard two hundred feet wide. The horse’s shoulders and flanks were soon dark with sweat; but he went in the direction I insisted on. I whispered to him as he walked, and for the first time in his life he did not cock an ear back at me to listen. He would obey me—but only just; his entire concentration rested on the dark figure sitting on a white marble bench, its arms stretched out across the seat’s back.

Fifty feet from Nemesis Greatheart stopped and would go no farther; we stood like stone in a silent battle of wills. My knees were pressed into the horse’s sides till my legs ached, and my hands on the reins urged him forwards; but his mouth was frozen on the bits, and I could feel a tiny quiver of panic, deep inside him. “Don’t move,” I said, panting, to the Beast, “This is harder than I was expecting.”

“I won’t,” said the Beast, “I did not believe you would come so far.”

At the sound of the Beast’s voice, Greatheart’s nerve broke. He reared up so wildly I threw myself forwards, fearing that he would go over backwards, and his neigh was a scream, sharp as shipwreck. Still on his hind legs, he whirled, nearly unseating me, and in two bounds he was back on the far side of the courtyard it had taken us so long to cross. I found myself yelling, “No, you great ox, stop it, listen to me, rot you, listen to me!” and when I untangled my hands from his mane and pulled again on the reins, his ears flickered and he stopped, shuddering and heaving as if he were at his strength’s end after a long gallop. He turned as he stopped, to look back in terror at the enemy, threw up his head, and took several unhappy steps sideways. The Beast had stood up, presumably when Greatheart had bolted. Now that it seemed that I was more or less in control again, he slowly resumed his seat.

I let the reins fall on the horse’s neck, and leaned forwards to run my hands through his silky mane and down his wet shoulders; and stiffly, as if he had almost forgotten how. he arched his neck and slowly bowed his head. I talked to him, telling him he was a great stupid creature and very silly, and that I knew best; be quiet, relax, have no fear, have no fear, have no fear. His ears flickered back and forth, and he swung a restless head towards the Beast; then at last he stood still, his ears back to listen to me, and I felt him slowly return from cold iron to warm flesh. “Okay,” I said at last. “We’ll try again.” And I gathered up the reins and turned him towards the Beast.

He walked slowly this time too, but only as if he were very, very tired, and his head hung low. He paused once again about fifty feet away from the edge of the courtyard and raised his head a few inches; but when I nudged him forwards he went without demur. “It’s all right now,” I said to the Beast. “He’s ashamed of himself, and he’ll do as I say.”

The last step brought us to the bench; and with a gesture half of resignation and half of despair, Greatheart dropped his head till his muzzle touched the Beast’s knee. “Merciful God,” murmured the Beast. Great-heart’s ears shot forwards at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t move.

I dismounted, and Greatheart turned his head to press it against my breast, leaving streaks of grey foam on my shirt, and I rubbed behind his ears. “You see?” I said to either or both of them, as if I had been sure all along of the outcome. “That wasn’t so bad,”

“I was fond of horses, once,” said the Beast; and his words had a distant sound, as if they echoed down a cold corridor of centuries. I looked at him inquiringly, but said nothing. He replied in answer to what I did not say: “Yes; I have not always been as you see me now.” Not Cerberus, then, I thought absently, still petting my horse; but I did not pursue the question any further. For my own limited peace of mind I preferred to admire the small victory I had just won, and leave the castle’s immense secrets to themselves.

The Beast left us shortly after this; I was a little disappointed, but I made no move to stop him. I ate my lunch alone, and went out early to take Greatheart for his afternoon ride. We took it very easy that day, and when I put him away, the horse was anxious to be petted and soothed at great length. After he had been groomed hair for hair several times over, I sat between his forelegs and told him silly stories, as if to a child at bedtime, while he investigated my face and hair with his nose. At last he was calm and happy again, and I could leave him. The Beast was waiting for me outside, silhouetted against an amber-and-primrose-coloured sky. “Greatheart and I have been having a long conversation,” I explained, and the Beast nodded without comment.

That night as the whistling breeze unrolled my bedclothes to tuck snugly under ray chin I heard the voices I’d heard before on that dreadful first night in the castle. Several times over the last weeks I had thought I heard them, but always just at the edge of sleep, and usually only a few words: “Good night, child, and sweet dreams,” and once, “For heaven’s sake leave the child alone,” whereupon the quilt had abruptly left off tucking in its corners.

“Well,” I heard. “Are you satisfied yet? No, I shouldn’t ask that. Do you begin to have hope? Are you comforted? You see how well it’s going.”

There was a melancholy sigh. “Oh, yes, already it’s going better than I dared hope, and yet you know it’s not enough. It’s too much, really it is, too much to ask, how can such a little thing understand? How can she possibly guess? There’s nothing to guide her; it’s not allowed.”

“You fidget yourself too much,” said the practical voice, but with sympathy.

“I can’t help it. You know it’s impossible.”

“It was made to be impossible,” the first voice said grimly. “But you needn’t give up on that account,”

“Oh dear, oh dear, if only we could help, even a little,” the melancholy voice went on.

“But we can’t,” said the first voice patiently. “In the first place, she can’t hear us; and even if she could, we are bound to silence.” Fuzzy with sleep, I thought: I know who she reminds me of—my first governess, Miss Dixon, who taught me my alphabet, and to recognize countries on the globe before I could read the printed names; and who was the first of many to fail to teach me to sew a straight seam. Now this voice and its invisible owner brought her back to me with sudden clarity: dear, kind, and above all practical Miss Dixon, who disliked fairy tales and disapproved of witches, who believed that magicians invariably exaggerated their abilities; and once, exasperated at my favourite game of playing dragons, which involved much jumping out of trees, told me rather sharply that a creature as big and heavy as a dragon probably spent most of its life on the ground, wings or no wings. Hers was not a personality I would have expected to find in an enchanted castle.

“Yes, oh I know, I know. It’s probably just as well, because if we could talk to her it would be just too tempting, and then even the last hope would be gone.... Good night, dear heart. It doesn’t hurt to wish her good night,” the voice added, a little defensively. “Maybe she can feel it, somehow.”

“Maybe she can,” said the first voice. “Good night then, child, and sleep well.”

I found myself straining to say, But I can hear you, I can, please talk to me—what is it I can’t understand? What is impossible? What last hope? But I couldn’t open my mouth, and with the effort I suddenly woke up, to find a moon half full staring in through the tall window at me; the fringe of the bed-curtains made a filigree pattern of the light that fell on my bed. I stared back at the serene white half circle and its attendant constellations for a little while, and then fell into a dreamless sleep.

3

Spring grew slowly into summer. I no longer needed a cloak on the long afternoon rides, and the daisies in the meadows grew up to Greatheart’s knees. I finished rereading the Iliad and started the Odyssey^ I still loved Homer, but Cicero, whom I read in a spirit of penance, I liked no better than I had several years ago. I read the Bacchae and Medea over and over again so many times that I knew them by heart. I also found my way back to the great library at the end of the hall of paintings, and read the Browning that the Beast had recommended. On the whole I liked the poems, even if they were a little obscure in places. Emboldened, I tried

The Ad-ventures of Sherlock Holmes, but I had to give that up in a few pages, because I could make nothing of it. Then quite by accident, or at least it seemed so, I discovered a long shelf of wonderful stories and verses by a Sir Walter Scott; and I read a book called The Once and Future King twice, although I still liked Malory better. I stayed away from the hall of paintings. The castle, as usual, ordered itself to the convenience of my comings and goings, and the library was now regularly to be found down one short corridor and up a flight of stairs from my room.

After that day when I introduced the Beast and Great-heart to each other, the Beast occasionally joined us on our morning walks. At first Greatheart was uneasy, although he gave me no more trouble; but after a few weeks Greatheart was nearly as comfortable as I was in the Beast’s company. I let the big horse wander free, without halter or rope, as I had done at home; and I noticed that he kept me between himself and the Beast, and the Beast never offered to touch him.

Sometimes too the Beast would find me in the library, where I was sitting on my feet in a huge wing chair reading The Bride of Lammermoor or The Ring and the Book. Once he found me smiling foolishly over “How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix,” and asked me to read it aloud. I hesitated. I was sitting by the window, where my favourite chair had obligingly arranged itself, my elbow on the ivy-edged stone sill. The Beast turned away from me long enough to call a chair up to him, which was joined a moment later by a footstool with four ivory legs, bowed like the forelegs of a bulldog. He sat down and looked at me expectantly, There didn’t seem to be any opportunity for nervousness on my part, so I put my hesitations aside and read it, “Now it’s your turn,” I said, and passed the book to him.

He held it as if it were a butterfly for a moment, then leaned back and began to turn the pages—with dexterity, I noticed—and then made me laugh with his sly reading of “Soliloquy in the Spanish Cloister.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the beginning of a tradition; most days after that we took turns reading to each other. Once after several weeks of a daily chapter of Bleak House, he did not come one day, and I missed him sadly. I scolded him for his neglect when I saw him at sunset that evening. He looked pleased and said, “Very well. I shan’t miss again.”

This brief exchange made me think, whether I would or no, I wondered that we didn’t tire of each other’s company; perhaps even more I wondered that I sought his. We saw each other several hours of every day; yet I at least always looked forwards to the next meeting, and his visits never seemed long. Part of it, I supposed, was that we were each other’s only alternative to solitude; but I could admit that this wasn’t all. I tried not to wonder too much, and to be grateful. This idyll was not at all what I had imagined during that last month at home with a red rose keeping secret silent watch over the parlour.

There were only two flaws in my enjoyment of this new life. The worst was my longing for home, for the sight of my family; and I found that the only way I could control this sorrow was not to think of them at all, which was almost as painful as the loss itself. The other was that every evening after supper, when I stood up from the long table in the dining hall and prepared to go upstairs to my room, the Beast asked: “Beauty, will you marry me?” Every evening, I answered, “No,” and left the room at once. The first few weeks I looked over my shoulder as I hastened upstairs, fearing that he would be angry, and would follow me to put his question more forcefully. But he never did. The weeks passed, and with them my fear, which was replaced by friendship and even a timid affection. I came to dread that nightly question for quite a different reason. I did not like to refuse him the only thing he ever asked of me. My “No” grew no less certain, but I said it quietly and walked upstairs feeling as if I had just done something shameful. We had such good times together, and yet they always came to this, at every day’s final parting. I knew I was fond of him, but the thought of marrying him remained horrible.

After the Beast had told me, at the beginning of my stay, that I should not allow myself to be bullied by the invisible servants, and specifically by the bowls and platters that served me at dinner, I began to enjoy occasionally expressing a preference. That wonderful table would never have offered me the same dish twice; but while I reveled in the variety, I also sometimes demanded a repetition. There was a dark treacly spice cake that I liked very much, and asked for several times. Sometimes it burst into being like a small exploding star, several feet above my head, and settled magnificently to my plate; sometimes a small silver tray with a leg at each of five or six corners would leap up and hurry towards me from a point far down the table.

One evening near mid-summer I asked for my favourite cake again. The Beast sat, as usual, to my right as I headed the immense table. There was a wine-glass in front of him, and a bottle of white wine the colour of moonlight we were sharing. After many weeks of my asking him if there wasn’t something he would eat or drink with me, he had admitted that he enjoyed a glass of wine now and then. Most nights after that he had at least a few sips of whatever I was drinking, although I noticed that he never touched his glass when I was looking at him.

“You should try this,” I said, cutting the cake with a silver knife.

“Thank you,” said the Beast, “but as I have told you, I cannot wield knife and fork.”

“You don’t need to,” I said. “Here, stop that,” I said to the cake. I had cut a piece from the tray but when I laid the knife down it promptly sprang up again and was lifting the piece onto my plate. “I’ll do that.” I picked up the slice of cake and bit into it. “Like this,” I said to the Beast around a mouthful.

“Don’t tease me,” said the Beast. “I cannot. Besides, my—er—mouth isn’t set up for chewing.”

“Neither is Honey’s,” I said. I had told him about Melinda’s ugly mastiff. “And she will inhale cakes and pies and cookies by the hundredweight if they are left unguarded. This is really very good. Open your mouth.” I stood up, cake in hand, and walked around the corner of the table. The Beast looked at me warily. I felt like the mouse confronted by the lion in the fable, and grinned. “Come; it won’t hurt.”

“I—” began the Beast, and I pushed the morsel of cake between his teeth. I turned away and went back to my chair and busied myself cutting another piece without looking at him, remembering that he would not drink if I watched. After a moment I thought I heard him swallow. I gave him another minute, and looked up. There was the most extraordinary expression in his eyes. “Well?” ! said briskly.

“Yes, it is good,” said the Beast.

“Then have a little more,” I said, and whisked around the table to stand by his chair again before he could say anything. He hesitated a moment, his eyes searching my face; then he opened his mouth obediently. After a minute he said dolefully, “It will probably disagree with me.”

“It will do nothing—” I began indignantly, and realized he was laughing silently at me. We both laughed aloud, till the table danced in sympathy, and as I put my head back I saw the chandelier turning on its chain, winking and tinkling its crystal pendants.

“Oh my,” I sighed at last. The teapot approached and poured me a cupful; tonight it was sweetened with orange peel, spiced with ginger. I drank in silence, enjoying the friendly warmth of tea and laughter. I set my cup down empty, and said: “It is time I went upstairs. What with one thing and another—Browning and Kipling, you know—I’m getting nowhere with Catullus.”

“Beauty, will you marry me?” said the Beast.

The world was as still as autumn after winter’s first snowfall, and as cold as three o’clock in the morning beside a deathbed. I pressed myself back in my chair and closed my eyes, my fingers clenching on the carved arms till the smooth scrolled edges pinched my skin. “No, Beast,” I said, without opening my eyes. “Please—I am—very fond of you. I wish you wouldn’t ask me this, for I cannot, cannot, marry you, and I don’t like telling you no, and no, and no, again and again.” I looked at him.

“I cannot help asking,” he said, and there was an undertone to his voice that frightened and saddened me. He made a brusque gesture, and the wine-bottle toppled under his arm. He turned and caught it in mid-air with a grace that seemed inhuman to my troubled senses. He paused, looking at the bottle as if it were the future, hi; head and back bent.

“You—you are very strong, aren’t you,” I whispered

“Strong?” he said in a queer, detached voice that did not sound like his own. “Yes, I am strong.” He lingered on the last word as if he detested it. He straightened up in his chair and held the bottle at arm’s length. His hand tightened on the bottle, and it snapped and shattered, the shards cascading to the table and splintering against silver and gold, and falling to the floor.

“Oh, you have hurt yourself!” I cried, jumping up. His hand was still closed, and mixed with the pale wine stair spreading across the tablecloth like the battle-ranks of an advancing army, darker drops were welling up from the tender web of flesh between thumb and index finger and running down his wrist, and spotting the white lace; and dripping to the table between the dark clenched fingers

He stood up, and I checked my vague impulse to go to him, and stood shivering by my chair. He opened hi: hand, and a few more bits of glass fell to the table. Ht turned the hand palm up and looked at it. “It is nothing,’

he said. “Only that I am a fool.” He strode off down the long table without looking at me; a door opened in a gloomy corner, and he was gone.

After a moment I left the dining hall and went upstairs. My long stiff embroidered skirts seemed heavier than usual, the sleeves and shoulders more binding. There was no sign of the Beast.

My evening was ruined. I liked reading by an open fire, so my room arranged to be cool enough that a fire on the hearth was pleasant to sit beside. But tonight I couldn’t concentrate on Catullus, who seemed dull and petulant; I couldn’t find a comfortable position in my chair; even me fire seemed sullen and brooding. The first flaw in my happiness here, always the stronger of the two, struck me with particular force. I thought of my family. Richard and Mercy were over a year old by now; they were probably walking, and might have said their first words. They would have no recollection of the aunt who had left over four months ago, I could see Hope, smiling, playing with the babies, tickling their faces and bare feet with daisies. I thought of Ger, black to the elbows, with smudges on his face, holding a horse’s hoof balanced between his knees in his leather apron. I thought of Grace in the kitchen, her face delicately flushed with the heat, and a golden curl or two escaping from its net. Then I saw my father, whistling between his teeth, whit-ding a long pole so that the chips flew. My eyes filled with tears; but they didn’t spill over till I suddenly saw the house covered with roses, huge, beautiful roses of many colours; somehow that was the worst of all. I laid my face in my arms and sobbed.

I woke up the next morning still tired; a headache pricked behind my eyes, and the fresh sunlight pouring through my window tike a golden gift looked fiat and sour. The mood refused to lift. I ate, and walked in the gardens, and read, and talked to the Beast, and galloped Greatheart through the green meadows; but the picture of a small dun-coloured house, covered with hundreds of climbing roses, drummed in my head and let me see nothing else.