Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm

by Philip Pullman

  So for their wickedness and falsity, they were punished with blindness to the end of their days.

  ***

  Tale type: ATU 510A, ‘Cinderella’

  Source: an anonymous storyteller from the Elizabeth Hospital in Marburg, with additional material by Dorothea Viehmann

  Similar stories: Giambattista Basile: ‘The Cat Cinderella’ (The Great Fairy Tale Tradition, ed. Jack Zipes); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘Ashpitel’, ‘The Little Cinder-Girl’, ‘Mossycoat’, ‘Rashin Coatie’ (Folk Tales of Britain); Italo Calvino: ‘Gràttula-Bedàttulla’ (Italian Folktales); Charles Perrault: ‘Cinderella’ (Perrault’s Complete Fairy Tales); Neil Philip: The Cinderella Story (containing twenty-four different versions of the story, with an excellent commentary)

  The story of Cinderella must be one of the most closely studied stories in the entire corpus of folk tale. Entire books have been written about it and its variants. It is the most popular pantomime of all. But more importantly, it always seems to work.

  Much of its popularity must be due to Charles Perrault, whose inventiveness and charm delighted readers from the moment his Histoires ou contes du temps passé (Stories or Fairy Tales from Past Times, more famously known by its subtitle, Tales of Mother Goose) was published in 1697. The one thing that everyone knows about Perrault is that he mistook vair, fur, for verre, glass, but I don’t believe it. Perrault was quite inventive enough to have thought of a glass slipper, which is absurd, impossible, magical, and infinitely more memorable than fur. It was Perrault, too, who turned the helping principle in the story (which is always a surrogate mother, whether a hazel tree growing from the real mother’s grave, or a goat, or a cow, or a dove) into a godmother, whose function is immediately easy to understand.

  One popular misapprehension is that the story is simply a rags-to-riches tale. There are rags and there are riches, but according to Bruno Bettelheim, in The Uses of Enchantment, the most important theme is sibling rivalry, compounded by the girl’s arriving at sexual maturity, symbolized by the marriage. This is why the function embodied by the fairy godmother is so important: she represents the mother by doing what a good mother should do, and helping the girl appear as beautiful on the outside as she is on the inside.

  For this version I borrowed the idea that her dresses are of different colours from the British ‘Mossycoat’, which to my mind is the best Cinderella of all.

  In the first version the Grimms published, in 1812, there is no punishment for the stepsisters. The story ends with the doves calling out that this bride is the right one. The punishment of blinding was added in their version of 1819, and kept in all later versions. Blinding is all very well in a story, but it would be hard to take on the stage. This is not King Lear. No ugly sisters are blinded in pantomime, and neither are they in opera: Massenet’s Cendrillon (1899) and Rossini’s La Cenerentola (1817) both end with happiness all round. In Perrault, where sweetness reigns, the sisters are actually married off to lords of the court.

  She has many names. The Grimms call her Aschenputtel, but she is firmly Cinderella in English. In our centrally heated homes today, when few children have ever seen a cinder or know what one is, Cinderella just sounds like a pretty name, but I thought it needed a little context.

  FOURTEEN

  THE RIDDLE

  Once there was a prince who took it into his head to travel about the world, taking no one with him but a faithful servant. One day they came to a great forest, and when evening came they could find no place to shelter. They didn’t know where they could spend the night.

  But then the prince saw a little house, and walking towards the house there was a girl, and as they came closer they saw that she was young and beautiful.

  He caught up with her and said, ‘Tell me, miss, can my servant and I find shelter for the night in that little house?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said sadly, ‘you can, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I wouldn’t go in if I were you.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ asked the prince.

  The girl sighed. ‘My stepmother lives there,’ she said, ‘and she practises the evil arts. What’s more, she doesn’t like strangers. But if you must go in, don’t eat or drink anything she offers you.’

  The prince realized that this was the house of a witch. But it was dark and they couldn’t go any further, and besides, he was afraid of nothing, so he knocked and went in.

  The old woman was sitting in an armchair by the fire, and when she looked at the prince, her eyes glowed like the coals.

  ‘Good evening, young sirs,’ she said in her friendliest voice. ‘Sit down and rest yourselves.’

  She blew on the fire and stirred something in a little pot. Because of the girl’s warning, the prince and his servant didn’t eat or drink anything; they wrapped themselves up and slept soundly till morning.

  When morning came they got ready to leave. The prince was already mounted on his horse when the old woman came out and said, ‘Wait a minute. Just let me give you a little drink to see you on your way.’

  While she went back into the house the prince rode away, but the servant had to tighten the girth of his saddle, and he was still there when the witch came out with the drink.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said. ‘Take this to your master.’

  But he had no time to do that, because as soon as he took it from her hand, the glass burst and the drink splashed on to his horse. It was poison, of course, and it was so strong that the poor animal fell dead at once. The servant ran after the prince and told him what had happened, and he’d have left with the prince right there and then except that he didn’t want to abandon his saddle; so he went back to get it. When he reached the dead horse, he found a raven already perching on its head and pecking out its eyes.

  ‘Who knows? We might find nothing better to eat today,’ he thought, so he killed the raven and took it with him.

  They wandered in the woods all day long, but they couldn’t find their way out. As night fell they came to an inn, and the servant gave the raven to the innkeeper and told him to prepare it for their supper.

  Now what they didn’t know was that they’d fallen into a den of brigands – murderers, in fact. And just as the prince and his servant were sitting down, twelve of these rascals turned up, meaning to do away with them, but seeing the supper arrive, the murderers thought they might as well eat first. It was the last meal they ever had, for they hadn’t swallowed more than a mouthful of the raven stew when they all fell dead. The poison in the horse had been so strong that it had passed on to the raven, and that had been enough to kill every one of them.

  The innkeeper had fled, seeing what had happened, and there was no one left in the house but the innkeeper’s daughter. She was a good girl and had had nothing to do with the murderers and their wickedness. She unlocked a hidden door and showed the prince all the treasure they’d stolen: piles of gold and silver, and mounds of jewels. The prince said she should keep it for herself: he wanted nothing to do with it.

  And once again he and his servant rode on their way.

  They travelled about for a long time, and one day they came to a town where there was a princess who was both very beautiful and very proud. She had announced that she would marry any man who asked her a riddle that she couldn’t solve. However, if she managed to solve it to the satisfaction of twelve wise riddle-masters, his head would be cut off. She would have three days to think about it, but she was so clever that she always solved it long before that time was up. Already nine men had tried to beat her, but each of them had lost his head.

  However, that didn’t worry the prince; he was so dazzled by her great beauty that he was willing to risk his life. He went to the palace and asked his riddle.

  ‘One killed none,’ he said, ‘but still killed twelve. What is it?’

  She had no idea what it could be. She thought and thoug
ht, but nothing came to mind. She consulted all her riddle books, but there had been nothing like it in all the history of riddles. It seemed as if she’d met her match at last.

  However, she wasn’t willing to give up, so that night she sent her chambermaid to creep quietly into the prince’s bedroom. There she had to listen carefully to anything he said in his sleep, in case he revealed the answer to the riddle in his dreams. But that came to nothing, because the prince’s servant had taken his place, and when the maid came in he snatched away the robe she’d covered herself with, and chased her away with a stick. So that didn’t work.

  On the second night she sent another maid, to see if she’d be any more successful. His servant took her robe as well, and chased her away with an even bigger stick. So that didn’t work either.

  On the third night the prince decided to wait and watch himself. This time the princess came herself. She was wearing a beautiful mist-grey robe, and she sat down softly on the bed next to him and waited till she was sure he was asleep.

  But he was still awake, and when she whispered, ‘One killed none. What is that?’ he answered, ‘A raven ate the flesh of a horse that was poisoned, and died itself.’

  Then she said, ‘But still killed twelve. What does that mean?’

  He answered, ‘Twelve murderers ate a stew made from the raven, and died of it.’

  She was sure she had the answer now, and she tried to tiptoe away, but the prince caught hold of her robe and held it so tight that she had to leave it behind.

  Next morning the princess announced that she had solved the riddle. She sent for the twelve riddle-masters and told them what it meant. It looked as if the prince was doomed, but he asked to be heard.

  ‘The princess came into my room when she thought I was asleep,’ he said, ‘and asked me what the answer was. She would never have guessed it otherwise.’

  The riddle-masters conferred together and said, ‘Have you any proof?’

  Then the prince’s servant brought in the three robes. When the riddle-masters saw the mist-grey one which no one but the princess ever wore, they said, ‘Have this robe embroidered with gold and silver, your highness, for it will be your wedding gown. The young man has won!’

  ***

  Tale type: ATU 851, ‘The Princess Who Cannot Solve the Riddle’

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

  Similar stories: Alexander Afanasyev: ‘The Princess Who Wanted to Solve Riddles’ (Russian Fairy Tales); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘The Young Prince’ (Folk Tales of Britain); Italo Calvino: ‘The Son of the Merchant from Milan’ (Italian Folktales)

  This is a widely distributed tale type, a variation of it turning up, for example, in Puccini’s opera Turandot of 1926. The Grimms’ version is much better than most, not least for its neatness and the clarity of the three-part structure. Neatness and clarity are great virtues when you’re telling a story. The Grimms’ source for this story was Dorothea Viehmann, a fruit-seller from Zwehrn, not far from Kassel where the Grimm brothers lived. She provided several tales for them, a number of which appear in this collection, and had the unusual ability not only to tell a story vividly and fluently, but then to go back and repeat it phrase by phrase so they could take it down accurately. The brothers paid tribute to her in the preface to their first edition:

  Those who believe that oral narratives are routinely falsified, that they are not carefully preserved, and that long recitations are, as a rule, impossible, should have the chance to hear how precisely she stays with each story and how keen she is to narrate correctly; when she retells something, she never changes its substance and corrects an error as soon as she notices it, even if it means interrupting herself.

  (Quoted in translation by Maria Tatar in The Hard Facts of the Grimms’ Fairy Tales)

  FIFTEEN

  THE MOUSE, THE BIRD AND THE SAUSAGE

  A mouse, a bird and a sausage decided to set up home together. For a long time they carried on happily, living within their means and even managing to save a little. The bird’s job was to go into the forest every day and bring back wood for the fire, the mouse had to get water from the well, make the fire and lay the table, and the sausage did the cooking.

  But we’re never content with living well if we think we can live better. One day, as the bird was in the forest, he met another bird and boasted about his pleasant way of life. The other bird only called him a poor dupe.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, who’s doing the lion’s share of the work? You are. You have to fly back and forth carrying heavy bits of wood, while the other two take it easy. They’re taking advantage of you, make no mistake about it.’

  The bird thought about it. It was true that after the mouse had lit the fire and carried the water in, she usually went to her little room and had a snooze before getting up in time to lay the table. The sausage stayed by the pot most of the time, keeping an eye on the vegetables, and from time to time he’d slither through the water to give it a bit of flavouring. If it needed seasoning, he’d swim more slowly. That was more or less all he did. When the bird came home with the wood, they’d stack it neatly by the fire, sit down to eat, and then sleep soundly till the next day. That was how they lived, and a fine way of life it was.

  However, the bird couldn’t help thinking about what the other bird had said, and next day he refused to go and gather wood.

  ‘I’ve been your slave long enough,’ he declared. ‘You must have taken me for a fool. It’s high time we tried a better arrangement.’

  ‘But this works so well!’ said the mouse.

  ‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Besides,’ said the sausage, ‘this suits our different talents.’

  ‘Only because we’ve never tried to do it any other way.’

  The mouse and the sausage argued, but the bird wouldn’t be denied. Finally they gave in and drew lots, and the job of gathering wood fell to the sausage, of cooking to the mouse, and of fetching water and making the fire to the bird.

  What happened?

  After the sausage went out to gather some wood, the bird lit the fire and the mouse put the saucepan on the stove. Then they waited for the sausage to come back with the first load of wood, but he was gone so long that they began to worry about him, so the bird went out to see if he was all right.

  Not far from the house he came across a dog licking his lips.

  ‘You haven’t seen a sausage, have you?’

  ‘Yeah, I just ate him. Delicious.’

  ‘What d’you mean? You can’t do that! That’s appalling! I’ll have you up before the law!’

  ‘He was fair game. There’s no sausage season that I know of.’

  ‘He certainly was not fair game! He was innocently going about his business! This is outright murder!’

  ‘Well, that’s just where you’re wrong, chum. He was carrying forged papers, and that’s a capital crime.’

  ‘Forged papers – I’ve never heard such nonsense. Where are they? Where’s your proof?’

  ‘I ate them too.’

  There was nothing the bird could do. In a fight between a dog and a bird, there’s only one winner, and it isn’t the bird. He turned back home and told the mouse what had happened.

  ‘Eaten?’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s dreadful! I shall miss him terribly.’

  ‘It’s very sad. We’ll just have to do the best we can without him,’ said the bird.

  The bird laid the table while the mouse put the finishing touches to the stew. She remembered how easily the sausage had managed to swim round and round to season it, and thought she could do the same, so she clambered on to the saucepan handle and launched herself in; but either it was too hot and she suffocated, or else she couldn’t swim at all and she drowned, but at all events she never
came out.

  When the bird saw the vegetable stew coming to the boil with a dead mouse in it, he panicked. He was making up the fire at the time, and in his shock and alarm he scattered the burning logs all over the place and set fire to the house. He raced to the well to get some water to put it out, but got his foot caught in the rope; and when the bucket plunged down the well, down he went with it. So he was drowned, and that was the end of them all.

  ***

  Tale type: ATU 85, ‘The Mouse, the Bird and the Sausage’

  Source: a story in Hans Michael Moscherosch’s Wunderliche und Wahrhafftige Gesichte Philanders von Sittewald (The Wonderful True Story of Philander von Sittewald; 1650)

  Unlike the cat and the mouse these housemates are not fundamentally ill-matched. They could have lived happily together for a long time, if the bird’s satisfaction had not been fatally undermined. That’s the only moral of this story, but it is a sort of fable, like the tale of the cat and the mouse, so a moral is only to be expected.

  Some enquiring readers might like to know what sort of sausage it was. After all, according to the internet, Germany has over 1,500 kinds of sausage: from which could we expect this sort of selfless domesticity? Well, it – I mean he – was a bratwurst. But somehow the word ‘bratwurst’ isn’t as funny as the word ‘sausage’. According to a famous comedian whose name has slipped my mind, ‘sausage’ is the funniest word in the English language. This story would certainly have a different kind of poignancy if it had been about a mouse, a bird and a lamb chop.

  SIXTEEN

  LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD

  Once upon a time there was a little girl who was so sweet and kind that everyone loved her. Her grandmother, who loved her more than anyone, gave her a little cap made of red velvet, which suited her so well that she wanted to wear it all the time. Because of that everyone took to calling her Little Red Riding Hood.