Everything was fine for a week or two. Then the wife said, ‘Listen to me. This cottage is too small. I can barely turn around in the kitchen, and as for the garden, half a dozen steps and you’ve reached the other side. It’s not good enough. That flounder could have given us a bigger place if he’d wanted to, it’s all the same to him. I want to live in a palace all made of marble. Go back and ask him for a palace.’
‘Oh, wife,’ said the man, ‘this is good enough for us. We don’t want a palace. What would we do in a palace?’
‘Plenty of things,’ said his wife. ‘You’re a defeatist, that’s what you are. Go on, go and ask for a palace.’
‘Oh, dear, I don’t know . . . He’s just given us the cottage. I don’t want to bother him again. He might get angry with me.’
‘Don’t be so feeble. He can do it. He won’t mind a bit. Go on.’
The fisherman felt bad about it. He didn’t want to go at all. ‘It’s not right,’ he said to himself, but he went anyway.
When he got to the shore the water had changed colour again. Now it was dark blue and purple and grey. He stood at the water’s edge and said:
‘Flounder, flounder, in the sea,
Listen up and come to me.
My wife, the gracious Ilsebill,
Has sent me here to do her will.’
‘What does she want this time?’ said the flounder.
‘Well, you see, she says the cottage is a bit small. She’d like to live in a palace.’
‘Go home. She’s already standing in front of the door.’
The fisherman set off home, and when he arrived, there was no cottage any more but a great palace all made of marble. His wife was standing at the top of the steps, about to open the door.
‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Don’t drag your feet! Come and have a look!’
He went in with her. The first room was a great hall with a black-and-white stone floor. There were large doors in every wall, and beside each door was a servant who bowed and flung it open. They could see rooms in every direction, and all the walls were painted white and covered with beautiful tapestries. The chairs and tables in every room were made of pure gold, and a crystal chandelier hung from every ceiling with a thousand diamonds twinkling in each one. The carpets were so deep the fishermen and his wife found their feet sinking to the ankles, and in the dining room was spread a feast so enormous that the tables had had to be reinforced with oak struts to stop them collapsing. Outside the palace there was a large courtyard covered in pure white gravel, each stone individually polished, and there stood a row of scarlet carriages of every size with white horses to pull each one, and as the fisherman and his wife came out, all the horses bowed their heads and dropped a curtsey. Beyond the courtyard was a garden of indescribable loveliness, with flowers whose scent perfumed the air for miles around, and fruit trees laden with apples and pears and oranges and lemons, and beyond the garden was a park half a mile long at least, with elk and deer and hares and every kind of decorative wild beast.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ said the wife.
‘Oh, yes,’ said the fisherman. ‘This is plenty good enough for me. We can live here and want for nothing.’
‘We’ll see,’ said the wife. ‘Let’s sleep on it and see how we feel in the morning.’
Next morning the wife woke up first. The sun was just rising, and as she sat up in bed she could see the garden and the parkland and the mountains beyond. Her husband was snoring happily beside her, but she poked him in the ribs and said, ‘Husband! Get up. Come on, I want you to look out of the window.’
He yawned and stretched and dragged himself to the window. ‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Well, we have the garden. That’s all very well. And we have the parkland. That’s very fine and large. But look beyond! Mountains! I want to be king, so we can have the mountains as well.’
‘Oh, wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘I don’t want to be king. Why would we want to be king? We haven’t seen all the rooms of this palace yet.’
‘That’s your trouble,’ she told him, ‘no ambition. Even if you don’t want to be king, I want to be king.’
‘Oh, wife, I can’t ask him that. He’s been so generous already. I can’t tell him you want to be king.’
‘Yes, you can. Be off with you.’
‘Ohhh,’ sighed the fisherman. Off he went, heavy-hearted. The fish won’t like it, he thought, but he went anyway.
When he got to the shore the water was dark grey, and waves were heaving themselves up from the depths with a horrible smell.
The fisherman said:
‘Flounder, flounder, in the sea,
Listen up and come to me.
My wife, the gentle Ilsebill,
Has sent me here to do her will.’
‘Well?’ said the flounder.
‘I’m sorry, but she wants to be king.’
‘Go home. She’s king already.’
So back he went. When he arrived at the palace it had become twice as large as before, and a tall tower stood over the entrance with a scarlet flag flying from the top. Sentries stood guarding the doors, and when the fisherman cautiously walked up to it they saluted him with such a crash of rifles he nearly jumped out of his shoes. Drummers beat their drums and trumpeters blew a fanfare and the great doors flew open.
He tiptoed inside and found that everything had been gilded, and was twice as big as before. Every cushion was covered in crimson velvet with gold embroidery. Golden tassels hung on everything that had a handle, every wall was hung with gold-framed portraits of the fisherman and his wife dressed as Roman emperors or kings and queens or gods and goddesses, and all the clocks chimed in welcome as he passed. Then a huge pair of doors flew open, and there was the whole court waiting to receive him.
A major-domo bellowed: ‘His Majesty the Fisherman!’
He went in, and hundreds of lords and ladies bowed low, and parted to let him walk up to the throne. And sitting on the throne, there was his wife wearing a robe of silk all covered in pearls and sapphires and emeralds. She had a golden crown on her head, and she was holding a sceptre made of gold and studded with rubies each at least the size of the fisherman’s big toe. On either side of the throne stood a line of ladies-in-waiting, each one a head shorter than the next, who all curtseyed as he approached.
‘Well, wife,’ said the fisherman, ‘are you king now?’
‘Yes, I’m king now,’ she said.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘That’s very nice. Now we don‘t have to do any more wishing.’
‘H’mm,’ she said, tapping her fingers on the arm of the throne. ‘I’m not sure about that. I’ve been king so long I’m getting bored. Go back to the flounder and tell him that I want to be emperor.’
‘Oh, wife, think about it,’ said the fisherman. ‘He can’t make you emperor. There’s already an emperor, and there can only be one at a time.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I’m the king, don’t you forget! You do as you’re told and go and talk to that flounder. If he can make me king, he can make me emperor. It’s all the same to him. Go on, go!’
So off he went, but he was very uneasy. This isn’t going to end well, he thought; the flounder will get fed up with all this wishing.
When he arrived at the seashore the water was black and dense and boiling up from the depths. A strong wind whipped the waves into foam. The fishermen stood there and said:
‘Flounder, flounder, in the sea,
Listen up and come to me.
My wife, the dainty Ilsebill,
Has sent me here to do her will.’
‘Well, tell me,’ said the flounder.
‘She wants to be emperor.’
‘Go home. She’s already emperor.’
So he wen
t home again, and this time he found that the palace was even higher than before, with turrets at every corner, a row of cannons in front of it, and an entire regiment of soldiers marching up and down in scarlet uniforms. As soon as they saw him they stood to attention and saluted, and the cannons fired a volley that made his ears ache. The gate flew open and in he went, to discover that the entire inside of the building had been gilded, and that alabaster statues of himself and his wife in heroic postures stood along the walls. Everywhere he went, dukes or princes hastened to hold open the doors and bow low. In the throne room he found his wife sitting on a throne made of one piece of solid gold two miles high, and he could only see her because she was wearing a crown that was three yards high and two yards across. That was solid gold as well, set with carbuncles and emeralds. In one hand she held a sceptre and in the other, the imperial orb. Two rows of soldiers formed her personal guard, each one smaller than the next, ranging from giants as tall as the throne to little men no bigger than my finger, and all bristling with weapons. Princes, dukes, counts and earls and barons all waited in attendance.
The fishermen went to the foot of the throne and called up:
‘Wife, are you emperor now?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Very impressive. I expect you’ll stop wishing at last.’
‘That’s you all over. Poverty of aspiration. This isn’t good enough, let me tell you.’
‘Oh, wife, not again!’
‘Go back to the flounder. Tell him I want to be pope.’
‘But you can’t be pope! There’s only one pope in the whole of Christendom!’
‘I’m the emperor,’ she shrieked, ‘and I’m telling you: go back to the flounder and order him to make me pope.’
‘No, no, that’s too much. Come on. I can’t do that.’
‘Nonsense! I order you to go to the flounder! Now go!’
The fisherman was frightened now. He felt sick, and his knees were trembling, and the wind was blowing wildly and tearing leaves from the trees. Darkness was falling. When he got to the shore, the waves were roaring and crashing on to the rocks with explosions like cannon fire. Out at sea he could see ships firing distress rockets as they tossed and weltered in the waves. There was one little bit of blue left in the sky, but it was surrounded by blood-red clouds and flashes of lightning.
In despair the fisherman cried:
‘Flounder, flounder, in the sea,
Listen up and come to me.
My wife, the tender Ilsebill,
Has sent me here to do her will.’
‘Well, what does she want?’
‘She wants to be pope.’
‘Go home. She’s pope already.’
When he got home he found an immense church where the castle used to be. It was surrounded by palaces of every size and shape, but the church spire was higher than any of them. A vast crowd of people surged around trying to get in through the doors, but the crowd inside was even thicker, so the fisherman had to push and shove and struggle to get through. The church was illuminated by thousands and thousands of candles, and in every niche stood a box where a priest was busy hearing confessions. In the very centre was a vast golden throne, on which sat his wife, with three crowns on her head, one on top of another, and scarlet slippers on her feet. A row of bishops waited in line to crawl along the floor and kiss her right slipper, and an equally long line of abbots waited to crawl along and kiss the left. On her right hand she had a ring as big as a cockerel, and on her left a ring as big as a goose, and a long line of cardinals waited to kiss the right ring and a long line of archbishops to kiss the left.
The fisherman called up: ‘Wife, are you pope now?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘I’ve never seen a pope. I don’t know. Are you happy at last?’
She sat completely still and said nothing. All the kisses being showered on her hands and feet sounded like a lot of sparrows pecking at the dirt. The fisherman thought she hadn’t heard him, so he shouted up again: ‘Wife, are you happy yet?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’ll have to think about it.’
They both went to bed, and the fisherman slept well, because he’d had a busy day. But his wife tossed and turned all night. She couldn’t decide if she was satisfied or not, and she couldn’t think what else to be after pope, so she had a poor night of it.
Finally the sun rose, and when she saw the light she sat up in bed at once.
‘I’ve got it!’ she said. ‘Husband, wake up. Come on! Wake up!’
She dug him in the ribs till he groaned and opened his eyes.
‘What is it? What do you want?’
‘Go back to the flounder at once. I want to be God!’
That made him sit up. ‘What?’
‘I want to be God. I want to cause the sun and the moon to rise. I can’t bear it when I see them rising and I haven’t had anything to do with it. But if I were God, I could make it all happen. I could make them go backwards if I wanted. So go and tell the flounder I want to be God.’
He rubbed his eyes and looked at her, but she looked so crazy that he was scared, and got out of bed quickly.
‘Now!’ she screamed. ‘Go!’
‘Oh, please, wife,’ begged the poor man, falling to his knees, ‘think again, my love, think again. The flounder made you emperor and he made you pope, but he can’t make you God. That’s really impossible.’
She flew out of bed and hit him, her hair sticking out wildly from her head, her eyes rolling. She tore off her nightdress and screamed and stamped, shouting, ‘I can’t bear it to wait so long! You’re driving me insane! Go and do as I tell you right now!’
The fisherman tugged on his trousers, hopping out of the bedroom, and ran to the seashore. There was such a storm raging that he could hardly stand up against it. Rain lashed his face, trees were being torn up from the ground, houses were tumbled in every direction as great boulders came flying through the air, torn off the cliffs. The thunder crashed and the lightning flared, and the waves on the sea were as high as churches and castles and mountains, with sheets of foam flying from their crests.
‘Flounder, flounder, in the sea,
Listen up and come to me.
My wife, the modest Ilsebill,
Has sent me here to do her will.’
‘What does she want?’
‘Well, you see, she wants to be God.’
‘Go home. She’s back in the pisspot.’
And so she was, and there they are to this day.
***
Tale type: ATU 555, ‘The Fisherman and His Wife’
Source: a story written by Philipp Otto Runge
Similar stories: Alexander Afanasyev: ‘The Goldfish’ (Russian Fairy Tales); Italo Calvino: ‘The Dragon with Seven Heads’ (Italian Folktales); Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm: ‘The Golden Children’ (Children’s and Household Tales)
A popular and widespread tale. The Calvino story, ‘The Dragon with Seven Heads’, shows how a very different story can be unfolded from a very similar beginning.
This version is full of energy and inventive detail. Like ‘The Juniper Tree’, it comes from the pen of the Romantic painter Philipp Otto Runge (1777–1810), and was written in Plattdeutsch, or Low German, the dialect of his native Pomerania:
Dar wöör maal eens en Fischer un syne Fru, de waanden tosamen in’n Pißputt, dicht an der See . . .
It came to the Grimms with the help of Clemens Brentano and Achim von Arnim, writers who shared their growing interest in folk tales. On the evidence of these two stories, Runge was at least as gifted with the pen as with the brush. The climax builds with brilliant speed and effect, the gathering storm functioning as a celestial comment on the wife’s growing obsession.
Most translators have r
endered Pißputt as ‘pigsty’ or some other such term. I couldn’t find anything better than ‘pisspot’.
TWELVE
THE BRAVE LITTLE TAILOR
One sunny morning a little tailor was sitting cross-legged on his table, as usual, next to the window on the top floor overlooking the street. He was in high spirits, sewing away with all his might, when along the street came an old woman selling jam.
‘Fine jam for sale! Buy my sweet jam!’
The little tailor liked the sound of that, so he called down: ‘Bring it up here, love! Let’s have a look!’
The old woman lugged her basket all the way up three flights of stairs. When she got there the tailor made her unpack every single jar, and examined each one closely, weighing it in his hand, holding it up to the light, sniffing the jam, and so forth. Finally he said, ‘This looks like a good ’un, this jar of strawberry. Weigh me out three ounces of that, my good woman, and if it comes to a quarter of a pound, so much the better.’
‘Don’t you want the whole pot?’
‘Good Lord, no. I can only afford a small amount.’
She weighed it out, grumbling, and went her way.
‘Well, God bless this jam, and may it give health and strength to all who eat it!’ said the tailor, and fetched a loaf of bread and a knife. He cut himself a hearty slice and spread it with jam.
‘That’ll taste good,’ he said, ‘but I’ll finish this jacket before I tuck in.’
He sprang on to the table again and took up the needle, sewing faster and faster. Meanwhile the sweet scent of the jam rose in the air, and floated round the room, and drifted out of the window. A squadron of flies who had been feasting on the corpse of a dog in the street outside caught the scent, and rose at once and flew up to look for it. They came in through the window and settled on the bread.
‘Hey! Who invited you?’ said the little tailor, and flapped his hand to drive them away. But they didn’t understand a word, and besides they were already busy with the jam, and they took no notice.
Finally the tailor lost his temper. ‘All right, you’ve asked for it now!’ he said, and he snatched up a piece of cloth and set about them furiously. When he drew breath and stood back, there were no fewer than seven of them lying dead with their legs in the air.
Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm Page 11
