The Turnip Princess and Other Newly Discovered Fairy Tales (Penguin Classics)

by Franz Xaver von Schonwerth

  The term fairy tale has not served the genre well. Often dismissed as an infantile confection, the fairy tale in fact rarely contains the sprightly supernatural creatures featured so prominently in its name. It was the French, more specifically Mme d’Aulnoy, who gave us the term contes de fées, leading us to frame the stories as if they turn on the lives of diminutive woodland folk (of which there are quite a few in Schönwerth’s collection) rather than ordinary people. In English, the term was first used in 1749, casually by Horace Walpole, and with self-conscious purpose when Sarah Fielding called a story embedded in The Governess, published in 1749, “The Princess Hebe: A Fairy Tale.” The German term Märchen points to the origins of the stories in the notion of news, reports, tall tales, rumors, and gossip—in short, of talk and social exchanges. Fairy tales hover somewhere between tall tale and high fantasy, anchored in the real world, but with embellishments and misrepresentations that turn their lies and confabulations into higher truths.

  There is magic in these tall tales, and the presence of enchantment is perhaps the defining feature of the genre.* We are not so much in the realm of fairies as in the domain of what J. R. R. Tolkien referred to as Faërie, that “Perilous Realm” where anything can happen. A plain girl puts on a necklace and belt and turns into a beautiful young woman; a boy swims on the back of a golden fish and enters an enchanted castle; elves teach a girl how to keep house and heal the sick. Again and again we witness transformations that break down the divide between life and death, nature and culture, animal and human, or beauty and monstrosity. Fairy tales take up deep cultural contradictions, creating what Claude Lévi-Strauss called “miniature models”—stories that dispense with extraneous details to give us primal anxieties and desires, the raw rather than the cooked, as it were. They use magic, not to falsify or delude, but rather to enable counterfactuals, to move us to imagine what if or to wonder why. And that move, as both Plato and Aristotle assured us, marks the beginning of philosophy. While fairy-tale heroes and heroines wander, we track their moves and wonder, in both senses of the term, at their adventures. It is no surprise that the term wonder-tale has been proposed and embraced as an alternative to the misleading fairy tale.

  Fairy tales, like myths, capitalize on the three concepts the Greeks captured in the term kaleidoscope: sparkling beauty, austere form, and visual power. Once told at the fireside or at the hearth, with adults and children sharing the storytelling space, they captured the play of light and shadow in their environment, creating special effects that yoked beauty with horror. Imagine a time before electronic entertainment, with long dark nights around campsites and other sources of heat and light, and it is not much of a challenge to realize that human beings, always quick to adapt, began exchanging information, trading wisdom, and reporting gossip. “Literature,” Vladimir Nabokov tells us, “was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf wolf, and there was no wolf behind him.”* And that boy’s story was no doubt both compact and vivid. Once the conversation started about that wolf, it was easy enough, in subsequent versions, to begin exaggerating, overstating, inflating, and doing all the things that make for lively entertainment. Fairy tales are always more interesting when something is added to them. Each new telling recharges the narrative, making it crackle and hiss with cultural energy.

  At a time when some scholars have contested the vibrancy of oral storytelling traditions, claiming that fairy tales were literary confections, urban and urbane, rather than rooted in the popular culture of the unlettered, Schönwerth’s collection reveals just how comfortably the tales inhabit a world that values spontaneity, improvisation, rough edges, and lack of closure. Much as there may be lively traffic between the oral and the literary, these tales, unlike stories written down by the Brothers Grimm or that other prominent collector, Ludwig Bechstein, have few literary fingerprints on them. We cannot go back to nineteenth-century nooks and hearths to learn more about the tales that were told for entertainment, but we do have Schönwerth’s extraordinary archive, one that showed respect for oral storytelling traditions and did not work hard to turn hard-won fairy-tale silver into literary gold.

  Schönwerth’s collection of tales may lack some of the charm of other nineteenth-century collections, but it gives us a crystal-clear window into the storytelling culture of its time. Earthy, scatological, and unvarnished, these tales give us primary process rather than edited and embellished narrative. Where else will we find a woman who moons a scoundrel of a tailor, or a fellow who relieves himself in the woods much to the dismay of his pals? Schönwerth recognized the value of remaining faithful to his sources and refused to pull punches.

  In a tale that is more anecdote or joke than fairy tale, Schönwerth recorded the story of a man who searches in vain for the right reading glasses. Frustrated by the fact that no matter how many spectacles he tries out, all he sees on the page are black squiggles, he learns, much to his distress, that the glasses will do him no good unless he first learns how to read. Written down at a transitional moment, when oral storytelling cultures were being replaced by print collections, the tale is a subtle reminder, among other things, that the dead letter is a poor substitute for the living word. It is to Schönwerth’s credit that he had faith in the power of black squiggles to capture the letter and spirit of what he had heard from women, weavers, and all those folks who were convinced that he must be joking when he asked them for their stories. Many of his contemporaries possessed neither glasses, books, nor the ability to read, but Schönwerth nonetheless recognized that a time would come when we would rely on those artifacts and skills to discover a literary heritage that might otherwise have been lost.

  Like fairy tales, translations are collaborations, and I want to thank, above all, Erika Eichenseer for undertaking the labor of love that rescued these tales, let them return to and breathe the fine air of the places they were once told, and brought them into the orbit of English-speaking cultures. Her tireless championing not just of Schönwerth’s labors but also of the world of folklore went far toward inspiring me to re-create the tales in ways that made manifest the magic of the German versions. Doris Sperber, a genius at tracking down sources, flagging errors, and attending to devilish details, provided steady and steadying support. I am deeply grateful to John Siciliano at Penguin Classics for his faith in Schönwerth, in the collaborative work carried out by Erika and me, and in the sprinkling of fairy dust that animates these stories and ensures that they will thrive on both sides of the Atlantic and beyond.

  MARIA TATAR

  Suggestions for Further Reading

  Cristina Bacchilega. Fairy Tales Transformed? Twenty-First-Century Adaptations and the Politics of Wonder. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2013.

  Bruno Bettelheim. The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales. New York: Knopf, 1976.

  Robert Darnton. “Peasants Tell Tales: The Meaning of Mother Goose.” In The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History. New York: Basic Books, 1984.

  Donald Haase, ed. Fairy Tales and Feminism. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 2009.

  Maria Tatar. The Classic Fairy Tales. New York: W.W. Norton, 1999.

  Hans-Jörg Uther. The Types of International Folktales: A Classification and Bibliography. 3 vols. Helsinki: Academia Scientiarum Fennica, 2004.

  Marina Warner. From the Beast to the Blonde: On Fairy Tales and Their Tellers. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1994.

  Charlotte Wolf. Original Bavarian Folktales: A Schönwerth Selection. Mineola, NY: Dover, 2014.

  Jack Zipes. Why Fairy Tales Stick: The Evolution and Relevance of a Genre. New York: Routledge, 2006.

  ———. The Irresistible Fairy Tale: The Cultural and Social History of a Genre. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999.

  Further Reading in German

  Erika Eichenseer, ed. Franz Xaver von Schönwerth: Prinz Roßzwifl und andere Märchen. Regensburg: Morsbac
h, 2010, 2013.

  Roland Rörich (Hsgb.). Der oberpfälzische Volkskundler Franz Xaver Schönwerth. Seibn Leben und Werk: Kallmünz: Lassleben, 1975.

  ———. Das Schönwerth-lesebuch. Regensburg: Pustet, 2010.

  Franz Xaver von Schönwerth. Aus der Oberpfalz—Sitten und Sagen. 3 vols. Augsburg: Rieger, 1857–59.

  ———. Aus der Oberpfalz—Sitten und Sagen. 3 vols. Hildesheim-New York: Olms, 1977.

  ———. Aus der Oberpfalz—Sitten und Sagen. Bed. I, II, III. Gesamtausgabe, bearbeitet und ergänzt von Harald Fähnrich. Pressath: Bodner, 2010.

  Julia Weigl. Der rote Zwerg: 12 unbekannte Märchen aus der Oberpfalz. Regensburg: Niedermayr, 2000.

  Karl Winkler. Oberpfälzische Sagen, Legenden, Märchen und Schwänke. Kallmünz: Laßleben, 1935, 1960, 2009.

  PART I

  TALES OF MAGIC AND ROMANCE

  THE TURNIP PRINCESS

  One day a prince lost his way in the woods. He found shelter in a cave and slept there for the night. When he woke up, an old woman was hovering over him. She had a bear by her side and treated it like a pet dog. The old woman was very kind to the prince. She wanted him to live with her and become her husband. The prince did not like her at all, but he was unable to leave.

  One day the prince and the bear were alone together in the cave, and the bear said to him: “If you pull that rusty old nail out of the wall, I will be set free. Then take the nail and put it under a turnip out in the meadow. Your reward will be a beautiful wife.” The prince yanked the nail so hard that the entire cave began to tremble. There was a sudden clap of thunder, and the nail popped out of the wall. The bear rose up on its hind legs and turned into a man. He had a long beard and on his head there was a crown.

  “And now I am going to find the beautiful maiden,” the prince shouted after him, and he ran out the door. Nearby he discovered a field of turnips and was just about to put the nail under one of the vegetables when, out of nowhere, a monster appeared. The nail flew out of the prince’s hand, and he braced himself on a hedge. Thorns pierced his hands, and his fingers were bleeding so badly that he fainted.

  When the prince came to, he found himself in an entirely different new place. Touching his chin, he discovered that he had grown a blond beard. That’s how he knew that he must have slept for quite a while. He stood up, crossed the meadow, and passed through the woods, all the while searching for a place where turnips might be growing. But he searched in vain and found nothing.

  Some time passed, and one evening he decided to lie down on a grassy knoll near a shrub. The shrub was a blackthorn bush in full bloom, and one branch of it had a red blossom on it. The prince snapped off the branch. He found a big white turnip growing in the fields right next to him, and he stuck the branch with the red flower into the turnip and fell fast asleep.

  When the prince awoke the next morning, the turnip had turned into a gigantic bowl, and the nail was lying right in the center of it. The interior walls of the turnip bowl looked just like a nutshell, with the imprint of the nut still on it. He looked carefully at the imprint and saw little feet, tiny hands, fine hair, and then the entire body of a wondrously beautiful maiden.

  The prince left to search for the cave in the woods, and he had no trouble finding it. It had been abandoned. The rusty nail was lying on the ground. He picked it up and hammered it back into the wall. Suddenly the old woman and the bear reappeared. “Tell me now, and don’t try to deny that you have the answer!” the prince shouted at the old woman. “What did you do with the beautiful maiden?”

  The old woman just giggled: “I’m here right now. Why do you keep rejecting me?”

  The bear nodded in agreement and looked at the nail in the wall. The prince said to him: “At least you are honest. But I won’t be fooled by the old woman a second time.”

  “Just pull on the nail,” the bear growled.

  The prince tugged at the nail and managed to get it halfway out. He turned around and saw that the bear was partly human and the disgusting old woman was half-ugly and half-beautiful. He pulled the nail all the way out. Lo and behold, man and maiden stood there, completely unharmed. He flew into the arms of the beautiful woman, for the spell had been lifted. The two of them took the rusty old nail and destroyed it.

  The prince and his bride had no trouble finding their way back to the castle. The king was elated to see his son again and to meet his beautiful bride. The jubilant wedding guests held a feast for the couple, and the two lived a long, happy life.

  THE ENCHANTED QUILL

  A man on horseback fell fast asleep while riding, and the horse began grazing in a meadow. A crow flew down from a tree and pecked the horse so that it reared up suddenly and woke the rider up. “Why did you peck at my horse?” the rider asked angrily.

  “So that you would finally wake up!” the crow said. “You’ve been asleep for three years now!” The rider looked at his beard, which was several feet long, and realized that the crow had spoken the truth.

  “Tell me, how can I thank you?”

  “By giving me one of your three sisters in marriage. Take this picture of me with you.” The crow gave the rider a little picture of himself and flew off into the distance.

  When the man returned home on horseback, he told his sisters about the crow and its request, and then he showed them the picture of the bird. The eldest of the three sisters wrinkled her nose, the second shrieked, “No way!” and the youngest just blushed. She took the picture and went to her room.

  The next day a splendid carriage drawn by four horses appeared. The sisters were filled with curiosity, for they imagined a prince might be calling, and they raced to the door. A black crow stepped out of the carriage, and two of the sisters went right back in the house. Only the youngest of the three invited him in. Still, the crow asked all three sisters to visit his castle.

  Together they traveled through a dark, gloomy forest. They were all convinced that they must be traveling on the road to hell. After a while it grew light, and the path took them through a forest of lemon trees and then on to a beautiful castle. The crow said to the two sisters: “Just watch out, and don’t get too curious about things.” He took the youngest into another room in the castle. The two sisters tiptoed toward the door and peeked through the keyhole. They saw a handsome young man sitting at a table, having a cozy conversation with their sister.

  All at once everything changed: The castle and the carriage disappeared, and the three young women were standing under a fir tree. The crow was up in the branches, scolding them: “Now only the youngest can save me. She must walk to the city in rags and accept whatever work she is offered.”

  And so the youngest walked to the city in rags and was about to be turned back by the constable when a tailor appeared to ask if she could do some cooking and cleaning for the prince living there. She assured the tailor, somewhat haltingly, that she could do all those things, and he walked over with her to the place where she would be employed.

  Before long it became obvious that she had none of the skills she had claimed to have. The food was constantly burned; the silver was dirtier than ever. Gardeners, huntsmen, and servants all made fun of her, insulting her and calling her names. She wept bitter tears. Suddenly the crow appeared at the window, turned his wing to her, and said: “Pull out one of my feathers, and if you use it to write down a wish, the wish will come true.” With a heavy heart she pulled a feather out. Before the noonday meal, she wrote down the names of the very finest dishes with the quill. The food appeared on the table in bowls that sparkled and glowed.

  The prince and the princess were thrilled, and the servant girl was given beautiful garments to wear. She had such an exquisite face and figure that the caretaker was soon enamored of her and wanted her to be his. He tiptoed to her room and peeked in. When she didn’t order him to leave, he ran over to her. “Shut the door!” she said. And just as he was turning around, she wro
te with her quill: “Let him spend all night opening and closing the door.” And that is exactly what happened. In the morning the caretaker, deeply humiliated, could be seen slinking away.

  The next evening the huntsman came to the girl’s room while she was lying in bed. He bent over to take his boots off. She wrote: “Let him spend all night taking his boots off and putting them back on.” And that’s exactly what he did. At daybreak, he left in a huff. On the third morning one of the servants appeared. He had a strange neck, twisted from constantly watching doves, and the fool looked deep into her eyes. While he was asking for her favors, he suddenly remembered that he had left the door to the dovecote open and asked if he could go back to close it. The girl nodded with a laugh and wrote down the words: “Let him spend all night opening and closing the door to the dovecote.”