Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm

by Philip Pullman

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  Tale type: ATU 1640, ‘The Brave Little Tailor’

  Source: a story in Martinus Montanus’s Wegkürtzer (c.1557)

  Similar stories: Alexander Afanasyev: ‘Foma Berennikov’, ‘Ivan the Simpleton’ (Russian Fairy Tales); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘John Glaick, the Brave Tailor’ (Folk Tales of Britain); Italo Calvino: ‘Jack Strong, Slayer of Five Hundred’, ‘John Balento’ (Italian Folktales)

  A popular story, with cousins in many languages. The small, nimble, quick-witted character is always the audience’s favourite when pitted against the big blundering giant: David and Goliath are the best-known example. This version of the Grimms’ is one of the liveliest.

  ‘Nine tailors make a man’, says the proverb, but it’s not easy to see why.

  THIRTEEN

  CINDERELLA

  There was once a rich man whose wife became ill. When she felt she was near to death, she called her only daughter to her bedside.

  ‘My dear child,’ she said, ‘be as good as gold and as meek as a lamb, and then the blessed Lord will always protect you. What’s more I shall look down from heaven myself and be close to you.’

  When she had said these words, she closed her eyes and died.

  Every day the girl went to her mother’s grave near the dovecote and wept, and she was as good as gold and as meek as a lamb. When winter came the snow lay like a white cloth over the grave; and when the spring sun came and took the snow away, the man married another wife.

  His new wife had two daughters. They were beautiful, but they had hard, selfish, arrogant hearts. After the wedding all three moved into the house, and then things began to go badly for the poor stepdaughter.

  ‘Why should that stupid goose sit in the parlour with us?’ the sisters would say. ‘If she wants to eat bread, she must earn it. The kitchen’s the place for her.’

  They took away the beautiful clothes her mother had made for her and gave her a shabby grey dress and wooden shoes.

  ‘Look at Princess Perfect now! Dressed to kill!’ they jeered as they led her to the kitchen.

  She was made to work like a slave from morning till night. She had to get up at daybreak, carry water from the well, clean the fireplaces and make the fires, cook all the food and wash all the dishes. But that wasn’t all, because the sisters did everything they could to make things worse for the poor girl. They mocked her, they made fun of her to their silly friends, and they had a special torment that never failed to amuse them: they would scatter dried peas or lentils in among the ashes, so she had to sit on the floor and pick them all out again. And when she was worn out at the end of the day, could she look forward to a comfortable bed? Not a bit of it. She had to sleep on the hearth, in among the ashes and the cinders. And she never had a chance to wash and clean herself, so she always looked dusty and grubby.

  Because of that, they found a special name for her.

  ‘What shall we call her – Ashy-face?’

  ‘Sootybottom?’

  ‘Cinderina?’

  ‘Cinderella – that’s it!’

  One day their father had to go to the town on business, and he asked his stepdaughters what they’d like him to bring back for them.

  ‘Clothes!’ said one. ‘Lots of lovely dresses.’

  ‘Jewels for me,’ said the other. ‘Pearls and rubies and things.’

  ‘And what about you, Cinderella?’ he said.

  ‘Father, just bring me back the first branch that brushes against your hat on the way home.’

  So he came back from town with beautiful dresses for the one, and costly jewels for the other. And he’d ridden through a thicket on the way home, and a hazel branch had brushed his hat, so he’d broken it off the tree and brought it home for Cinderella.

  She thanked him and planted it at once on her mother’s grave. Her tears watered it, and it grew into a lovely tree. She tended it three times a day, and it was a favourite of the birds, too, for doves and pigeons used to perch in it.

  One day an invitation came from the royal palace. The king was holding a great festival that was to last for three days, and all the young ladies in the kingdom were invited, so that the prince could choose a bride. When the two stepsisters heard about it, they were thrilled, and started getting ready at once.

  ‘Cinderella! Come here. Hurry up, girl! Brush my hair. Don’t pull! Be careful! Now polish the buckles on our shoes. Let my dress out under the arms. Give me that necklace of your mother’s. Put my hair up like the girl’s in this picture. No, not that tight, you fool,’ and so on, and so on.

  Cinderella did everything they asked, but she wept, because she would have liked to go to the ball as well. She pleaded with her stepmother.

  ‘You? Go to the ball? Who do you think you are? You’re a dirty little slattern, that’s all you are. And how do you think you’re going to manage at a high society ball, with no charm, no looks and no conversation to speak of? Back to the kitchen, child.’

  But Cinderella persisted, and her stepmother finally lost her patience, and threw a bowl of lentils into the ashes.

  ‘Pick those out in two hours,’ she said, ‘and sort them out, good from bad, and you can come to the ball.’

  Cinderella went out through the back door and into the garden. She stood under the hazel tree and said:

  ‘Turtledoves and little pigeons,

  All the birds beneath the sky,

  Help me pick the lentils out

  From the ashes where they lie!

  All the good ones in the pot,

  All the others in your crop.’

  Two turtledoves flew down through the door and into the kitchen, and started to pick at the lentils in the ashes. They nodded their heads and went pick, pick, pick, pick. And then some wood pigeons came, and laughing doves and collared doves and stock doves and rock doves, and joined them in the ashes, going pick, pick, pick, pick. In less than an hour they were finished, and they all flew out of the door and away.

  The girl took the bowl to her stepmother, thinking that now she’d be allowed to come to the ball.

  ‘That’s no good,’ said the woman. ‘You’ve got nothing to wear, and you don’t know how to dance. Do you want them all to laugh at you?’ And she threw two bowls of lentils into the ashes, and said, ‘Sort those out, go on. If you can do it in under an hour you can go to the ball.’

  And she thought, ‘She’ll never manage to do that.’

  Cinderella went out through the back door again. She stood under the hazel tree and said:

  ‘Birds of the air, whatever you be,

  Come to the shade of the hazel tree!

  And in the ashes peck about,

  And help me sort the lentils out.

  All the good ones in the pot,

  All the others in your crop.’

  So down flew two white doves, and they flew straight into the kitchen and started, pick, pick, pick, pick. Then came a pair of robins, and then a pair of blackbirds, and then a pair of wagtails, and then a pair of song thrushes, and then a pair of mistle thrushes, and then a pair of wrens, and they all went pick, pick, pick, pick.

  Before half an hour had passed, Cinderella took the bowls to her stepmother. The poor girl was innocent enough to think that this time the woman would say yes.

  ‘It’s no use,’ her stepmother said. ‘You haven’t got any shoes worth being seen in. Do you think you can come to a ball wearing a pair of wooden clogs? What sort of a simpleton will people think you are? We’d be ashamed to be seen in your company.’

  And off she went with her two daughters, leaving Cinderella on her own.

  First she washed herself from head to toe and brushed her hair till not a speck of ash and soot remained. Then she went out of the back door and whispered to the hazel tree:

 
‘Hazel tree, be kind to me!

  Shake your leaves and set me free!

  I’m very poor, and I confess

  I’d love to wear a pretty dress.’

  ‘What colour?’ whispered the leaves.

  ‘Oh! I’d like a dress the colour of starlight.’

  There was a little shake among the leaves, and there hanging on the lowest branch, just beside her, was a beautiful ball gown the colour of starlight, together with a pair of silken slippers.

  ‘Thank you!’ Cinderella said, and ran inside to put them on.

  They fitted perfectly. She had no mirror, so she couldn’t see how lovely she looked, and when she arrived at the ball she was surprised to find how well she was treated, how everyone made way for her, how the ladies invited her to sit and take tea with them, how the lords asked her to dance. Not many people had ever been nice to her, and she was a stranger to the feeling of being popular and sought after.

  She wouldn’t dance with any of the lords, though, young or old, rich or handsome. Only when the prince himself bowed and asked her did she stand up and take to the dance floor. She danced so lightly and so gracefully that everyone else had to stop and look at her, even her two sisters. They didn’t recognize her at all, thinking that Cinderella was at home among the ashes, and this lovely stranger was a princess from a foreign land. In fact her beauty had a strange effect on them, for it banished all the envy from their hard little hearts for a time, and made them honestly admire her.

  But Cinderella didn’t stay long. Once she’d danced with the prince, and he’d got her to promise to dance with no one but him, she took advantage of an interval in the music to slip outside and run back home.

  The prince followed her, but she ran so fast he couldn’t keep up, and when they reached home, she’d vanished. The prince waited, and her father appeared.

  ‘Have you seen the mysterious princess?’ the prince asked him. ‘I think she went into your dovecote.’

  Her father thought, ‘Could that be my Cinderella?’ and he went and fetched the key of the dovecote, and opened it up. There was no sign of her. The prince had to go back to the ball alone.

  Cinderella had slipped out of the back of the dovecote and taken off the starlight-coloured dress and the silken slippers, and put them on their hanger and hung it on the hazel tree. There was a sort of shiver, and they disappeared. Then she lay down in her old clothes by the cold fireplace. When her stepmother and sisters came home, they woke her up to help them out of their corsets, because they could hardly breathe.

  ‘Ooof! That’s better,’ said one.

  ‘Oh, Cinderella, you should have been there,’ said the other.

  ‘What a sensation!’ they went on. ‘There was a princess from a foreign land, no one knows her name, and the prince wouldn’t dance with anyone else. She was so lovely you wouldn’t believe it. I can see her still! She had the loveliest dress on, just the colour of starlight. I can’t imagine where you could get such a dress! There’s no one in this country who could make one like it. Why, Cinderella, you wouldn’t believe it, but she made everyone else – even us! – look just a little dowdy.’

  Next day they spent even longer getting ready. Cinderella had to brush their wiry hair with a hundred strokes, and lace their corsets even tighter, and polish their shoes till they could see their faces in them.

  As soon as they’d gone, she ran outside to the hazel tree and whispered:

  ‘Hazel tree, oh, hazel tree,

  Shake your leaves again for me!

  Help me out in my distress,

  And let me have another dress!’

  ‘What colour?’ said the leaves.

  ‘I’d like a dress the colour of moonlight,’ she said.

  There was a rustle, and there it was on a hanger right next to her, a dress the soft silver colour of moonlight, and a pair of silver slippers.

  ‘Thank you!’ she whispered, and ran to put them on, and hastened to the ball.

  This time the prince had been waiting for her, and as soon as she appeared he hurried to her side and asked her to dance. When anyone else asked her, he said, ‘This lady is my partner in every dance.’

  So the evening passed like the one before, except that there was even more excitement and speculation among the lords and ladies. Who could this lovely stranger be? She must be a princess from a great and wealthy kingdom. But no one knew, and no one noticed when she slipped away, except the prince himself. He ran after her through the dark, and followed her as far as her house. In the garden there was a beautiful pear tree, covered in heavy fruit. Cinderella climbed up nimbly and hid among the branches, and the prince had no idea where she’d gone.

  When Cinderella’s father came home, he found the prince still there.

  ‘I think she climbed that tree,’ he said.

  The father thought, ‘Surely that couldn’t be Cinderella?’

  He brought an axe and cut down the tree, but there was no one there among the branches. Cinderella had slipped down the other side, taken the moonlight-coloured dress back to the hazel tree, and gone inside to curl up in the ashes as usual.

  On the third night everything happened as before. The stepmother and sisters went off to the ball, and Cinderella whispered to the hazel tree:

  ‘Hazel tree, oh, hazel tree,

  Send another dress for me!

  This is the last night of the ball,

  So let it be the best of all!’

  ‘What colour?’ rustled the leaves.

  ‘This time I’d like a dress the colour of sunlight,’ she said.

  And once more the tree shivered, and down fell a dress so lovely that Cinderella hardly dared to touch it. It was pure gold, and it shone and gleamed like the morning sun. And there was a pair of golden slippers to wear with it.

  ‘Thank you!’ said Cinderella

  At the ball, the prince had eyes for no one else. They danced all evening, and he wouldn’t leave her side. When she said it was time to go, he wanted to come with her, but she slipped away before he could stop her. This time, though, he’d laid a trap. He’d told his servants to spread pitch on the stairs, and as she ran down, one of her slippers got stuck and she had to leave it behind.

  The prince picked it up and wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. He cleaned off the pitch and found that it was pure gold.

  In the morning there was a proclamation made throughout the whole kingdom: ‘Whoever lost her slipper at the prince’s ball may come and claim it from the palace. And the prince will marry whoever it fits!’

  Noble ladies and servant girls, peasants and princesses came from all over that kingdom and from many kingdoms besides, but not one of them could put her foot in the slipper. Finally the choice came down to Cinderella’s stepsisters. As it happens, their feet were their best feature, being shapely and well formed, and each of them thought she could wear the slipper. But just in case, the mother took the first sister aside and whispered to her: ‘If it doesn’t fit, take this knife and cut a bit off your heel. It’ll only hurt for a bit, and you’ll be queen.’

  The first sister went into her bedroom to try. She couldn’t get her foot in, so she did as her mother said and sliced off a bit of her heel. She jammed her foot in the slipper and limped out, trying to smile.

  The prince had to do as he’d said, and he accepted her as his bride and helped her up on to his horse. But as he was riding away, the doves called from the hazel tree:

  ‘Roocoo-coo, roocoo-coo,

  There’s blood in the shoe!

  Her foot’s too wide,

  This isn’t the bride!’

  The prince looked down and saw that they were right. Blood was dripping from the slipper. He turned the horse around and went back.

  The mother said to the second sister: ‘If it doesn’t fit, cut o
ff your big toe. It won’t hurt much – just a twinge – and you’ll marry the prince.’

  The second sister did as her mother had said, and the prince set her on his horse and began to ride away. But the doves called again from the hazel tree:

  ‘Roocoo-coo, roocoo-coo,

  There’s blood in the shoe!

  Her foot’s too long,

  The girl is wrong!’

  The prince took her back and said to the father, ‘I’m sure I followed the mystery princess to this house. Haven’t you got another daughter?’

  ‘Well, there’s only Cinderella,’ said her father, ‘but surely it can’t be her.’

  ‘It can’t possibly be her!’ said the stepmother. ‘We can’t let her out, your royal highness. She’s much too dirty to be seen.’

  ‘If you have another daughter, I insist on seeing her,’ said the prince. ‘Bring her out at once.’

  So they had to fetch Cinderella from the kitchen. She wouldn’t come till she’d washed, and of course they had to rinse out the golden slipper, so the prince had to wait. But finally Cinderella came in and curtseyed, and his heart beat hard in his chest at the sight of her; and she sat down, and he fitted the slipper on her foot, and it slipped on and fitted her perfectly, just like that.

  ‘This is my bride!’ he said, and took her in his arms.

  The stepmother and sisters turned ghastly pale, and nearly bit their own fingers off with rage and mortification.

  The prince set Cinderella on his horse and rode away, and the doves in the hazel tree called:

  ‘Roocoo-coo, roocoo-coo,

  No blood in the shoe!

  It’s not too tight,

  This bride is right!’

  Then they flew down and landed on Cinderella’s shoulders, one on each side, and there they stayed.

  At the wedding the two stepsisters were keen to toady to the royal couple, hoping to share in Cinderella’s good luck. When the prince and his bride walked into the church, the older sister walked on their right and the younger sister on their left, and the doves flew down and pecked out one eye from each of them. After the ceremony, when they came out of the church, the older one was on the left and the younger on the right, and the doves flew down and pecked out their other eyes.