The Grimm Reader

by Maria Tatar

  “And why not?” asked the wife. “Just get going. I have to be king.”

  The fisherman was unhappy that his wife wanted to be king, but he went anyway. “That’s just not right. It’s not right at all,” he thought. He didn’t want to go, but he went anyway.

  When he arrived at the shore, the sea was gray-black and the water was churning up from below and had a foul smell to it. He stood there and said:

  “Flounder, flounder in the sea,

  Rise on up, swim here to me,

  My wife whose name is Ilsebill

  Has sent me here against my will.”

  “What does she want now?” asked the flounder.

  “Oh, my goodness,” said the man, “now she wants to be king.”

  “Go on home. She is already,” said the flounder.

  The fisherman went back home, and when he got there, the castle had become much larger, with a tall tower and magnificent decorations. Sentries were keeping watch at the entrance, and there were many soldiers around, along with the sound of drums and trumpets. When the fisherman got inside, he saw that everything was made of pure marble and gold, and the furniture was covered in velvet with large golden tassels. The doors of the great hall opened up, and the entire royal household was present. His wife was seated up high on a throne of gold and diamonds. She was wearing a big golden crown and holding a scepter made of pure gold and precious stones. To her left and right was a row of ladies-in-waiting, each one head shorter than the last.

  The fisherman stood before her and said: “Goodness, wife! So now you really are king.”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “Now I’m king.”

  He stood there and looked at her, and after he had gotten a good look, he said: “Now that you’re king, let’s leave well enough alone. We don’t have to wish for anything else.”

  “I’m afraid not, husband,” said the woman, and she was beginning to look uneasy. “Time is already weighing heavily on my hands. I just can’t stand it any longer. Go talk to the flounder. I may be king now, but I’ve got to become emperor as well.”

  “Wife, wife,” said the man, “why would you want to become emperor?”

  “Husband,” she said, “go talk to the flounder. Tell him I want to be emperor.”

  “Oh, my dear wife,” said the man, “he can’t make you emperor. I can’t tell the flounder to do that. There’s only one emperor in the realm. The flounder can’t make you emperor. He’ll never be able to do that.”

  “What are you talking about?” the woman said. “I’m the king, and you are my husband. Just get going. Off with you! If the flounder can make me king, he can also make me emperor. I am going to become emperor no matter what. Now get out of here!”

  And so he had to leave. But the fisherman was filled with dread when he went away. He thought to himself: “This is not going to end well. Asking to be emperor is just going too far. The flounder is going to have had enough.”

  When he arrived at the shore, the sea was all black and murky. The waters were heaving up from the depths and throwing up bubbles. The wind was so strong that the waters were choppy and covered with foam. The fisherman was terrified. He stood there and said:

  “Flounder, flounder in the sea,

  Rise on up, swim here to me,

  My wife whose name is Ilsebill

  Has sent me here against my will.”

  “What does she want now?” asked the flounder.

  “Oh, flounder,” he replied, “my wife now wants to become emperor.”

  “Go on home,” said the flounder. “She is already.”

  The fisherman returned home, and when he got there, he discovered a palace made of polished marble with alabaster statues and golden ornaments. Soldiers were marching around at the entrance, blowing trumpets and beating drums. Inside the building, barons and counts and dukes were going about discharging the duties of servants. They opened the doors for him, which were made of pure gold. He went inside and found his wife sitting on a throne made of a piece of solid gold a good two miles high. On her head was a golden crown three ells high and studded with diamonds and emeralds. In one hand she was holding a scepter and in the other the imperial orb. Bodyguards were standing in a row on both sides, each shorter than the one before him, beginning with an enormous giant, who was about two miles tall, to a tiny dwarf, no bigger than my little finger. Princes and dukes were gathered in a crowd before her.

  The fisherman went and stood among them and said: “Well, wife. It looks like you’re finally emperor.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I am the emperor.”

  He stood and took a good look at her, and after staring for a while, he said, “Wife, now that you’re emperor, let’s leave well enough alone.”

  “Husband,” she said. “Why are you standing there? Now that I’m emperor, I want to become pope. Go talk to the flounder.”

  “Oh, wife!” the man said. “What will you be asking for next? You can’t become pope. There’s only one pope in all Christendom. The flounder can’t make you pope.”

  “Husband,” said the woman. “That’s hogwash! If he can make me emperor, he can also make me pope. Do as you’re told. I’m the emperor, and you’re just my husband, so you had better get going.”

  The fisherman was filled with dread and felt faint, but he went back all the same. Shivering and shaking, his knees went weak and his legs wobbled. A strong wind was blowing, and clouds were racing across the skies. By evening it had turned dark and gloomy. Leaves were blowing from the trees, and the waters seemed to be boiling as they roared down below and foamed up above. In the distance, the fisherman could see ships sending out distress signals as they were tossed and turned about by the waves. There was still a patch of blue in the middle of the sky, but it was surrounded on all sides by red as in a terrible storm. Full of fear and despair, the fisherman stood there and said:

  “Flounder, flounder in the sea,

  Rise on up, swim here to me,

  My wife whose name is Ilsebill

  Has sent me here against my will.”

  “What does she want now?” asked the flounder.

  “Dear me,” said the man. “She now wants to become pope.”

  “Go home,” said the flounder. “She already is.”

  And so he returned home, and when he got there, he found a large church surrounded by palaces. He forced his way through the crowds. Inside, the whole place was lit up by thousands and thousands of candles, and his wife was clothed in pure gold, sitting on a throne even higher than before. She was wearing three immense crowns of gold. Surrounded by papal splendor, she sat there with a line of candles on each side of her, the largest as thick and as tall as the biggest tower, down to the smallest kitchen candle. And all the emperors and kings were down on their knees before her, kissing her slipper.

  “Wife,” the man said, taking a good look at her, “so now you are pope?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I am the pope.”

  He stood there looking at her, and he felt as if he were looking right into the bright light of the sun. After staring at her for a while, he said: “Well, wife, now that you are pope, maybe we can leave well enough alone!”

  She stood there stiff as a board and neither stirred nor moved.

  “Wife,” he said to her. “You had better be satisfied now that you are pope. There is really nothing beyond that.”

  “We’ll see about that,” said the wife, and then they both went to bed. But she still wasn’t satisfied. Her ambition would not allow her to go to sleep. She kept wondering what else there was.

  The fisherman slept well and soundly, for he had covered a lot of ground that day. As for the wife, she could not even get to sleep. All night long she tossed and turned in her bed, thinking about what else she could become. But she was at a loss. Then
the sun began to rise, and when she saw the light of dawn, she sat straight up in bed and looked out the window. She watched the sun rising and thought to herself: “Ha, why couldn’t I be the one to make the sun and moon rise?”

  “Husband,” she said, poking him in the ribs with her elbow. “Wake up and go talk to the flounder. I want to become like our dear

  God.”

  The fisherman was still half asleep, but her words gave him such a start that he fell right out of bed. He was sure that he had misunderstood her, and he rubbed his eyes. “Wife, what are you saying?”

  “Husband,” she replied, “If I can’t make the sun and the moon rise, but have to watch them rise and set, I won’t be able to stand it. I’ll never have a moment’s peace.”

  She gave him a look that sent shivers up and down his spine. “Get going now. I want to become like our dear God.”

  “Wife, wife,” the fisherman said, falling on his knees before her, “the flounder can’t do that. He may be able to make you emperor and pope, but that’s it. I’m pleading with you to stay satisfied with being pope.”

  At that, she went into a rage and her hair flew wildly about her head. She tore her bodice open and gave him a swift kick, shouting: “Will you just get going! I’m not going to stand for this any longer. I’ve had it!”

  The fisherman pulled his trousers on and ran off like a madman.

  Outside a storm was raging, and the wind was blowing so hard that the fisherman could hardly stay on his feet. Trees and houses were falling down, the mountains were trembling, great boulders went crashing into the sea, and the sky was pitch black. Thunder and lightning filled the air, and the sea was rising up in great black waves as tall as church towers and mountains and capped with crowns of white foam. The fisherman yelled at the top of his lungs but couldn’t even hear his own words:

  “Flounder, flounder in the sea,

  Rise on up, swim here to me,

  My wife whose name is Ilsebill

  Has sent me here against my will.”

  “What does she want now?” asked the flounder.

  “Dear me,” he said. “Now she wants to become like our dear God.”

  “Go back home. She’s sitting in her pigsty again.”

  And that’s where they’re still living today.

  THE BRAVE

  LITTLE TAILOR

  ne summer da a little tailor was sitting at a table near a window. He was in high spirits, and sewing for all he was worth, when a peasant woman came walking down the street, crying out: “Sweet jams for sale! Sweet jams for sale!”

  The words sounded tempting to the tailor’s ears, and he poked his little head out the window and shouted down: “Up here, my good woman, there’s a buyer waiting for you.” The woman hauled her heavy basket up three flights of stairs to the tailor and then unpacked all her jars for him. He inspected each one of them, raising the jars up to the light and giving them each a little sniff. Finally he declared: “This looks like good jam to me. Give me three ounces of it, and if it comes to a quarter of a pound, my good woman, you won’t hear me complaining.”

  The woman, who had been hoping for a big sale, gave him what he wanted but was annoyed and started grumbling to herself as she was leaving.

  “May God bless this jam and let it give me strength and energy!” the tailor said while taking a loaf of bread from the cupboard, cutting a piece straight across, and spreading jam on the slice. “I’ll bet this won’t have a bitter taste,” he said. “But before I take a bite, I’m going to finish the work on this jacket.” He set the piece of bread down next to him, continued sewing, and the stitches became bigger and bigger in his joyful anticipation.

  Meanwhile, the smell of the sweet jam was wafting up to the ceiling, and the flies swarming on the walls were attracted by the smell and settled right down on the jam.

  “Who in the world invited you to this party?” the tailor asked, and he shooed the unwelcome guests away. But the flies evidently did not understand English, and instead of getting discouraged, they came in even larger numbers. Finally the tailor was at his wit’s end, as they say, and he snatched a rag from under his table: “Just you wait! I’ll let you see who’s boss!” and he began swatting the flies without mercy.

  When he had finished, he counted up and found that no less than seven of the flies were dead, with their legs up in the air. “You’re some fellow!” he said to himself, and he couldn’t help but admire his own courage. “The whole town should know about this!” And in a flash he cut out a belt for himself, stitched it up, and embroidered large letters on it that read “Seven at one blow!” And his heart started wagging with joy, just like the tail of a little lamb.

  The tailor put the belt around his waist and decided to go out into the world, for now the workshop was clearly too narrow for someone of his mettle. Before leaving, he looked around to see if there was anything he should take with him. The only thing he could find was a piece of old cheese, and he put it in his pocket. At the city gates, he noticed a bird that had gotten caught in some bushes, and the bird joined the cheese in his pocket. Then he set out as brave as can be, with the road between his legs, and since he was light and nimble, he never got tired.

  The road took him to a mountain, and once he had climbed up to its peak, he saw a powerful giant sitting there enjoying the view. The little tailor went right up to him, and feeling no fear, he said: “Greetings, comrade! Looking out at the great, wide world, are you? Well, that’s where I’m headed to try my luck. Care to join me?”

  The giant looked at him with great contempt and said: “You little pipsqueak. You’re nothing but a miserable wretch!”

  “That’s what you think!” the little tailor said, and he unbuttoned his jacket so that the giant could see his belt. “Now you can read for yourself what kind of man I am.”

  The giant read the letters: “Seven at one blow!” and he thought it meant that the tailor had slain seven men. He began to feel some respect for the little guy before him, but he decided that he would put that strength to the test. The giant picked up a rock and squeezed it until water began dripping from it. “If you’re so strong,” he said, “can you do that?”

  “Is that all?” said the little tailor. “That’s child’s play for someone like me.” And he put his hand into his pocket, took out the soft cheese, and squeezed it until the whey ran out from it. “Well, what do you think? Not bad, eh?” the tailor said.

  The giant was completely baffled and could hardly believe his eyes. He picked up a rock and threw it so high that it vanished into thin air. “All right, you little runt, let’s see you do that.”

  “Not a bad throw,” the tailor said, “but your rock must have landed somewhere. I’m going to throw a stone up so high that it will never come back down to earth.” He reached into his pocket, took out the bird, and threw it in the air. Happy to be liberated at last, the bird flew up and away and never came back. “How’d you like that little trick, my friend?” asked the tailor.

  “I have to admit that you’re not bad at throwing,” said the giant, “but let’s see how good you are at carrying things.” He walked on with the tailor until they reached a huge oak tree that had been felled, and he said: “If you’re so strong, you can help me get this tree out of the woods.”

  “At your service,” said the little fellow. “If you put the trunk on your shoulders, I’ll take care of the harder part and lift the branches and leaves.”

  The giant lifted the trunk on his shoulders, and the tailor hopped up on a branch. Since the giant couldn’t see behind him, he had to carry the whole tree, and the little tailor to boot, on his back. The tailor was so snug in his seat and felt so chipper that he started singing: “Three tailors went a-riding to town.” He acted as if carrying huge trees was a lark. After lugging the heavy load for some distance, the giant had to take a break and he cried out: “Hold
on, I have to stop and rest.” The tailor quickly jumped off his perch, held on to the tree with both arms as if he’d been carrying it all along, and then he said to the giant: “I would have thought that a huge fellow like you wouldn’t have had any trouble carrying this tree.”

  The two of them walked on for a while and came to a cherry tree. The giant grabbed the top of the tree, where the cherries ripen the soonest, bent it down, and handed it to the tailor so that he could eat some of the fruit. But when the giant let go of the tree, the treetop snapped back up and the tailor was catapulted into the air. He fell back down to the ground without hurting himself, and the giant said: “You mean you’re not even strong enough to hold on to that measly little branch?”

  “Don’t fret about how strong I am,” the tailor said. “Do you think that holding that branch down is hard for someone who’s slain seven with one blow? I decided to jump over the tree because there are some hunters down there shooting in the bushes. Now let’s see if you can jump over it.” The giant tried with all his might, but he couldn’t get over the tree and got stuck in the branches, so that, here too, the tailor had the upper hand.

  The giant then declared: “If you’re such a brave fellow, then come over to our cave and spend the night there.” The tailor was perfectly willing and followed him. When they reached the cave, a number of giants were sitting around a fire. They had just roasted some sheep, and the giants were sinking their teeth into them. The tailor took a good look around him and thought: “It’s much more spacious here than in my workshop.” The giant showed him a bed and told him to lie down and get some sleep. The bed was way too large for the little tailor, and instead of lying down in it, he crawled into a corner. When midnight came around, the giant was sure that the tailor would be fast asleep, and so he got up, took a big iron club, and with one blow smashed the bed in two. He was pretty sure that he’d managed to get rid of that pesky critter at last.

  At the crack of dawn, the giants decided to take a walk into the forest. They had managed to forget all about the tailor when all of a sudden there he was, marching along, sassier and friskier than you can imagine. The giants were terrified. They were afraid that he was going to kill them all with one blow, and they ran away as fast as their legs could carry them.