Beauty and the Beast

In 1547, in the court of King Henry II of France, there lived a man unlike any other: Pedro González, born in Tenerife and afflicted with a rare condition — hypertrichosis universalis, which covered his entire body with hair. To the court, he was a beast.

The king, amused by his appearance, decided to make him an experiment: could a monster be “civilized”? He educated Pedro, dressed him in silks, taught him Latin, etiquette, and chess. Then, for entertainment, he arranged a marriage — to a young noblewoman named Catherine.

Catherine wept when she saw her husband. But the marriage proceeded. Over time, something changed. She discovered gentleness behind his mask. They fell in love. They had children — half of whom shared Pedro’s condition.

The court called it a miracle. Painters immortalized them, turning tragedy into art. But when the family was exiled after the king’s death, they vanished into legend.

Centuries later, their portraits resurfaced — Pedro in gold armor, Catherine at his side. Her eyes seem alive in the painting, but his are empty. Some restorers claim that when you stand in front of the portrait alone, the beast’s mouth appears slightly open — as if exhaling.

“Beauty and the Beast” was never about love conquering ugliness. It was about a kingdom trying to prove that humanity could be tamed — and the cost of being seen as something less than human.