Madame; so let me now begin
The tale, in full, of Donkey-Skin.
There ruled a mighty king in days of yore,
Greater than any who had ruled before;
Well-loved in peace, in war arousing fear,
No other king could claim to be his peer.
With enemies subdued, his triumphs made
A shield for peaceful virtues, arts, and trade,
And brought prosperity in place of strife.
The charm and beauty of his faithful wife,
As gentle and as kind as she was fair,
Entranced him still: at home he had the air
Less of a king with consort at his side,
And more the bridegroom with his radiant bride.
The union of this loving pair
Produced no other child but one,
And that a daughter, not a son;
In virtue, though, beyond compare:
And so her parents did not much repine
That she alone would carry on their line.
Throughout the palace of this king
Magnificence was everything.
Footmen and courtiers by the score
Were swarming in each corridor;
Great stables had been built to hold
Each and every breed of horse,
In many sizes, all, of course,
Caparisoned in cloth of gold.
A truly striking sight was there:
The place of honour was reserved
For Donkey Ned with wagging ear.
You think this honour undeserved?
Then hear how justified it is
By Ned’s amazing qualities.
Nature had made the beast so pure
That what he dropped was not manure,
But sovereigns and gold crowns instead
(Imprinted with the royal head)
Which every morning Master Ned
Left for collection on his bed.
But Heaven grows tired, now and then,
Of granting happiness to men,
And puts some sorrows in our way
Like rainstorms on a sunny day.
A sickness struck the King’s beloved wife,
Grew worse and worse: it soon attacked her life.
Help was sought throughout the land,
Doctors arrived on every hand.
The Faculty of Medicine was consulted:
They looked in books by ancient Greeks,
While fashionable alternative techniques
Were counselled by the quacks: no cure resulted.
The patient worsened. Nothing could arrest
The malady which daily still progressed.
The Queen, then, feeling close to death,
Addressed, in solemn words, the King:
‘Permit me with my dying breath
To ask of you, my dear, one thing:
That if you should desire to wed
When I am gone...’ ‘Alas!’ her husband said,
‘Have no anxieties of such a kind;
For never will I take another bride;
So please dismiss these worries from your mind.’
‘That’s what I thought you’d say, my dear,’ replied
The Queen; ‘of that your passion makes me sure;
But yet I’d like to feel still more secure:
I’d like to hear you swear an oath
(On which I know I can rely)
That only if you find a woman both
More lovely and more virtuous than I,
You may, upon this one condition,
Marry her with my permission.’
She thought, so certain of her charms was she,
That such an oath would be a guarantee
(Though got by cunning) that he would refrain
From ever marrying again.
The King burst into tears and vowed
To do whatever she desired.
She in his arms forthwith expired,
And never did a husband weep so loud.
By night and day his sobs came thick and fast.
The courtiers judged his sorrow could not last;
He wept, they said, as if he wished to see
The mourning done as promptly as might be.
The court proved right. Some months went past,
And then the King announced he thought it good
To choose another consort if he could.
He had a tricky problem now
Because he had to keep his vow;
And therefore any wife he found
Must be at least as fair of face,
As well endowed with wit and grace,
As was the first, now underground.
But not at court, though beauties there abound,
Nor in the towns or countryside,
Nor in neighbouring lands beside,
Was any other woman seen
As lovely as the former queen,
Except her daughter; she alone
With young and tender beauties of her own,
Possessed attractions that the Queen had lacked.
The King, now mad with love, observed the fact,
And got the crazy notion in his head
That he and the Princess should therefore wed.
An expert casuist* he found contended
That such a match, perhaps, could be defended.
The courtiers attempt to rouse their king
An expert casuist defends the match
But she was much disturbed, and had no rest
On hearing sentiments like these expressed;
She sobbed and wept by day and night.
She went, with sad and weary heart,
To tell her godmother about her plight.
This fairy’s dwelling, set apart,
Was in a distant grotto, filled
With coral, pearls, and shells; in magic art
Her godmother was very skilled.
(What fairies were in olden times
You will not need to learn from me;
Your Grandma told you on her knee,
Along with tales and nursery rhymes.)
She said, on seeing her: ‘My dear,
I know why you’re so sad, and why you’re here,
But now you’re with me, have no fear.
Nothing will do you harm, provided
That you will let yourself be guided
By my advice. Your father, it is true,
Has said he wants to marry you.
To ask for such a thing is mad;
If you agree, that’s just as bad.
To thwart him, while not seeming to refuse,
We’ll circumvent his folly with a ruse.
You need to say you won’t consent
To marry till you’re quite content
With what you ask him now to give: a dress
The colour of the heavens*—something which,
However great he is, however rich,
Though Heaven has always given him success,
Will prove beyond his powers to do.’
The Princess, trembling through and through,
To give this message went her way.
The King, without the least delay,
Called dressmakers across the land,
And made them clearly understand
That what he wanted was a dress,
Sky-coloured, for the young Princess;
And further that they’d best not make him wait
More than a day before the job was done,
For if they did, as sure as fate,
He’d send them to the gallows, every one.
Before the sun rose on the second morn
The precious dress was ready to be worn:
Its sheer and splendid azure hue
Outshone the sky’s most glorious blue
When clouds are strewn across it golden bright.
The Princess, with more sorrow than delight,
Is lost for words; she’s very much afraid<
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She’ll have to keep the bargain that she’s made.
‘You’ve got to ask him for another boon,’
She hears her fairy godmother declare:
‘No common gift this time, but rare:
A dress the colour of the moon;
He cannot give it.’ But her new demand
At once becomes the monarch’s next command.
He calls embroiderers: ‘Diana’s globe
Will shine at night more dimly than this robe;
Within four days, the work must be complete,’
He says; and in four days, it’s at his feet,
And just as beautiful as he’d required.
The moon when skies are clear, attired
In silver for her evening parade,
So bright she makes the stars and planets fade,
Is less superb and radiant than the dress.
Astonished and admiring, the Princess
Was almost ready to give in; but then,
Encouraged by her godmother again,
She asked another gift—a better one;
‘My lord,’ she said, ‘with this I’ll be content:
I want a dress the colour of the sun.’
In his excess of love, her father sent
To fetch the finest jeweller that there was.
‘Make me this gleaming dress,’ the man was told,
‘In cloth all sewn with diamonds and gold;
And do it well,’ the King went on, ‘because,
If not, you’ll die of torture, have no doubt.’
The threat was never carried out:
The man was disinclined to shirk.
He sent the precious piece of work
Within a week. So splendid was this dress
That bright-haired Phoebus, when across the skies
He drives his chariot of gold, is less
Ablaze with light, and dazzles less our eyes.
Dumbfounded by these gifts, the poor Princess
Finds no reply to thwart her king and lord.
Her godmother is close at hand: ‘My dear,
You can’t stop now,’ she whispers in her ear;
‘There’s nothing that your father can’t afford;
You know he has the donkey still,
Which while it’s there will always fill
His treasury with crowns of gold.
Just ask him for the creature’s skin.
Since that is what his wealth is in,
This gift, I’m sure, is one that he’ll withhold.’
The fairy was extremely wise,
No doubt, but failed to realize
That lovers never count the cost
Of all the gold and silver lost
If once their passion gains its prize.
The monarch, therefore, gallantly complied
And met his daughter’s wish; the donkey died.
They bring the skin to her: she’s filled with dread,
And bitterly bewails the fate that lies ahead;
But then her godmother appears:
‘Those who do good,’ she says, ‘need have no fears.
First you must lead your father to believe
That you will share with him the married state;
But on the wedding day, alone, you’ll leave:
You must not risk so horrible a fate;
Go in disguise to some far distant place.
Here now,’ she added, ‘is your travelling case.
It’s large enough to hold your dressing things,
Your brushes, mirror, rubies, diamond rings,
And all your clothes; moreover here’s my wand
For you to use. The casket will respond
By following wherever you may go,
But secretly, deep in the ground below.
Then should you want to see the chest,
Just take the wand and keep it pressed
Against the earth, and then and there
The chest will magically appear.
To guard yourself from prying eyes,
The donkey-skin’s a fine disguise,
For nobody could ever guess,
Seeing you in so foul a dress,
That such a filthy thing could hide
Someone so beautiful inside.’
Thus camouflaged, the Princess went away,
Bidding the fairy many fond farewells,
In the cool air of morning. On that day
The King had hoped to hear the wedding bells
Ring out in joy; but he’s bereft;
They tell him that his bride has left.
Each house, each street, each avenue
Was rigorously searched, and searched again;
But all the agitation was in vain,
For how or where she’d vanished, no one knew.
A sad, despondent mood spread all about:
No wedding meant no cakes, no sweets, no feast;
The ladies of the court were much put out,
And hardly ate a thing; as for the priest,
His meal was late and meagre; what was worse,
No church collection helped to fill his purse.
Journeying onwards all this time
Her face besmeared with dirt and grime,
The Princess begged from passers-by.
On coming to a house, she’d try
To get herself a servant’s place,
But when they saw her grubby face,
Together with the skin she wore,
The wives she asked, however poor,
However coarse, would shut the door.
So on she trudged, and on and on, until
She reached a farmhouse where the wife required
A serving-girl with just sufficient skill
To do the lowest chores; and she was hired,
To wash the rags and keep the pig-trough clean.
A corner of the kitchen, dark and mean,
Became her home, and here she had to mix
The Princess laments her sad situation
With farmhands, oafs, and louts, who played her tricks
At every turn; they harassed her,
Tormented her, embarrassed her;
She was the butt of all their rustic fun,
Of every joke and every stupid pun.
She had on Sundays some few hours of rest.
She had a little work to do, no more;
Returning to her room, she barred the door.
She’d wash away the grime, and from the chest
Would take her toilet-cloth, and lots
Of creams and lotions neatly stored in pots.
The looking-glass she’d carefully arrange,
Then stood before it, happy, full of pride,
Wearing each dress in turn. The first she tried
Was like the moon, all silver. Then she’d change,
And wear the dress that brilliantly outshone
The sun itself; then finally put on
The azure dress whose gorgeous hue
Surpassed the heavens’ purest blue.
The trouble was, the room could not contain
Each dress’s generously flowing train.
It was a joy to gaze at her reflection
And see herself so beautifully dressed:
She thought that with her pure complexion
She must look finer than the rest,
Which kept her spirits up till next weekend.
Something I may have failed to mention
Is that the farmyard had a large extension
In which innumerable birds were penned:
An aviary; the King, who liked display,
Showed off his riches in this way,
With musk-fed geese* and cormorants and quails,
And little bustards, bantam hens, and rails,
Birds of a thousand kinds or more,
Each stranger than the one before,
Filling a dozen courtyards in their cages.
The monarch’s son would come with frie
nds and pages
To rest awhile in this delightful place
And take cool drinks, when thirsty from the chase.
This Prince’s martial looks did not resemble
Those of the fair Adonis: regal his mien,
And fierce his glance; the bravest foes would tremble
Before him in the field. Thus was he seen
By Donkey-Skin, with tender admiration;
Watching afar, she knew that for her part,
Despite the dirt and squalor of her station,
Her feelings proved she had a royal heart.
‘He truly has a prince’s air,’
She thought, ‘while seeming not to care
About his greatness. And how much
He merits love! Oh happy she
Whose beauty and whose love might touch
His heart and keep it hers! And as for me,
I’d sooner wear the meanest, poorest dress
That he might give, than any I possess.’
This Prince, when walking, came one day,
Among the courtyards where the birds were kept,
Upon a door along a passageway,
And this was where the Princess slept.
The keyhole as it chanced was at a height
Just right to look through. As it chanced,
The day was Sunday too; so when he glanced
Into her room, he saw a wondrous sight:
The diamonds lay round her neck; and spun
From gold, her dress was dazzling like the sun.
The Prince stood there transfixed in contemplation;
Scarce could he breathe, so great his admiration.
And yet, despite the gorgeous clothes she wore,
Her countenance attracted him much more:
Its perfect outline, full of grace,
Her young complexion, fresh and clear,
Gave sweet expression to her face;
Besides, so virtuous did she appear,
With dignity and modesty combined,
The outward signs of beauty in the mind,
That her demeanour played the greatest part
In making her the mistress of his heart.
Three times from sudden love he raised his fist
Against the door, but only to desist:
Three times respect made him withdraw;
It seemed a goddess that he saw.
Back to the palace he made his pensive way,
To sigh and languish there by night and day.
The Carnival has started: he rejects
All invitations to the dance; objects
To theatre; hunting he abominates;
The most alluring food he hates.
And as he mournfully repines,
He’s lost in apathy, his health declines.
One day he asked the unknown beauty’s name.
‘Who can she be, this lovely nymph, whose room
Is in that nasty alley deep in gloom
Beyond the poultry-yard?’ The answer came:
Complete Fairy Tales Page 10
