Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm: A New English Version

by Philip Pullman

  As with a number of the Grimm tales, there’s a question here. What is the meaning of the singing, springing lark? Why does it vanish from the story as soon as the youngest daughter receives it? What’s happened to it? And is there a connection between the lion (Löwe) and the dialect word the characters use for the lark (Löweneckerchen, not Lerche)?

  If we were going to give the lark more to do in the story (which wouldn’t be too difficult: he could share the wife’s wanderings, he could fly to the sun and the moon for her, he could prompt the serpent-princess to look out of the window and see the golden hen and her chicks, for example), we’d have to have clear in our minds the relationship between the wife, the lion and the lark. There are few clues in the tale as it is.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THE GOOSE GIRL

  There once lived an old queen whose husband had been dead for many years. She had a beautiful daughter, and when the daughter grew up she was betrothed to a prince who lived a long way away. Soon the time for the marriage arrived, and the daughter had to leave for the foreign land where the prince lived. The old queen packed all manner of costly things, gold and silver, fine goblets and rare jewels of every kind, everything that was suitable for a royal dowry, for she loved her daughter with all her heart.

  She also gave her a maidservant who was to ride with her and make sure she arrived safely at the bridegroom’s palace. Each of them had a horse for the journey. The princess’s horse was called Falada, and he could speak. When it was time to leave, the old queen went into her bedchamber, took a knife and cut her finger. She let three drops of blood fall on to a white handkerchief, gave it to her daughter and said, ‘My dear child, take good care of this. You will need it on your journey.’

  Then they said a sad farewell. The princess put the handkerchief into her bodice, and they set off on the journey to her bridegroom.

  When they had ridden for an hour the princess felt a burning thirst and said to her maidservant, ‘Could you get down and bring me some water from the brook in the golden goblet you’re carrying? I’m so thirsty I must have something to drink.’

  The maid said, ‘Get it yourself. If you’re thirsty you can just lie over the stream and lap it up. I’m not going to wait on you.’

  The princess was so thirsty that she did just that. The maid wouldn’t even let her use the goblet.

  ‘Dear Lord!’ thought the princess, and the three drops of blood replied: ‘If your mother knew of this, it would break her heart.’

  But the princess was humble. She said nothing and remounted her horse. They rode on for a few more miles, but the day was warm, the sun was scorching and soon she grew thirsty again. When they came to another stream she said to the maidservant, ‘Could you bring me some water in the golden goblet?’

  She had forgotten the maidservant’s harsh words. But the maid said even more haughtily: ‘I’ve told you, I’m not waiting on you. If you’re thirsty, get down and drink for yourself.’

  The princess got down again and drank from the stream. She wept a little, and again she thought, ‘Dear Lord!’

  Again the three drops of blood responded silently: ‘Oh, if your mother knew, her heart would break in two!’

  And as the princess leaned over the stream and sipped the water, the handkerchief fell out of her bodice and floated away. She didn’t even notice it in her distress, but the maidservant had seen it, and she gloated. She knew that the princess was weak and powerless now.

  So when the princess wanted to remount Falada, the maid said, ‘What d’you think you’re doing? That’s not your horse. I’m having him now. And in fact you can take off all your fancy clothes and give them to me. You can wear these dingy rags of mine. Go on, hurry up.’

  The princess had to do as she said, and then the maidservant made her swear under the open heavens not to say one word about it in the royal court. If she hadn’t taken that oath, the maidservant would have killed her on the spot.

  But Falada saw all of this, and took good note of it.

  So with the chambermaid riding Falada and the true princess riding the nag, they went on their way till they came to the royal palace. There was great rejoicing when they arrived, and the king’s son ran ahead to meet them. Naturally he thought that the chambermaid was his bride, and he lifted her down from her horse and led her upstairs, while the real princess was left standing below.

  The old king looked out of the window and noticed her waiting in the courtyard, and thought how beautiful she was, how fine and delicate her features; so he went at once to the royal apartments and asked the bride about the girl she had with her, the one who was standing below in the courtyard.

  ‘I picked her up on the way to keep me company,’ said the false bride. ‘Give her some work to do; she’ll only laze around otherwise.’

  But the old king had no work to give her. ‘I suppose she could help the goose boy,’ he said.

  So the true bride had to tend the geese along with the little goose boy, whose name was Conrad.

  A little while later the false bride said to the king’s son, ‘Husband dearest, I’d like you to do something for me.’

  ‘Of course!’ he said. ‘I’ll do it gladly.’

  ‘Then send for the knacker, and have him cut off the head of the horse I rode here,’ she said. ‘The brute gave me a lot of trouble on the way.’

  In fact, of course, she was afraid that Falada might tell the truth about how she had behaved with the princess. The longer he stayed alive, the greater the risk that the truth would come out.

  So it was arranged, and the faithful Falada had to die. The real princess heard about it, and she secretly promised the knacker a gold coin if he would do her a small favour. In the city wall there was a large dark gateway through which she had to drive the geese every morning. She asked the knacker if he’d hang Falada’s head in there, where she could see it when she passed through. The knacker agreed, and nailed the head up on the wall by the gate.

  Early next morning, when she and Conrad drove the flock of geese out through the gateway, she said as she passed:

  ‘Oh, poor Falada, hanging there!’

  And the head answered:

  ‘Oh, princess with the golden hair,

  If your dear mother knew,

  Her heart would break in two.’

  The princess said no more, and she and Conrad drove the geese out into the fields. When they came to the right spot, she sat down and loosened her hair, which was the purest gold. Conrad loved to watch her do this, and he reached up and tried to pull out a strand or two.

  So she said:

  ‘Wind, strong wind, take Conrad’s hat,

  And blow it here and there,

  Let him chase it all around

  Until I’ve done my hair.’

  And such a strong wind started blowing that it snatched Conrad’s hat and blew it right across the meadow, and then led him a chase up and down, this way and that, until he managed to catch up with it. By that time the princess had combed and braided her hair and tied it up in a bun, and there were no loose strands for Conrad to tug; so he sulked, and didn’t say another word that day. When evening came they drove their flock home again.

  Next morning as they went through the gateway in the city wall, the girl said:

  ‘Oh, poor Falada, hanging there!’

  And the head answered:

  ‘Oh, princess with the golden hair,

  If your dear mother knew,

  Her heart would break in two.’

  When they reached the meadow, once again the princess sat down to braid her hair, and once again Conrad tried to pluck a strand of it, and once again she said:

  ‘Wind, strong wind, take Conrad’s hat,

  And blow it here and there,

  Let him chase it all around

&nbs
p; Until I’ve done my hair.’

  The wind blew up suddenly and snatched little Conrad’s hat again, and gave him such a chase up and down the meadow that by the time he’d caught the hat, the princess had done up her hair, and again there were no strands to pluck at. And so they tended their geese until the evening.

  When they returned to the palace, Conrad went to the old king and said, ‘I don’t want to tend the geese with that girl any more.’

  ‘Why not?’ said the old king.

  ‘Oh, she annoys me all day long!’

  ‘Well, what does she do?’

  ‘In the morning, when we go through the gate in the city wall, she talks to the head of the old nag that’s nailed up there. She says, “Oh, poor Falada, hanging there!” And the head says, “Oh, princess with the golden hair, if your dear mother knew, her heart would break in two.”’

  Then Conrad went on to tell the king what happened in the goose meadow, and how she made the wind blow his hat about.

  ‘Well, you just go out with her tomorrow as normal,’ said the old king. ‘And I’ll be watching.’

  So in the morning the old king wrapped himself in a cloak and sat inside the gateway and heard the princess talking to Falada’s head. Then he followed them discreetly out to the meadow and hid himself among the bushes to watch what happened. Just as Conrad had told him, the goose girl summoned the wind, and it blew Conrad’s hat all over the meadow, and she unpinned her beautiful long golden hair and braided it up again.

  The king saw it all, and then he went back to the palace. When the goose girl came back in the evening, he called her to him, and asked why she did those things.

  ‘I’m not allowed to tell you,’ she said. ‘It’s a secret. I can’t tell anyone. I had to swear under the open heavens that I wouldn’t say a word about it. If I hadn’t sworn, I’d have been killed.’

  The old king tried to persuade her, but she wouldn’t be moved. Nothing would make her break her vow.

  But finally he said, ‘I tell you what. Don’t tell your troubles to me; tell them to the iron stove in the corner. That way you’ll be keeping your vow, and you can still unburden yourself.’

  So she crept into the old iron stove, and there she began to cry, and soon she had poured out her whole heart.

  ‘Here I sit, all alone and forsaken by the whole world, and all the time I’m the daughter of a king. A false maidservant forced me to change clothes with her, and she took my place as the bride. And now I have to work in the meadow looking after the geese. If my mother knew about this, it would break her heart in two.’

  The old king was standing outside by the chimney, and he heard everything she said. He came back inside and told her to come out of the stove. He had her dressed in royal clothes, and it was a wonder to see how beautiful she was.

  Then the old king summoned his son and explained that his bride had married him by deceit, and that she was no princess, but only a maidservant. His true bride was right there, the one who had been a goose girl. When the king’s son saw how lovely the true bride was, and learned how virtuously she had behaved, he was full of joy.

  They ordered a great feast to which all the court and every good friend they had were invited. At the head of the table sat the bridegroom, and on one side sat the false bride, and on the other the true one. The maidservant was completely taken in, because she didn’t recognize the princess in her beautiful dress.

  After they had eaten and drunk, and were all in good spirits, the old king put a riddle to the false bride: what punishment would someone deserve if they had treated their mistress in this way? And he told the whole story, asking again when he’d finished, ‘What sentence does such a person deserve?’

  The false bride said, ‘She deserves nothing better than to be stripped naked and put in a barrel studded on the inside with sharp nails. Then two white horses should be harnessed to it, and drag her up and down the streets until she’s dead.’

  ‘That is you,’ said the old king. ‘You have pronounced your own sentence. Everything you described shall be done to you.’

  And when the sentence had been carried out, the king’s son married his true bride, and they reigned over their kingdom in peace and happiness.

  ***

  Tale type: ATU 533, ‘The Speaking Horsehead’

  Source: a story told to the Grimm brothers by Dorothea Viehmann

  Similar stories: Giambattista Basile: ‘The Two Cakes’ (The Great Fairy Tale Tradition, ed. Jack Zipes); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘Roswal and Lilian’ (Folk Tales of Britain)

  Poor Falada! He deserved a better fate. We might think he deserved a bigger part in the story, too. Perhaps if he’d spoken up sooner, his mistress wouldn’t have had such a bad time.

  And good and beautiful though she undoubtedly is, the princess/goose girl has to give second place, as far as enterprise and vigour are concerned, to the wicked maidservant, who deserves a longer story. It’s hard for a storyteller to make an attractive character out of a meek and docile victim who doesn’t argue or fight back once; but then, this isn’t a novel.

  The name Falada, with an extra ‘L’, was used by the German novelist Rudolf Ditzen (1893–1947), author of Jeder stirbt für sich allein (Every Man Dies Alone; 1947) in his nom de plume Hans Fallada.

  THIRTY-SIX

  BEARSKIN

  Once there was a young fellow who enlisted as a soldier, fought bravely, and was always at the front when red-hot bullets were raining down. As long as the war lasted everything went well, but when peace was signed, he was discharged. The captain said he could go wherever he liked. His parents were dead and he no longer had a home, so he went to his brothers and asked if he could live with them until there was another war.

  But his brothers were hard-hearted and said, ‘What have your problems got to do with us? We don’t need you here. Clear off and shift for yourself.’

  All the soldier had left was his musket, so he put it on his shoulder and went out into the world. Soon he came to a great heath where there was nothing to be seen but a circle of trees. He sat under them thinking about his fate, and feeling pretty sorry for himself.

  ‘I’ve got no money and no prospects,’ he thought. ‘All I can do is make war, but if all they want is peace, I’m useless. I’ll probably starve to death.’

  Suddenly he heard a rustling, and when he looked round to see what it was, he saw a strange man standing there. He wore a smart green jacket and looked perfectly respectable, except for the hideous great horse’s foot he had at the end of one leg.

  ‘I know what you want,’ he said to the soldier, ‘and you can have all of it, as much gold and property as you like, but first you must show me how brave you are. I’m not going to give my money to someone who runs away at the first sign of danger.’

  ‘Well, I’m a soldier, and it’s my profession to be afraid of nothing. And you can test me if you like.’

  ‘All right,’ said the man, ‘look behind you.’

  The soldier turned around and saw a huge bear running towards him, growling furiously.

  ‘Oh ho,’ said the soldier, ‘I’ll tickle your snout for you, you ugly brute. See how you feel like growling after this.’

  He levelled his musket at the bear and fired a shot. It hit the bear in the muzzle, and it fell down at once.

  ‘I can see you don’t lack for courage,’ said the stranger, ‘but I haven’t finished yet. There’s one more condition.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t spoil my chances of going to heaven,’ said the soldier, who knew quite well who the stranger was. ‘If that’s at risk, I’ll have nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ said the stranger. ‘Here’s what you’ve got to do: for the next seven years, you mustn’t wash yourself, or comb your hair, or cut your nails, or say the Lord’s Prayer. I’ll
give you a jacket and a cloak to wear all that time. Now if you die during those seven years, you’re mine, you understand? If you stay alive, you’re free, and rich as well, don’t forget, for the rest of your life.’

  The soldier thought about it. He’d faced death so often on the battlefield that he was used to danger, but poverty was another matter. He decided to take up the Devil’s offer.

  The Devil took off his green jacket and handed it to the soldier, saying, ‘If you put your hand in the pocket when you’ve got this jacket on, you’ll always find a handful of money.’

  Then the Devil skinned the bear and said, ‘You must use this bearskin as your cloak, and you must sleep in it too, and you mustn’t lie in any other bed. And you must go by the name of Bearskin.’

  With those words the Devil disappeared.

  The soldier put the jacket on and reached into the pocket, and found that the Devil had been telling the truth. He put the bearskin on like a cloak, and started his wanderings. He went wherever he liked, did whatever he pleased, and spent as much as he found in his pocket.

  For the first year he looked all right, but during the second he began to look like a monster. His face was almost entirely covered with his long coarse beard, his hair was matted and tangled, his fingers ended in claws, and he was so dirty that if you sowed cress on his face, it would have sprouted. Everyone who saw him shuddered or ran away. However, he always gave money to the poor to pray that he’d stay alive for seven years, and because he always paid in full and at once for anything he wanted, he could always find shelter.

  In his fourth year of wandering, he arrived at an inn. The landlord wouldn’t let him in, and even refused him a place in the stable in case he frightened the horses. But when Bearskin put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a handful of cash, the landlord relented a little and let him stay in a lean-to in the yard, on condition that he didn’t show his face to anyone.

  One night he was sitting alone in there, heartily wishing that his seven years were up, when he heard someone sobbing with misery in a nearby room. Bearskin was a kind-hearted man, and wanting to help, he opened the door and saw an old man weeping bitterly and striking his fists together. As soon as the old man saw Bearskin he struggled up and tried to run away, but on hearing a human voice he stopped and let the monster talk to him.