Bearskin spoke kindly and got the old fellow to sit down again and tell him his troubles. It seemed that little by little he’d lost what money he had, and now he and his daughters were on the brink of starvation. He couldn’t pay his bill to the landlord, and he was sure to be sent to prison.
‘If money’s your only problem,’ said Bearskin, ‘I’ve got enough to help you.’
He called for the landlord and paid the bill, and then he put a bag of gold into the old man’s pocket. When the old man saw that all his troubles were over, he didn’t know how to thank his strange helper.
‘Come home with me,’ he said. ‘Come and meet my daughters. They are all wonderfully beautiful, and you must choose one of them to be your wife. When they hear what you’ve done for me, they won’t refuse you. You do look a bit, well, eccentric, but whichever one you choose will soon have you looking neat and tidy.’
Bearskin liked the sound of the daughters, so he went home with the old man. However, when the eldest daughter saw him, she screamed and ran away. The second daughter looked him up and down and said, ‘You expect me to marry a thing like that? He doesn’t even look like a man. I’d sooner marry that bear who came here once, you remember; they’d shaved all his fur off and he was wearing a hussar’s uniform and white gloves. I could have got used to him.’
The youngest daughter, however, said, ‘Father dear, he must be a good man if he helped you like that. And if you promised him a bride, I’m ready to keep your word.’
It was a shame that Bearskin’s face was covered in hair and dirt, because otherwise father and daughter would have seen how joyfully his heart leaped at those words. He took a ring from his finger, broke it in two and gave her one half, keeping the other for himself. He wrote her name in his half, and his name in hers, and asked her to take good care of it.
‘I’ve got to be off now,’ he said. ‘I’ve got three more years’ wandering to get through. If I don’t come back after then, you’re free, because I shall be dead. But I hope you’ll pray to God and ask him to keep me alive.’
The poor bride dressed herself all in black, and when she thought about her future bridegroom, tears came to her eyes. From her sisters all she had for the next three years was scorn and ridicule.
‘Better be careful,’ said the elder sister. ‘If you give him your hand, he’ll crush it in his paw.’
‘Watch out,’ said the second sister, ‘bears like sweet things. If he takes a fancy to you, you’ll be down his gullet in a moment.’
‘And you better do as he tells you. I wouldn’t care to be you if he starts to growl.’
‘But the wedding will be fun. Bears always dance well.’
The bride-to-be said nothing and didn’t let them upset her. As for Bearskin, he wandered all over the world, doing good wherever he could and giving generously to the poor so that they’d pray for him.
Finally, at dawn on the very last day of the seven years, he went once more to the heath and sat down under the circle of trees. Quite soon the wind began to howl, and there was the Devil again, scowling at him.
‘Here’s your jacket,’ he said, throwing Bearskin’s old jacket to him. ‘Now give me back my green one.’
‘Not so fast,’ said Bearskin. ‘First of all you’re going to clean me up. I want four tubs of water, from very hot to lukewarm, and four kinds of soap, from that yellow stuff they scrub the floors with to the finest Parisian savon de luxe. As for shampoo, I want several kinds of that, from the sort they use on horses to the most delicate stuff scented with lavender. Then I want a gallon of eau de cologne.’
And whether the Devil wanted to or not, he had to bring water and soap and several kinds of cosmetic product and wash Bearskin from head to foot, cut his hair, comb it neatly, shave his beard and trim his nails. After that, Bearskin looked like a dashing soldier once more; in fact, he looked more handsome than ever.
When the Devil had vanished, complaining bitterly, Bearskin felt joyful. He strode into the town, bought a splendid velvet jacket, hired a carriage drawn by four white horses, and drove to the house of his bride. Of course, no one recognized him. The father assumed he was a distinguished officer, a colonel at least, and led him into the dining room where his daughters were sitting.
He took a seat between the two eldest. They made a real fuss of him. They poured wine for him, they chose the finest morsels to put on his plate, they flirted and simpered and thought they’d never seen a more handsome man. But the youngest daughter sat across the table from him, not raising her eyes, not saying a word.
Finally Bearskin asked the father if he’d let him choose one of the daughters for a wife. At that the two eldest daughters leaped up from the table and raced to their bedrooms to put on their finest dresses. Each one thought she was the one Bearskin wanted.
As soon as he was alone with his bride-to-be, the visitor brought out his half of the broken ring and dropped it into a glass of wine, which he handed to her across the table. She took the wine and drank it, and when she found the half-ring in the bottom of the glass, her heart beat faster; and she took the other half which she wore on a ribbon around her neck, and put them together. And the two halves matched perfectly.
The stranger said, ‘I’m your bridegroom, whom you knew as Bearskin. By the grace of God, I’ve found my clean human form again.’
He embraced her and kissed her warmly. And at that moment the two sisters came in wearing all their finery, and when they saw Bearskin and their sister together, and realized who he was and what had happened, they went mad with fury. They ran outside, and one of them drowned herself in the well, and the other hanged herself from a tree.
That evening there was a knock at the door. Bearskin opened it, and there was the Devil in his green jacket.
‘What do you want?’ said Bearskin.
‘I’ve just come to thank you. I’ve now got two souls to play with, instead of your one.’
***
Tale type: ATU 361, ‘Bear-Skin’
Source: a story told to the Grimm brothers by the von Haxthausen family and a tale by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen, ‘Vom Ursprung des Namens Bärnhäuter’ (‘The Origin of the Name Bearskin’; 1670)
Similar stories: Katharine M. Briggs: ‘The Coat’ (Folk Tales of Britain); Italo Calvino: ‘The Devil’s Breeches’ (Italian Folktales)
This seems a curious bargain for the Devil to make. Surely there should be easier and less expensive ways of getting the soldier’s soul. Still, the soldier is a pious and charitable fellow, and might not be easy to seduce in the usual diabolical manner. The damnation of the two sisters seems harsh, but after all, there are those long years of mockery to be taken account of.
Calvino’s version is full and inventive. I borrowed from him the suggestion that water alone wouldn’t be enough to get rid of seven years’ worth of dirt.
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE TWO TRAVELLING COMPANIONS
The mountain and the valley never meet, but the children of men, both good and bad, meet one another all the time. So it was that a shoemaker and a tailor once met up on their travels. The tailor was a good-looking little fellow, always cheerful and full of merriment. He saw the shoemaker coming towards him on the other side of the road, and, seeing from the shape of his knapsack what trade he followed, began to sing a teasing little song:
‘Sew the seam and pull the thread,
Whack the nail right on the head—’
But the shoemaker wasn’t the type to take a joke. He scowled and shook his fist. The tailor laughed and handed over his bottle of schnapps.
‘Here, take a swig of this,’ he said. ‘No harm intended. Have a drink and swallow your anger.’
The shoemaker knocked back half the bottle, and the storm in his eyes began to clear. He gave the bottle back and said, ‘Nice drop. They go on about heavy drin
king, but they don’t say much about great thirst. Shall we travel together for a while?’
‘Suits me,’ said the tailor, ‘as long as you don’t mind making for the big towns, where there’s plenty of work.’
‘Just what I had in mind. There’s nothing to be earned in these small towns, and the country people prefer to go barefoot anyway.’
So on they went together, putting one foot in front of the other like weasels in the snow. They had plenty of time, but little to eat. Whenever they reached a town they looked for work, and because the tailor was an engaging little fellow with rosy red cheeks, he found work easily enough, and if he was lucky he got a kiss from the master’s daughter when he left, to wish him good cheer on the way.
Whenever he met up with the shoemaker again, it was always the tailor who had the most in his pocket. The shoemaker, an ill-tempered so-and-so, used to make a sour face and say, ‘The bigger the rascal, the better the luck.’
But the tailor only laughed and sang all the more, and shared what he had with his companion. Whenever he had a couple of coins in his pocket, he’d order something good to eat and thump the table till the glasses danced. ‘Easy come, easy go’ was his principle.
After they’d been travelling for some time, they came to a great forest. There were two paths that led through it to the capital, but one of them took two days’ walking and the other took seven, and they didn’t know which was which. They sat down beneath an oak tree and talked about it. Should they carry seven days’ food, or only two?
‘Always prepare for the worst,’ said the shoemaker. ‘I’m going to carry enough bread for a week.’
‘What?’ said the tailor. ‘Lug all that bread about like a beast of burden, and not be able to enjoy the scenery? Not me. I shall trust in God as I always do. My money’s as good in summer as in winter, but bread isn’t – in the hot weather it dries out and goes mouldy all the quicker. Why shouldn’t we find the right way? A one-in-two chance is pretty good, when you think about it. No, I’ll take bread for two days, that’s quite enough.’
So they each bought the bread they wanted to carry, and set off into the forest. It was as quiet as a church under the trees. There was no breeze, no murmuring brook, no birdsong, and not a single sunbeam found its way through the dense leaves. The shoemaker didn’t say a word. He just trudged on with the bread weighing heavier and heavier on his back, and the sweat streaming down his sour and gloomy face.
The tailor, however, couldn’t have been happier. He laughed and sang and walked ahead with a spring in his step, whistling on a blade of grass. He thought, ‘God up there must be pleased to see me so happy.’
And so they went on for two days. On the third day, though, they were still deep in the forest, and the tailor had eaten all his bread. He was a bit less cheerful now, but he didn’t lose courage; he relied on God and on his luck. On the evening of the third day he lay down hungry, and rose even hungrier the following morning. The fourth day passed in the same way, and in the evening the tailor had to sit and watch as the shoemaker made a fine meal out of his supplies.
The tailor asked for a slice of bread, and the shoemaker just laughed at him, saying, ‘You were always too fond of singing and playing the fool. Now you can see where that gets you. Birds that sing too early in the morning get caught by the hawk before nightfall.’
In fact, he was merciless. On the fifth morning the poor tailor could hardly stand up and his voice was just a croak. All the red in his cheeks had gone; they were as white as chalk now, and it was his eyes that were red.
And then the shoemaker said, ‘Well, you’re in trouble, and it was all of your own making. I tell you what – I’ll give you a piece of bread. But in return, I’ll put out your right eye.’
The poor tailor had to live, so he had to agree. He wept with both eyes while he still had them, and then held up his head so the stony-hearted shoemaker could put out his right eye with the breadknife. The tailor remembered what his mother had said when she found him gobbling up a pie in the pantry: ‘Eat all you can, and suffer what you must.’
He ate the thin slice of bread the shoemaker gave him, and felt a little better, and was able to stand up; and he walked on thinking that he could still see well enough with his left eye, after all.
But on the sixth day the hunger had him in its grip again, and even more fiercely than before. That evening he simply fell down and lay where he fell, and on the seventh morning he was too weak to get up at all. His death was not far away.
The shoemaker said, ‘I’ll be merciful. I can see the state you’re in, and I’ll give you another slice of bread. But you’re not getting it for nothing. You’ve got one eye left, and I’ll have that one like the first.’
The poor tailor felt as if he’d wasted all his life. What had he done wrong, that he should come to this? He must have offended God in some way, so he prayed for forgiveness, and said to the shoemaker, ‘Go on then. Put it out. But remember, God sees everything you do, and the time will come when he’ll punish you for this evil deed. When times were good, didn’t I share what I had with you? One stitch follows another, and I used to see them clear and easy, but if I haven’t got my eyes and I can’t sew any more, I’ll have to go begging. At least don’t leave me here alone when I’m blind, or I’ll die of hunger.’
The shoemaker cared nothing for this talk of God; he’d driven God out of his heart a long time ago. He took his knife and put out the tailor’s other eye, and then gave him a small piece of bread, held out his stick for the tailor to hold on to, and led him along.
At sunset they came out of the forest. The tailor could feel the warmth of the sun on his face, but of course he couldn’t see a thing, and he didn’t realize that the shoemaker was leading him towards a gallows that stood at the edge of a field. The shoemaker left him there alone and walked on. The poor tailor, overcome by weariness, pain and hunger, simply fell down where he was and fell asleep.
He woke up at dawn, shivering with cold. There were two poor sinners hanging on the gallows above him, with a crow sitting on the head of each one.
One of the hanged men spoke to the other, saying, ‘Brother? Are you awake?’
‘Yes, I’m awake,’ said the second.
‘Well, I’ll tell you something worth knowing. The dew that settles on us at night and drips off on to the grass below has a special property. If a blind person washes their eyes in it, they get their sight back. If the blind knew that, how many d’you think there’d be crowding around our gallows every morning?’
The tailor could hardly believe his ears. But he took his handkerchief, pressed it down on the grass till it was as wet as it could be, and washed out his eye sockets. Immediately what the hanged man had said came true: a healthy new eye grew at once and filled each one. The sun was about to rise, and the tailor watched with wonder as the light came over the mountains and filled the whole valley and plain in front of him. There lay a great city with magnificent gates and a hundred towers, and the sun caught the golden balls and crosses on the tops of the church spires and made them sparkle in the clear morning. He could see every leaf on the trees, every bird flying past, and even every gnat that danced in the air. But here was the greatest test: he took a needle from his needle-case, snapped off a bit of thread, and threaded it as quickly and easily as he’d ever done. His heart leaped for joy.
He threw himself to his knees and thanked God for his mercy. Then he said his morning prayer, and he didn’t forget to pray for the two poor sinners who were swinging in the breeze like pendulums. The tailor hoisted his bundle on to his back and went on his way, singing and whistling as if he’d never endured any sorrow at all.
The first thing he came to was a fine brown foal running wherever it pleased in the meadow. The tailor caught hold of its mane and tried to mount it and ride it into town. But the foal begged for his freedom, saying, ‘Look, I’m only young,
and even a skinny little tailor like you is too much for me. You’d snap my spine in half if you tried to ride me. Let me grow bigger and stronger, and perhaps I’ll be able to repay you one day.’
‘Oh, go on then, off you go,’ said the tailor. ‘I can see you’re a frisky devil like me.’ He gave the foal a pat on the rump, and the young creature kicked his heels for joy and galloped away, leaping hedges and ditches and galloping off into the distance.
The little tailor hadn’t eaten anything since the meagre lump of bread the shoemaker had given him the day before. ‘The sunlight fills my eyes,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got nothing to fill my belly with. The next thing I see that’s even half edible . . . Ah! What’s that?’
It was a stork, and it stepped daintily over the meadow towards him. The tailor leaped on it at once and seized it by one leg.
‘I don’t know what you’ll taste like,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to find out. Now stand still while I cut your head off, and then I’ll roast you.’
‘No, please don’t do that,’ said the stork. ‘It really isn’t a good idea. You see, I’m sacred. I’m a friend to everyone, and no one harms me. If you spare my life, I’ll certainly be able to do you some good in a different way.’
‘Oh, off you go then, longlegs,’ said the tailor, and let go. The great bird rose gracefully up on his long wings, letting his legs hang down, and flew away.
‘Where’s this all going to end?’ said the tailor to himself. ‘My hunger gets bigger and bigger, and my belly emptier and emptier. Well, whatever I see next is doomed.’
At that moment he was passing a pond where a couple of young ducks were taking their morning swim. One of them came a bit too close, and the tailor seized it at once.
Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm Page 29
