Complete Fairy Tales

by Perrault, Charles; Betts, Christopher;

  ‘It must be Donkey-Skin you mean,’

  They said; ‘but she’s no nymph; and “Donkey-Skin”

  She’s called because it’s what she dresses in.

  An uglier brute you’ve never seen.

  A she-wolf’s prettier than her, for sure;

  If love’s an illness, she’s the perfect cure.’

  Much else they say, but all in vain.

  Her image now is deeply traced

  Inside his mind, and cannot be effaced:

  He’s caught by love; he’ll not be free again.

  Meanwhile the Queen his mother cannot rest,

  Seeing her son so gloomy and depressed.

  The Prince, though plunged in grief, will not disclose

  The reason for these most distressing woes,

  And when she tenderly enquires

  Says only this: what he desires

  Is just that Donkey-Skin should bake,

  For him and him alone, a cake.

  His mother cannot take it in,

  And asks: ‘Who is this Donkey-Skin?’

  ‘Oh Heavens!—her?’ they said, ‘oh dear!

  Dear Madam, she’s a miserable slut!

  A dirtier beast you’ll not find anywhere:

  A proper slattern!’—’That’s as may be; but,’

  The Queen said, ‘if my son desires a dish

  Prepared by her, I’ll see he gets his wish.’

  (If he had asked, she loved him so, you see,

  He would have had gold coins for tea.)

  So Donkey-Skin became a cook.

  Butter and salt and eggs she took,

  Inside the hovel where she lived,

  With flour most scrupulously sieved

  (She knew that when it’s sifted fine

  The mixture’s easy to combine),

  And having washed herself she shed

  From off her shoulders, arms, and head

  Her dirty, shaggy camouflage,

  And took instead a fine corsage

  Of silver which she neatly laced

  To wear around her slender waist,

  And thus attired, began to cook.

  By chance—some say she didn’t look—

  A ring she had of flawless gold,

  And happened to be wearing, fell

  Into the cake; though I’ve been told,

  By those who know the story well,

  That Donkey-Skin intended it to fall.

  To me that’s not impossible at all,

  For speaking honestly I’m sure

  That when the Prince, outside her door,

  Had stood that time while peeping through,

  She knew it; women always do.

  A woman’s senses are so keen,

  She’s so alert, that if your eye should chance

  To rest on her a moment, then your glance

  Will be observed; she’ll sense that she’s been seen.

  And then there is another thing:

  The Princess, when she dropped her ring—

  Unless I’m very much deceived;

  In fact I’d swear to it—believed

  That what she’d hidden for her lover

  He’d be most happy to discover.

  And never did a woman make

  A softer, more enticing cake.

  He tasted it with much delight,

  Then gobbled it; and truth to tell,

  He nearly ate the ring as well,

  So wolfish was his appetite.

  But when he found it and beheld

  Its gorgeous emerald stone, his bosom swelled

  With greater joy: the little golden band

  Seemed still to hold the beauty of her hand.

  He put it by his pillow where he slept,

  In order that his secret should be kept.

  Yet visibly meanwhile his health declined,

  And doctors of experience and skill,

  As he grew thinner, with one voice opined

  That it was love that made the Prince so ill.

  Now touching marriage, hostile things are said;

  But nonetheless, for maladies like this

  The recommended cure is married bliss;

  It was resolved, therefore, that he should wed.

  He seemed a while reluctant, then replied:

  ‘Upon this one condition, I’ll agree:

  That she whose finger fits this ring must be

  The woman that you give me for my bride.’

  The King’s and Queen’s surprise was very great,

  But seeing that the Prince’s state

  Was sad indeed, they judged it best

  Not to refuse his strange request.

  At once a search is ordered by the King

  To find the finger that will fit the ring,

  And much improve its owner’s situation,

  However low or high her social station.

  Each maiden’s purpose now becomes the same;

  All have to bring their fingers to be tried;

  None thinks another has a better claim.

  In order, though (so rumour says), to win

  The Prince’s heart and be his bride,

  The finger needs to be extremely thin,

  And charlatans sell recipes to render

  The fingers of the buyers very slender.

  One lady, by a monstrous whim,

  Decides to make her fingers slim

  By scraping them, as she might trim

  Some carrots; while another snips

  Small pieces from her finger-tips.

  Then with a press another tries

  By squeezing to reduce their size.

  Another yet, to make them thin,

  Obtains some acid, dips them in,

  And lets it burn away the skin.

  These ladies will try anything

  To make a finger fit the ring.

  The tests commence: first come the young princesses,

  The duchesses, and then the marchionesses.

  Fine hands they have, but just a little thick:

  Not fine enough, it seems, to do the trick.

  Daughters of barons next, of counts and earls,

  Of lesser gentry too; to no avail:

  Like others higher in the social scale,

  Their fingers are too big. Then come the girls

  Of lower birth and duller dress,

  But not of less attractiveness.

  Their fingers, though, at each attempt,

  When shape and fit appear, this time, just right,

  All fail; the ring appears to show contempt,

  And slips or sticks: too loose, or else too tight.

  So then they had to let the rest apply:

  The servants and the maids, the lesser fry,

  Whose hands are red and roughened by the tub,

  Who have the clothes to wash, the floors to scrub,

  The poultry-yard to clean—in fact the lot.

  The prize is just as much for them to win,

  They think, as for some miss with smoother skin.

  Many a girl with fingers broad and squat

  Made her appearance then to try

  The prince’s ring, with no more hope

  Than if she thought to take a rope

  And thread it through a needle’s eye.

  It seemed that nothing more could then be done,

  For all had tried the ring, except for one:

  Still working in the kitchen, quite neglected,

  Was Donkey-Skin. ‘And she can’t be expected,’

  They said, ‘to wed the Prince and reign

  As queen, that’s absolutely plain.’

  ‘Why not?’ replied the Prince; ‘let her appear.’

  Then laughter spread among the crowd,

  And everyone exclaimed aloud:

  ‘What can he mean? Allow her here,

  That filthy creature? What a joke!’

  But when from underneath the cloak

  Of rough and dirty skin she drew
r />   A hand like ivory, shot through

  With just a touch of rosy pink,

  Then nobody knew what to think;

  And next, before their unbelieving eyes,

  Her finger slid into the fateful ring,

  And fitted it; which caused no small surprise.

  They thought they’d better take her to the King,

  But first, she said, in order to appear

  Before her royal master and her lord,

  There was a single favour she implored:

  To find herself some other clothes to wear.

  And now the courtiers thought to mock,

  And laugh their fill at Donkey-Skin’s new frock;

  But when, once in the palace, she proceeded

  From room to room, and wore a splendid gown,

  Superbly beautiful, which far exceeded

  All dresses ever known in court or town,

  With on her head the diamonds shining bright

  Which made each golden hair a ray of light,

  With azure eyes, whose sweet and noble fire,

  Bewitching, proud, were certain to inspire

  Love with every glance; and when her waist,

  So slender that it might have been embraced

  Between a man’s two hands: when all, at last,

  Was seen divinely fair, she far surpassed

  The courtly ladies in their fine array;

  Their beauties simply seemed to fade away.

  Loudly the crowd rejoiced on every side;

  The worthy King could scarce contain his glee

  Seeing the beauty of the wife-to-be:

  The Queen already doted on the bride.

  As for the love-lorn Prince, their son and heir,

  The passage in so short a time

  From misery to joy sublime

  Was almost more than he could bear.

  Then all looked forward to the wedding day

  And started to prepare without delay;

  The kings and queens around had invitations:

  Bedecked in ornaments of every kind,

  Leaving their native lands behind

  They rode to join the celebrations.

  From far and wide they came; among them, some

  Had journeyed from Aurora’s distant lands*

  Mounted on elephants; others had come

  Out of Arabia’s desert coasts and sands:

  So dark and ugly that they made

  The children very much afraid;

  And all these guests, their numbers growing,

  Soon filled the court to overflowing.

  Kings and queens from distant lands arrive for the wedding celebrations

  But none, of any prince or potentate,

  Arrived in more resplendent state

  Than did the father of the bride.

  Though once in love, he’d cast aside

  The passion burning up his soul like fire;

  He’d banished any criminal desire,

  And of those hateful wishes, now suppressed,

  All that remained served only to inspire

  Deeper devotion in his breast.

  On seeing her he weeps: ‘Now Heaven be blessed,

  My dearest child,’ he cries, ‘that by its grace

  We meet again, and that I am allowed

  To see you here!’ They joyously embrace:

  Their joy is shared by all the crowd.

  The groom is just as pleased and proud

  That marriage to his love will bring

  Alliance with a mighty king.

  Just then the fairy godmother arrives,

  To tell them all, in full, the story

  Of Donkey-Skin, and thus contrives

  To cover her with greater glory.

  There are some lessons that a child may learn

  From listening to this tale: they won’t take long;

  And first that sufferings, however stern,

  Are preferable by far to doing wrong;

  And next, whatever trials life may send

  Virtue will always triumph in the end;

  Also that love deranged defies all sense:

  Against it, reason is a poor defence;

  Lovers, extravagant beyond all measure,

  Will give away for love their dearest treasure.

  Again: young ladies may be fed

  On nothing but the coarsest bread

  Provided that, besides such fare,

  They have some pretty clothes to wear;

  And not a woman anywhere

  Will not believe that she’s as fair

  As all the rest; and in addition

  Has never dreamt that when of old

  They held that famous competition

  To win the apple made of gold,*

  If she’d been there, as goddesses paraded,

  She surely would have looked as good as they did,

  Or better still, and would have been

  Paris’s choice as beauty queen.

  This tale is hard to credit, to be sure,

  But yet, as long as children dwell

  Upon this earth, with mums and grans as well,

  Its memory will stay secure.

  STORIES OR TALES

  OF

  BYGONE TIMES

  WITH THEIR MORALS

  TO MADEMOISELLE*

  Mademoiselle:

  It will not seem strange that a child should have entertained himself by composing the tales in this collection, but it will be astonishing that he should have had the audacity to present them to you.

  However, Mademoiselle, notwithstanding the huge discrepancy between the simplicity of the stories and the brilliance of your mind, it will appear, if the tales are properly examined, that I am not as blameworthy as I might seem. The moral lessons that they all contain are extremely sensible, and will be understood more or less easily according as my readers are more or less perceptive; and furthermore, seeing that there is no greater sign of mental capacity than the ability both to rise to the greatest heights and descend to everyday matters, nobody will be surprised that a great Princess, who by nature and education has become familiar with the most elevated ideas, should condescend to divert herself with bagatelles such as these.

  I know that the tales give a portrayal of life in the humblest families, where the laudable desire to provide early instruction to the young has led to the creation of stories which, bereft of reason, are therefore suitable for children, since in them reason is still lacking; but for whom could it be more suitable to study the people’s way of life than for those destined to lead them? Heroes, including heroes from among your own ancestors,* have been impelled, by their desire to know about such things, to enter cabins and hovels in order to see with their own eyes the detail of the lives that were led in them, such knowledge having seemed to them necessary if their education was to be complete.

  However that may be, Mademoiselle—

  Though fairy stories cannot be believed,

  To whom could I more fittingly appeal

  To prove that what they tell us might be real?

  For nobody could ever have conceived,

  Since fairies gave their gifts so long ago,

  That any of them might bestow

  So many gifts, such talents too,

  As Nature has bestowed on you.

  I remain, Mademoiselle, with the most profound respect, the very faithful humble servant of Your Royal Highness,

  P. DARMANCOUR.*

  The Sleeping Beauty

  in the Wood

  ONCE upon a time there lived a king and queen who were ever so unhappy, because they had no children; so unhappy I can’t tell you. They went to all the spas to drink the waters there, gave presents to all the saints, went on pilgrimages, and always said their prayers; everything was tried and nothing worked. But at last the Queen did become pregnant, and had a baby daughter. They held a beautiful service for her to be christened; all the fairies they could find in the country were to come (there were s
even of them), to be godmothers for the little Princess, which meant that each would bestow a gift on her, which was the custom for fairies in those days, and then she would be as perfect as you could possibly imagine.

  When the christening service was finished, all the guests went back to the royal palace, where a banquet was to be given in honour of the fairies. Each of them had her place laid magnificently at table with a solid gold case, which contained a knife, a fork, and a spoon made out of pure gold, and decorated with diamonds and rubies. But as everyone was sitting down to table, they saw an aged fairy come in, who had not been invited, because for more than fifty years she had never left the tower she lived in, so that she was believed to be dead, or under a spell. The King had a place laid for her at table, but there was no means of giving her a case of solid gold like the others, because only seven cases had been made, one for each of the seven. The aged fairy believed herself insulted, and muttered threatening words between her teeth. Sitting beside her, one of the younger fairies heard what she said, and guessed that the gift that she would give to the little Princess might be dangerous for her; so she went and hid behind a tapestry on the wall as soon as the meal was finished, in order to speak last of all, and prevent if possible any harm that the old fairy might do.

  Meanwhile the fairies began to present their gifts to the Princess. The gift that the youngest fairy gave was that she would be the loveliest person in the world; the next one’s gift was that she would be as clever as an angel; the third gift was that she would do everything with all the grace imaginable; the fourth that she would dance to perfection; the fifth that she would sing like a nightingale; and the sixth, that she would play beautiful music on all kinds of instruments. When it came to the turn of the very old fairy, whose head was shaking, but not so much from age as from bad temper, she said that the Princess would prick her hand on the point of the spindle on a spinning-wheel, and that she would die.

  This terrible gift made the whole company shudder, and they all began to weep. It was then that the younger fairy stepped out from behind the tapestry, and in a loud voice she spoke these words: ‘Oh King and Queen, be reassured; your daughter will not die, although it is not in my power to undo completely what the older fairy has done. The Princess will prick her hand on a spindle, but instead of dying, she will fall into a deep sleep. It will last for a hundred years, and at the end of that time the son of a king will come to waken her.’ In order to try to prevent the disaster announced by the old fairy, the King at once had an edict proclaimed, by which every person was forbidden to spin wool on a spinning-wheel or keep a spindle at home, on pain of death.