The prince was not satisfied with this information, but he saw that these dull people didn’t know any more, and that it was useless to question them. So he returned to the palace of his father the king, in love beyond words, with the image of the beautiful goddess he had seen through the keyhole constantly before his eyes. He was extremely sorry that he had not knocked on the door, and promised himself that he certainly would the next time. In the meantime, the intensity of his love had made him very agitated – that night he was struck down by a terrible fever and was soon at death’s door. The queen, who had no other child, despaired when no cure could be found. She promised great rewards to the doctors, but none of their skill could help him. At last they decided that the fever had been caused by some dreadful sorrow. They told the queen what they had concluded and she, filled with love for her son, went to him and begged him to tell her what was the matter. She told him that even if it was a question of giving him the crown, his father would do so without hesitation, or if he desired some princess, everything would be sacrificed to give him what he wanted, even if it meant a war with the princess’s father. Weeping, she begged him not to die, since their life depended on his. The prince was moved to tears by his mother’s entreaties.
“Mother,” he said at last, “I am not so low that I want my father’s crown. I hope that he will have many more years of life, and that I will always be his most faithful and respectful subject! As for the princess that you speak of, I haven’t thought about marriage yet, and you know that I will obey your wishes, even if they go against mine.”
“Oh, my son!” replied the queen, “We would stop at nothing to save your life. But, my dear child, save my life and that of your father the king by telling me what you desire, and rest assured that you will have it.”
“Well, Madam,” he said, “since you have asked me to tell you what I want, I shall tell you. It would indeed be wrong to place in danger the lives of two who are so dear to me. I wish Donkey Skin to bake me a cake, and to have it brought to me when it is ready.”
The queen, astonished at the strange name, asked who Donkey Skin might be.
“It is a creature uglier than a wolf, a servant girl who lives at your farm and looks after the geese,” said one of her officers, who had happened to see the girl.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the queen. “My son, on his way home from the hunt, must have eaten some of her cake. It is the sort of whim that sick people sometimes have. I want Donkey Skin to make him a cake at once.”
“CURIOSITY MADE HIM PUT HIS EYE TO THE KEYHOLE”
A messenger ran to the farm to tell Donkey Skin that she was to make the best cake she possibly could for the prince. Now, there are those who believe that Donkey Skin had been aware of the prince in her heart at the moment he had looked through the keyhole in her door, and then, looking out of her little window, she had seen how young, handsome and well built he was. The memory of him had remained with her and she often thought about him and sighed over him. However, whether or not she had seen him, or had heard him spoken of in glowing terms, Donkey Skin was overjoyed to think that she might become known to him. She shut herself in her little room, threw off the ugly skin, washed her face and hands, did her hair, put on a beautiful bodice of bright silver and an equally beautiful skirt, and then set about making the much desired cake. She took the finest flour, the freshest eggs and the best butter, and while she was stirring them, whether intentionally or not, a ring that she had on her finger fell into the batter and was mixed into it. When the cake was ready she muffled herself in her horrible skin and gave it to the queen’s messenger, asking him for news of the prince. The man did not bother to reply, but took the cake and ran back with it to the palace.
When the cake was delivered to the prince he took it greedily from the hands of the messenger, and ate it so quickly that the doctors who were present said that such haste was not a good sign. Indeed, the prince almost choked on the ring, which he had come close to swallowing in one of the pieces of cake. However, he carefully extracted it from his mouth, and his desire for the cake was forgotten as he examined the fine emeralds set in a gold ring, a ring so small that he knew it could only be worn on the prettiest little finger in the world.
The prince kissed the ring a thousand times, put it under his pillow and drew it out to look at it whenever he thought no one was watching. He began to torment himself, planning how he could see the owner of the ring, not daring to believe that if he asked for Donkey Skin she would be allowed to come, and not daring to say what he had seen through the keyhole for fear of being laughed at for being a dreamer. The fever came back and the doctors, not knowing what else to do, told the queen that the prince’s illness was love, whereupon the queen and the unhappy king ran to their son.
“My son, my dear son,” cried the king, “tell us the name of the girl you desire and we swear that we will give her to you, even if she is the lowest of slaves.”
The queen, embracing the prince, agreed with everything that the king had said, and the son, moved by their tears and embraces, said, “My father and mother, I have no desire to make a marriage that doesn’t please you.” Drawing the emerald from under his pillow, he added, “To prove the truth of this, I wish to marry whoever owns this ring. It is unlikely that anyone who has such a pretty finger is a country girl or a peasant.”
The king and queen took the ring, examined it very curiously and agreed with the prince that it could belong only to the daughter of a good house. Then the king embraced his son, urged him to get well and went out. He ordered the drums and horns and trumpets to be sounded throughout the town, and the heralds to announce that the girl whose finger a certain ring would fit would marry the heir to the throne.
First the princesses arrived, then the duchesses, the countesses and the baronesses, but although they did all they could to make their fingers small, none of them could put on the ring. So the country girls had to be tried, but pretty as they were, they all had fingers that were too fat. The prince, who was feeling better, carried out the fittings himself. At last it was the turn of the chambermaids, but they fared no better. Then, when everyone else had tried, the prince asked for the kitchen maids, scullery maids and shepherdesses. They were all brought to the palace, but their coarse, red, short fingers would hardly go through the tiny golden hoop as far as the nail.
“You have not brought that Donkey Skin, who made me the cake,” said the prince. Everyone laughed, because she was so dirty and unpleasant and couldn’t possibly expect to be included in the ring fitting.
“Let someone fetch her at once,” said the king. “It will not be said that I left out the lowliest.” And, laughing and mocking, the servants ran to fetch the goose girl.
The princess, who had heard the drums and the cries of the heralds, had no doubt that the ring was the cause of all the uproar. She loved the prince, but since true love is timid and has no vanity, she was constantly afraid that some other lady would be found to have a finger as small as hers. So she was overjoyed when the messengers came and knocked on her door. Since she knew that they were seeking the owner of the right finger on which to place her ring, some impulse had caused her to do her hair very carefully and to put on her beautiful silver bodice and her skirt with the flounces and the silver lace trimming studded with emeralds. At the first knock she quickly covered her finery with the donkey skin and opened the door. The visitors, jeering, told her that the king had sent for her so that he could marry her to the prince. Then, laughing loudly, they led her to the prince, who was astonished at the way she was dressed, and found it hard to believe that this was the majestic and beautiful lady he had seen. Sad and confused, he asked, “Is it you who lives at the end of that dark passage in the third yard at the farm?”
“Yes, your highness,” she replied.
“Show me your hand,” said the prince, trembling and heaving a big sigh.
Imagine how astonished everyone was! The king and the queen, the chamberlains and all the courti
ers were struck dumb when, from beneath that black and dirty skin, came a delicate little pink and white hand, and the ring slipped easily onto the prettiest little finger in the world. Then the princess shrugged her shoulders and the skin fell from them. She looked so enchanting that the prince, weak though he was, fell to his knees, and held her so closely to him that she blushed. But that was barely noticed, because the king and queen came to embrace her and ask her if she would marry their son.
The princess, confused by all the attention and by the love of the handsome young prince, was about to thank them when, suddenly, the ceiling opened, and the Lilac Fairy was lowered into the room in a chariot made of lilac branches and flowers. She proceeded to tell the princess’s story very charmingly. The king and queen, overjoyed to learn that Donkey Skin was a great princess, became even more enthusiastic about her, but the prince was more aware of her goodness and his love for her grew as the fairy told her tale. He was so impatient to marry her that he could scarcely allow the time needed for the preparations for the grand wedding to which they were entitled.
The king and queen, now completely devoted to their future daughter-in-law, overwhelmed the princess with affection. She had said that she could not marry the prince without the consent of her father the king, so he was the first person to receive an invitation to the wedding. He was not, however, told the name of the bride. The Lilac Fairy who, quite rightly, was supervising all the wedding preparations, had recommended this course of action in order to prevent trouble.
Kings came from all the countries around, some in sedan chairs, others in beautiful carriages; those who came from the most faraway countries rode on elephants and tigers and eagles. But the most magnificent and glorious king of all was the father of the princess. He had, fortunately, regained his sanity, and had married a queen who was a widow and very beautiful, but they had no children. The princess ran to her father and he recognised her at once, embracing her very tenderly before she could throw herself upon his knees. The king and queen presented their son to him, and the happiness of all concerned was complete. The marriage was celebrated with great pomp and circumstance, but the prince and princess were so wrapped up in each other that they were hardly aware of the ceremony.
In spite of the protests of the noble-hearted prince, his father had him crowned the same day and, kissing his hand, placed him on the throne.
The marriage celebrations continued for almost three months, and the love of this young couple would have lasted for more than 100 years, had they lived long enough, so great was their devotion towards each other.
THE MORAL
It scarce may be believed,
This tale of Donkey-skin;
But laughing children in the home;
Yea, mothers, and grandmothers too,
Are little moved by facts!
By them ‘twill be received.
THE LIFE OF CHARLES PERRAULT
Andrew Lang tells us that ‘Charles Perrault did many things well, above all the things that he had not been taught to do, and he did best of all the thing which nobody expected him to have done. A vivid, genial and indomitable character and humour made him one of the best-liked men of his age.’ A great deal is known about Perrault’s interesting and varied life, thanks mainly to D’Alembert’s history of the French Academy, and Perrault’s own memoirs, written for his grandchildren, but not published until 1769, 66 years after his death in 1703. Unfortunately, his memoirs are not comprehensive, ending as they do at the mid-point of his career, and failing to provide the unrestrained and unreserved account of his family life that would be expected in a modern autobiography. There is little to be learned from this document about his wife and his two beloved sons, for example.
Perrault was born in Paris on 12 January 1628, the fifth son of Pierre Perrault, a successful and prosperous parliamentary lawyer. When he was nine years old he was sent to Beauvais College, a day school. His father helped him with his studies at home, as Perrault himself would later help his own children. Although the boy was clever, excelling in the composition of verse, and was always first in his class, he was never a model schoolboy. His education at Beauvais came to a premature end when he quarrelled with a teacher and left the school.
The cause of this quarrel provides an insight into Perrault’s subsequent career. He refused to accept his teacher’s philosophical arguments merely on the grounds that they were traditional, maintaining that his own arguments were better ‘because they were new’. Perrault did not leave the school alone. One of his friends, a boy called Beaurain, supported him, and for the next two or three years they invented a course of study for themselves, reading together in the Tuileries Gardens whenever the mood took them. This haphazard style of education certainly didn’t benefit Beaurain, of whom little more was ever heard. Moreover, it didn’t give Perrault a studying habit, although he was always a man of discernment with an independent mind, and an enthusiastic amateur.
In 1651 Perrault was awarded a degree by the University of Orléans, an institution reputed to grant degrees with what has been described as a ‘scandalous readiness’, the payment of fees being the only necessary requisite. In the meantime, he had entertained a vague notion of following his brother Claude into the medical profession, and he had also participated in the theological controversy, centred on the nature of grace, then raging between the Jesuits and Jansenists.
Having abandoned medicine and theology, the young man next turned his attention to the law and was called to the bar within a month of taking his degree. He practised with some success for a while, and even toyed with the idea of codifying the laws of France. However, the legal profession soon proved too dry and dusty to hold his attention, and he found a position in the office of another brother, Pierre, who was Chief Commissioner of Taxes for Paris. There was little work for him to do, so he used his time reading extensively in his brother’s excellent library.
Not having anything else with which to occupy himself, he soon returned to the writing of verse, which had been one of his main boyhood pleasures. His first sustained literary effort was a parody of Book VI of Virgil’s Aeneid. He was assisted in his task by his schoolfriend Beaurain and Beaurain’s brother Nicolas, a doctor of the Sorbonne. Perrault’s brother Claude drew the pen and ink sketches with which it was illustrated. Fortunately for Perrault’s reputation, perhaps, this work was never published and has not survived. He subsequently developed some sense and taste, and his new poems, particularly the ‘Portrait d’Iris’ and the ‘Dialogue entre l’Amour et l’Amitié’ were well received by his contemporaries, who considered them charming. They were published anonymously, and Philippe Quinault, himself a poet with an established reputation, used some of them to press his suit with a young woman, allowing her to believe that they were his own. When Perrault was told about this, he revealed himself as the author of the poems, but when he heard about how his work had been used, he decided not to come forward. He forgave the fraud that had been perpetrated and he and Quinault became friends.
The next profession to engage Perrault’s attention was architecture. In 1657 he designed a house at Viry for his brother and supervised its construction. Louis XIV’s finance minister, Jean-Baptiste Colbert, was so impressed that he employed Perrault as superintendent of the royal buildings, and put him in special charge of Versailles, then in the process of construction. Perrault threw himself enthusiastically into this work, although not to the exclusion of his other activities: he wrote odes in honour of the king; planned designs for Gobelin tapestries and decorative paintings; became a member of the Academy of Medals and Inscriptions, founded by Colbert to devise suitable inscriptions for the royal palaces and monuments; encouraged musicians and lent his support to the court composer Jean-Baptiste Lully, who was at the centre of several romantic scandals. He also teamed up with his brother Claude in a successful initiative to found the Academy of Science.
Claude Perrault had something of Charles’s versatility and shared his love of architectur
e, and the brothers now became very involved in the various schemes that were mooted for the completion of the palace of the Louvre. The king summoned the sculptor Bernini from Rome and entrusted him with the task, but the Perrault brothers intervened. Charles conceived the idea of the great eastern elevation, while Claude drew the plans and was commissioned to execute them. The work was completed in 1671, and it is still popularly known as Perrault’s Colonnade.
In 1671 Perrault was also elected to the French Academy, an honour that, unusually, was bestowed without any canvassing by him on his own behalf. His inaugural address was greeted with such enthusiasm that he suggested that the inauguration of future members should be a public function. His suggestion was adopted, and these addresses became the most famous feature of the Academy’s proceedings, as they still are today. This was not Perrault’s only service to the Academy – he successfully proposed a motion to the effect that future elections should be effected by secret ballot, inventing and providing (at his own expense) a ballot box, which, although he doesn’t describe it, was probably the model for those in use in clubs and societies today.
The originality of his views did not always endear him to his brother Academicians, the ‘Immortals’. His poem ‘Le Siècle de Louis XIV’ gave rise to one of the most famous and protracted literary quarrels of the era. In praising the writers of his own day Perrault dared to disparage some of the authors of the ancient classics. The poet and critic Nicolas Boileau worked himself into a furious opposition, hurling insults at Perrault. The somewhat more subtle Racine pretended to think that the poem was a work of ingenious irony. Most of the Academicians joined the fray. There is no doubt that Perrault’s position was untenable, but he defended himself with good humour and wit. As a result, the violence of Boileau’s reaction, and his obvious desire to display the extent of his learning, simply made him look absurd. Perrault states the Modernist case in Le Parallèle des Anciens et des Modernes, published in four volumes in 1688–96. He clearly took more pride in this dull and now almost forgotten work than in the incomparable stories that have made him famous.
Classic Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault Page 8