That should have been enough for me not to fear any reproach that I have been spending my time on frivolous pursuits. However, since I have to deal with people who will not be contented with reason alone,* but can only be influenced by the authority of the Ancients and the examples which they have set, I will give them satisfaction in that regard also.
The Milesian Tales* which were so well-known among the Greeks, and afforded great delight to the Athenians and Romans, were no different in kind from the tales in this collection. The tale of the Widow of Ephesus* is of the same nature as Griselda: both are short stories, that is to say, narratives of events which could have happened, and which contain nothing absolutely contrary to probability. The fable of Psyche, as told by Lucian and Apuleius,* is pure fiction, an old wives’ tale like that of Donkey-Skin. Thus in Apuleius it is recounted by an old woman to a girl who has been abducted by robbers, just as the tale of Donkey-Skin is told to children, day in day out, by their governesses and grandmothers. The fable of the ploughman* who obtained from Jupiter the power to bring sunshine or rain as he pleased, and who having used his power harvested nothing but straw, and no crops of grain, because he had failed to request any wind, or cold, or snow or any other kind of weather, such as is necessary to make plants produce their seeds—this fable, I observe, is of the same kind as the tale of the Three Silly Wishes, except that one is serious and the other comic; but the lesson of both is that men do not know what they need, and do better if they let themselves be governed by Providence than if they could make everything happen as they chose.
Having such fine models to follow from the wisest and most learned writers of antiquity, I do not see that anyone has the right to criticize me in this respect. I would even claim that my fables are worthier of being retold than the majority of ancient tales, especially those about the Widow of Ephesus and Psyche, when they are regarded from the point of view of morality, which is the main consideration in any kind of fable, and must be the reason why they were invented. The only moral lesson to be drawn from The Widow of Ephesus is that often those women who seem the most virtuous are the least so, and consequently that there are almost no truly virtuous women. Anyone can see that this morality is very bad, and tends only to corrupt women by giving them a bad example, making them believe that if they fail in their duty they are merely doing the same as the majority. It is different with the moral of Griselda, which encourages them to put up with the behaviour of their husbands, and seeks to show that there is no husband so brutal and capricious that, through her patience, an upright woman cannot change his character.
As regards the fable of Psyche, which in itself is delightful, and very ingenious, I will compare the moral concealed in it to that of Donkey-Skin when I have discovered what it is; but hitherto I have been unable to guess. I know that ‘psyche’ means the soul; but I cannot grasp what we are supposed to understand by Love* being in love with Psyche, that is, with the soul, and I can grasp even less the additional idea that she would have been happy as long as she did not know who her lover was, that is, Love, but that as soon as she knew she would become very unhappy. For me, such obscurity is impenetrable. The only comment I can make is that this fable, like the majority of the myths which have come down to us from antiquity, was invented for the sake of entertainment, with no regard to morality, which their authors seriously neglected.
The situation is different with the stories which our ancestors made up for the benefit of their children. They did not narrate them with the elegance and the embellishments with which the Greeks and Romans enhanced their fables, but were very careful to see that their tales contained instructive and commendable moral lessons. In every case virtue is rewarded and vice punished. Every story tends to show how advantageous it is to be honest, patient, careful, industrious, and obedient, and if not, the harm that will ensue. Here you find a fairy who makes a gift to a girl who answers her politely, which is that every word she speaks will turn to a diamond or pearl in her mouth; and to another girl who replies coarsely another gift, that the words in her mouth will turn into frogs and toads. Elsewhere there are children who, having duly obeyed their father or mother, become great lords, or who having been bad and disobedient fall into the most dreadful misfortune.*
However fanciful or extraordinary the events in all these fables may be, there can be no doubt that they instil in children both the desire to resemble the characters who are seen to become happy, and fear of the disasters which befall those characters who are wicked. And is it not a matter for praise if, when children are not yet of an age to see the value of sound moral truths presented to them without adornment, their mothers and fathers should make them appreciate these truths, and if I may so express it, swallow them, by wrapping them up in stories which are entertaining and appropriate to their tender years? It is incredible how eagerly these innocent souls, in whom natural rectitude has not yet been corrupted, absorb these disguised lessons; you see them despondent and miserable when the hero or heroine of the tale suffers misfortune, and cry out for joy when the time comes for them to be happy; and similarly, having found it hard to bear when a wicked man or woman prospers, they are delighted to see them punished at last as they deserve. Thus seeds are sown which at first produce only the emotions of joy or sadness, but scarcely ever fail to bring forth a propensity for good.
I might have given my tales wider appeal if I had taken some liberties and included some things of the kind that are customarily employed to add humour;* but the desire to please the public has never tempted me sufficiently to break a self-imposed rule not to write anything that could be injurious to decency and propriety.
Touching this point, I append a few lines of verse composed by a young lady of much intelligence,* who wrote them out at the end of Donkey-Skin, which I had sent her.
The tale of Donkey-Skin is here retold
So vividly, with such finesse,
That my enjoyment was no less
Than when by firelight Gran or nurse would hold
My infant mind entranced as by a spell.
We see some shafts of satire here as well,
But free from any bitterness or spite;
Thus all may read the story with delight.
Besides, it is agreeable to find
A simple, charming tale of such a kind
That while its lines amuse and entertain,
Our husbands, priests and mothers do not need
To criticize in case they might contain
Some things that wives and children should not read.
The History of Griselda*
TO MADEMOISELLE...*
I here portray, to put before the eyes
Of one both beautiful and young, but wise,
Heroic patience: not, I ought to say,
For you to imitate in every way—
That’s something which I don’t presume to ask;
It really is too great a task.
In Paris, though, where men are civilized,
The sex created to arouse desire
Is given all it might require,
And every pleasure that can be devised.
But bad examples everywhere abound;
They are pernicious; better not neglect
Whatever method can be found
To counter them and weaken their effect.
With this in mind I honour as I should
A woman truly patient, truly good:
Her like, although surprising anywhere,
Would surely be a marvel here.
For in this happy climate, women seem
To rule us: everything is done
To suit their wishes, and each one
Acts like a queen and reigns supreme.
In Paris, then, I fear Griselda’s fate
Is most unlikely to provoke
Much interest: it will merely seem a joke,
Her virtues quaint, her patience out of date.
It isn’t that these virtues are unknown
To
Paris ladies—no, indeed;
For as we have consistently been shown
Patience is what their husbands need.
WHERE under Alpine heights* the river Po
Escapes from reed-filled pools to flow,
A little stream at first, and then to glide
Deeper and fuller through the countryside,
A young prince lived, a valiant lord
Whom all his provinces adored;
In his creation Heaven showed
That sometimes it combines in one
Those gifts more commonly bestowed
Singly upon some favoured son—
Rare qualities it only brings
To make the very greatest kings.
This Prince, then, marvellously blessed
With talents both of body and of soul,
Was strong and dextrous, fit to play the role
Of Mars in war; but also he possessed
That sacred flame, an instinct of the heart
Which made him cherish all the forms of art.
Brave deeds he loved, and daring enterprise,
Loved combat too, and victory in war—
Whatever brings renown, and glorifies
A noble name. He valued even more,
Generous as he was by temperament,
The lasting glory that a prince obtains
When everywhere in his domains
The people’s lives are happy and content.
But on this noble nature shadows lay:
To dark and angry moods his soul fell prey,
And in his heart he steadfastly believed
That every woman constantly deceived.
The worthiest among them were, he thought,
Mere hypocrites who always sought,
Like enemies both proud and cruel,
Concealing their intent, to subjugate
The men who by unlucky fate
Were yielded up for wives to rule.
He saw around him husbands tamed,
Or even worse, betrayed and shamed,
A sight which fed his hatred even more,
As did the jealous habits of those climes;
And as a consequence he swore,
Not only once, but many times,
That if a kindly heaven were to make
A new Lucretia solely for his sake,
He’d still refuse, without debate,
To be imprisoned in the married state.
Each day, the morning was the time he spent
On government, deciding what was best
To keep his people settled and content.
To orphaned children, widows dispossessed,
He offered help, and saw their wrongs redressed;
Or else might seek to abrogate
A needless tax now out of date,
Devised and levied long before
To finance some unwanted war.
With business over, hunting took its place
Throughout the afternoon: he loved the chase;
Despite their rage, the boar and savage bear
Provoked in him much less alarm
Than women’s soft beguiling charm;
He shunned their presence everywhere.
Meanwhile his subjects have in mind
Some other interests: their own.
For when another ruler mounts the throne
They want to see him temperate and kind,
Just like their Prince; and often urge their lord
To get a son, ensuring his succession.
One day, to plead their case, with one accord
They visited the palace in procession.
An orator, considered then the best,
Whose gravity of manner much impressed,
Said all he could in such a situation.
He emphasized with fervour their desire
To see the Prince well married, and the sire
Of generation after generation
Forever bringing riches to the nation.
And finally his tone rose even higher:
He saw a starry vision in the skies;
Among the offspring from the marriage bed
A glorious crusader would arise
Whose deeds would fill the heathen Turk with dread.
With plainer words, his voice less loud,
The Prince in answer thus addressed the crowd:
‘I have been glad today to see your zeal
In urging me to seek a bride:
I thank you, and am gratified
To see the love and loyalty you feel.
It is my wish to do my best
To undertake at once what you suggest.
Choosing a wife, however, to my mind,
For most men is a difficult affair;
The more they try to take the proper care,
The greater are the problems that they find.
Young women, as you will observe,
While in the family home preserve
Such virtues as sincerity,
Decorum, helpfulness and modesty;
But once they take the marriage vow,
Their future is secure, and now,
With no more need to masquerade,
Each one gives up the painful role she played,
And since she has a household of her own,
Is free at last to be herself alone.
‘She of the gloomy sort, refusing fun,
Decides to be exceedingly devout;
She looks for things to make a fuss about,
And scolds us constantly; another one
Becomes a fully fledged coquette
With all the would-be lovers she can get,
But only chats and gossips all the time;
Another ardently takes part
In keen debates on books and art,
Lays down the law on prose and rhyme,
And tells our authors where they err;
She thinks she is a connoisseur.
Another takes to cards and dice,
And loses thousands in a trice;
Her rarest and most precious things,
Her brooches, necklaces, and rings,
All she possesses disappears,
Even the garments that she wears.
‘Among the choices they have made
There’s one point where it seems to me
That all of them, bar none, agree:
It’s that they wish to be obeyed.
What I myself am certain of is this:
For there to be a chance of married bliss,
Authority must not be shared by both.
If therefore what you want to see
Is that I take the marriage oath,
Find me a woman who has never shown
The slightest disobedience: she must be
Of proven patience, modest, lacking pride,
And free from any wishes of her own.
When she is found, I’ll take her for my bride.’
His speech is done: the Prince will not remain
A moment longer; leaping on his steed
He gallops off at breakneck speed
To join his huntsmen waiting on the plain.
Traversing grassy meads and fallow land
He finds his men at ease; as one, they stand,
Alert, to blow their horns, and all around
The forest dwellers tremble at the sound.
Amidst the stubble fields the scattered pack
Of coursing dogs runs wildly to and fro;
The bloodhounds have arrived: they’ve found the track
Towards the quarry’s stronghold; eyes aglow,
They try to drag along, with straining neck,
The sturdy handlers holding them in check.
The Prince, when told that all was now prepared,
A scent discovered, instantly declared
The hunt could now begin; for men and hounds
The quarry is fair game. The horn resounds,
And through the forest horses neigh
ing,
And dogs in great excitement baying,
Bring noise and tumult which the echoes make
Still louder; all the woodlands shake;
The huntsmen and their hounds advance
Into the trees, towards the forest’s heart.
The Prince, however, for his part,
Through destiny, or simple chance,
Quitted the hunt, and chose to ride
Without companions, by a hidden way,
Which as he galloped took him far astray,
Till silence fell; the din of hunting died.
The spot to which this strange adventure led,
Its glinting streams, its trees of darkest green,
Inspired the mind with solemn dread;
Around him in that sombre scene
So vividly did Nature’s self appear,
So simply and so purely was she dressed,
That as he stood and gazed he blessed
The error which had brought him there.
He mused, and felt that reverence and awe
Which mighty landscapes, woods, and lakes impart;
But looking from that lonely place,
A woman’s figure that he saw
Enthralled and held him, head and heart:
He’d never seen such beauty and such grace.
She was a shepherd maid; she sat beside
A little stream, her grazing sheep nearby,
And spun her wool: with agile hands she plied
The spindle that she watched with practised eye.
So fair she was, she could have pacified
The angriest of men. Her lips had stayed
As fresh as if she were a child;
Her skin, beneath the woodland shade,
As pale as lilies; and her eyes, made mild
By soft brown eyelashes, shone bright,
More blue and clear than Heaven’s light.
The Prince, transfixed, without a sound,
Stirred by her beauty, for a moment stood
Complete Fairy Tales Page 6