Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm: A New English Version

by Philip Pullman

  ‘Young man, are you the knight who came to the tournament each day in different-coloured armour, and who caught the three golden apples?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the young man, ‘and here they are.’ He took the three apples out of his pocket and gave them back to the king. ‘If you need more proof,’ he went on, ‘you can see the wound the other knights gave me when they chased me yesterday. But I’m also the knight who helped your army to victory over the enemy.’

  ‘If you can do that sort of thing, you’re no gardener’s boy,’ said the king. ‘Tell me, who is your father?’

  ‘He’s a powerful king, and I have as much gold as I need.’

  ‘H’mm. I see. Well, clearly I owe you some thanks,’ said the king. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Indeed there is,’ said the young man. ‘You can give me your daughter for my wife.’

  The princess laughed and said, ‘He doesn’t beat about the bush! But I knew as soon as I saw him that he wasn’t a gardener’s boy.’

  And then she went to him and kissed him.

  His father and mother came to the wedding, and were filled with joy. They had given up all hope of ever seeing their dear son again.

  At the height of the wedding feast, the music suddenly stopped. The doors flew open, and a proud king came in with a great retinue. He strode up to the young man, embraced him, and said, ‘I am Iron Hans, and I was turned into a wild man by a spell, but you have set me free. All the treasures I have shall be yours.’

  ***

  Tale type: ATU 502, ‘The Wild Man’

  Source: a story told to the Grimm brothers by the Hassenpflug family and ‘Eiserne Hans’ (‘Iron Hans’), a tale in Friedmund von Arnim’s Hundert neue Mährchen im Gebirge gesammelt (Hundred New Tales from the Mountains; 1844)

  Similar stories: Alexander Afanasyev: ‘Prince Ivan and Princess Martha’ (Russian Fairy Tales); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘Three-for-a-pot’ (Folk Tales of Britain); Andrew Lang: ‘The Hairy Man’ (Crimson Fairy Book)

  This story acquired a good deal of fame in the early 1990s, as a result of Robert Bly’s Iron John: A Book About Men (1990), a central text of the men’s movement section of the Mind, Body and Spirit shelves in bookshops. Bly maintained that modern men had become feminized and exiled by contemporary ways of life from authentic patterns of psychic development, and needed a model of masculinity that involved initiation into true manhood by those who were themselves true men. Apparently this story, and the wild man at its centre, is such a model.

  There may be something in it, but my guess is that if such things work at all, they work a great deal better when you don’t know they’re doing it. Nothing is more likely to drive listeners away than a ponderous interpretation of what they’ve just marvelled at. It’s a very good story, whatever it means.

  As for the sound of the poor old lame horse’s hooves, in English versions we have a choice of ‘higgledy-hop’ (D. L. Ashliman, A Guide to Folktales in the English Language), ‘clippety clop’ (Ralph Mannheim, The Penguin Complete Grimms’ Tales for Young and Old), ‘hobblety jig’ (Margaret Hunt, The Complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales), ‘hippety-hop’ (Jack Zipes, Brothers Grimm: The Complete Fairy Tales) and ‘hobbledy-clop’ (David Luke, Brothers Grimm: Selected Tales). Luke’s version was a clear winner, so I stole that.

  I think it worth noting that the German for it is hunkepuus.

  FORTY-FIVE

  MOUNT SIMELI

  There were once two brothers, one rich, the other poor. The first brother, rich as he was, gave no help to the poor one, who barely scraped a living as a corn merchant. Things went badly for him, and quite often he had hardly a crust of bread to feed his wife and children with.

  One day the poor brother was pushing his cart through the forest when he noticed a high rocky mountain to one side of the path. Since he’d never seen it before, he stood looking at it with some surprise, and while he was standing there, he saw a dozen rough-looking men approaching. They hadn’t yet seen him, and thinking they might be robbers, he shoved his cart into the bushes and climbed a tree to be out of the way.

  The men went to the foot of the mountain, which wasn’t far away, and called out: ‘Mount Semsi, Mount Semsi, open up!’

  At once, with a rumble of rock, a cave opened in the middle of the mountain. The twelve men walked into it, and as soon as they were inside, it shut again.

  The corn merchant sat in his tree wondering what to do next. But he hadn’t been there for long when there was another rumble and the cave opened once more, and the men came out carrying heavy sacks on their backs.

  Once they were all out in the daylight they called out, ‘Mount Semsi, Mount Semsi, close up!’

  The entrance to the cave closed up so tight that it couldn’t be seen at all, and the twelve robbers went back the way they’d come.

  When they were all completely out of sight, the poor man climbed down from his tree. He was curious to see what was inside the cave, so he went to the foot of the mountain and called, ‘Mount Semsi, Mount Semsi, open up!’

  The mountain opened straight away, and in he went. The whole interior of the mountain was full of silver and gold coins, of great heaps of pearls, rubies, emeralds and diamonds, piled up higher than any heap of grain the poor corn merchant had ever seen. He stood there wondering what he should do, and whether he should take any of this treasure for himself. In the end he couldn’t resist, and he stuffed his pockets full of gold coins. He left the jewels where they were, though.

  Once he’d done that he looked out cautiously, tiptoed outside and called out, ‘Mount Semsi, Mount Semsi, close up!’

  The mountain closed obediently, and the corn merchant went home with his empty cart.

  For some time after that he was happy, because he had enough gold to buy bread for his family, and meat and wine as well. What’s more, he could give money to the poor, and so he did; he lived happily and honestly and did a lot of good. When he ran out of money he borrowed a bushel measure from his brother and went back to Mount Semsi, where he filled it with gold coins. As before, he left the jewels alone.

  When he wanted to get a third helping of gold coins, he asked his brother once more for the bushel. His brother was very curious by this time; he couldn’t imagine where the corn merchant had got the money to furnish his house so richly and to live so well, so he set a trap. He covered the bottom of the bushel with pitch. And when he got it back, there was a gold coin sticking to it.

  He went to see his brother straight away.

  ‘What did you want to measure in my bushel?’ he said.

  ‘Wheat and barley, as usual,’ said the corn merchant.

  Then his brother showed him the gold coin.

  ‘Which is this then, wheat or barley? Come on, I want the truth! And if you don’t tell me exactly what you’re up to, I’ll have the law on you!’

  The corn merchant had to tell his brother everything. And as soon as he heard about the treasure inside Mount Semsi, the rich man hitched the donkey to his wagon and drove there, intending to take far more gold than his brother had, and to bring home a large quantity of those jewels, too.

  When he came to the mountain he called out, ‘Mount Semsi, Mount Semsi, open up!’

  The mountain opened and in he went. He stood for a long time gaping at all the treasure in front of him; he didn’t know what to plunge his hands into first. Finally he went for the jewels, and thrust handful after handful into his pockets, intending to take them out to the wagon; but since his heart and soul were so bound up with the treasure, he’d forgotten the most important thing, and when he wanted to open the mountain to go out, he called, ‘Mount Simeli, Mount Simeli, open up!’

  And of course that was the wrong name. The mountain didn’t move an inch. The rich brother began to get frightened, and tried one name after another: ‘Mount Sipsa
ck! Mount Sepsick! Mount Spittelboom! Mount Spotnik! Mount Sizwiz!’

  Of course none of them worked. The more confused he got, the more frightened he became, and the more frightened he was, the more confused he became.

  And time went past, and he broke all his fingernails scrabbling at the rocks trying to find the place where the mountain opened up. He kept on trying to find the right name: ‘Mount Snipfish! Mount Saucehorse! Mount Snakepaste! Mount Sagsausage! Mount Siccapillydircus!’

  All the treasure in his pockets was no use to him; his counting house, his real estate, his bank accounts, his stocks and shares – none of them could help him one bit.

  Then to his horror he heard a voice outside calling: ‘Mount Semsi! Mount Semsi! Open up!’

  Of course! That was the name! How could he have forgotten it?

  And then the mountain was opening, and twelve fierce robbers were looking at him.

  ‘There you are,’ said the largest and fiercest. ‘Got you at last. Did you think we hadn’t noticed that you’d been here twice already?’

  ‘It wasn’t me! It was my brother! Honest! He stole these jewels! I came here to put them back! I swear it!’

  But whatever he said, and however much he begged and pleaded, it was no use. That morning, he had gone into the mountain in one piece. That evening he came out in several.

  ***

  Tale type: ATU 676, ‘The Forty Thieves’

  Source: a story told to the Grimm brothers by Ludowine von Haxthausen

  Similar stories: ‘The Story of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves Killed by a Slave Girl’ (The Arabian Nights); Italo Calvino: ‘The Thirteen Bandits’ (Italian Folktales)

  Quite clearly, this is the first half of the well-known tale from The Arabian Nights. At least, it comes from the French translation of the original tales by Antoine Galland (1646–1715), which isn’t quite the same thing, because, in the absence of Arabic manuscripts of ‘Ali Baba’ and ‘Aladdin’ that predate Galland’s translation, scholars suspect that Galland made them up himself. Calvino’s Italian version is similar to this tale.

  But where is the second half? I miss the body of the chopped-up brother being sewn together and the thieves hiding in the oil-jars and the faithful slave boiling them to death. Either Ludowine von Haxthausen didn’t know it (but then Calvino’s source didn’t know it either) or someone, possibly the Grimms, decided it was better without it. It isn’t, though. And it wouldn’t be hard to Germanize the exotic elements of Galland’s marvellous tale, and round it all off properly.

  FORTY-SIX

  LAZY HEINZ

  Heinz was bone idle. Though he had nothing to do but drive the goat out to pasture every day, he complained every evening when he came home.

  ‘Honestly,’ he said, ‘it’s a devil of a job driving this goat to the meadow day in day out all year round. It’s not like some jobs, where you can shut your eyes for a nap occasionally. No, no. It’s a heavy responsibility. I’ve got to watch every second to see it doesn’t nibble the young trees, or shove its way through the hedge into someone’s garden, or even run away for good. How on earth can I get a bit of rest, put my feet up, enjoy life?’

  He sat down and collected his thoughts. They were quite easy to collect, because there weren’t very many of them, and they all concerned the same subject – what a burden his life was. For a long time he sat there staring at nothing, and then suddenly he sat up and clapped his hands.

  ‘I know what I’ll do!’ he said. ‘I’ll marry Big Trina. She’s got a goat as well, and she can drive mine out with hers, and save me the trouble. Brilliant idea!’

  So he heaved himself up out of the chair and trudged all the way across the street to the house where Big Trina’s parents lived, and asked for the hand of their virtuous and hard-working daughter. They didn’t have to think about it very hard, because they’d been wondering how to get rid of her for years.

  ‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ they thought, and gave their consent.

  So Big Trina became Heinz’s wife, and every day she drove out both goats to pasture. Heinz had a fine time, with nothing whatever to do. He did go out with her occasionally, but only so he’d enjoy it even more when he had the following day off.

  ‘I’d lose all feeling for it otherwise,’ he said. ‘Variety is the spice of life.’

  However, Big Trina was just as lazy as he was.

  ‘Heinz, darling,’ she said one day, ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  Thinking was just as much of an effort for her as it was for him, so he knew what she’d gone through, and he listened with close attention.

  ‘What about?’ he said.

  ‘Them goats,’ she said. ‘They wake us up ever so early with their bleating.’

  ‘You never said a truer word,’ he said.

  ‘So I thought maybe we could ask the neighbour to swap them for his beehive. We could put it in that sunny corner in the back garden and then forget about it. You don’t have to drive bees out to pasture, do you? They fly out and find their way to the flowers and then come home again all by theirselves. And they collect honey all the time and we don’t have to do nothing.’

  ‘Did you think of that all by yourself?’ said Heinz.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said modestly.

  ‘Well, I think it’s bloody brilliant. I really do. We’ll do it right away. Well, maybe leave it till tomorrow. And I tell you something else,’ he said, almost enthusiastically, ‘honey tastes a lot nicer than what goats’ milk does.’

  ‘And it keeps longer too,’ she added.

  ‘Oh, Trina, darling! If you come over here I’ll kiss you.’

  ‘Maybe later,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, all right.’

  Next morning they suggested this idea to the neighbour, and he agreed at once. He took the goats and carried the beehive over to Heinz and Trina’s back garden, and put it in the sunny corner; and from then on the bees did their work tirelessly, flying in and out from early morning till late in the evening, gathering nectar and filling the hive with fine sweet honey. And late in the year, Heinz was able to take out a whole jugful.

  He and Trina put the jug on the shelf over their bed. Trina was worried in case thieves got in and stole it, or mice got into it and made a mess, so she found a stout hazel stick and kept it under her side of the bed. That way she could reach it and drive away the mice or the burglars without having to get up.

  Heinz thought that was another good idea. He was full of admiration for his wife’s power of foresight; thinking about things that hadn’t happened yet made him tired, and he never used to get up before noon anyway. ‘Early rising is a waste of the bed,’ he said.

  One morning as the two of them lay there eating breakfast, a thought occurred to him, for a change.

  ‘You know,’ he said, putting his piece of toast down on the bedspread, ‘you’re like most women, you’ve got a sweet tooth, you have. If you keep on dipping into that honey, there won’t be any left. What I reckon is, we ought to swap it for a goose and a gosling before you eat it all up.’

  ‘A goose and a gosling?’ said Trina. ‘But we haven’t got a child yet!’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘He’s got to look after the goose, of course! I’m not going to do it. When have I got time to chase around after geese?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Heinz. ‘Yeah. I hadn’t thought about that. But d’you think he’ll do what he’s told anyway? Kids don’t, these days. No respect at all for their parents. You see it all the time.’

  ‘I’ll show you what he’ll get if he doesn’t,’ Trina said, and seized the stick from under the bed. ‘I’ll take this stick and I’ll wallop him. I’ll tan his hide, you see if I don’t. Like this!’

  And she whacked the bed again and again with such hearty blows that dust and feat
hers and breadcrumbs flew high into the air. Unfortunately, as she raised her stick for the last time, she hit the jug of honey on the shelf above. It broke into several pieces, and honey dripped down the wall and on to the floor.

  ‘Well, there goes the goose,’ said Heinz. ‘And the gosling. And I don’t suppose they’d’ve needed much looking after anyway. Hey, it’s a good job the jug didn’t fall on my head. Where’s that toast gone?’

  He found it on the floor, butter side down, and used it to mop up some of the honey running down the wall.

  ‘Here you are, darling,’ he said. ‘You have this last bit.’

  ‘Thank you, sweetie,’ she said. ‘I gave myself a fright there.’

  ‘We need a rest, that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter if we get up a bit later than usual.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said with her mouth full of toast, ‘there’s plenty of time. Like the snail that was invited to the wedding, and he set off nice and early, and arrived just in time for the first child’s baptism. “More haste, less speed,” he said as he fell off the fence.’

  ***

  Tale type: AT 1430, ‘Air Castles’

  Source: a story in Eucharius Eyering’s Proverbiorum Copia (Plenty of Proverbs; 1601)

  Similar stories: Aesop: ‘The Milkmaid and her Pail’ (The Complete Fables); Alexander Afanasyev: ‘The Daydreamer’ (Russian Fairy Tales); Katharine M. Briggs: ‘Buttermilk Jack’ (Folk Tales of Britain)

  There are many variations on the old idea of the daydreamer who speculates on what she’ll do with the milk she’s taking to market, and imagines the fine dress she’ll buy, and tosses her head to show how elegant she’ll look, and in doing so spills the pail she’s carrying on her head and loses all the milk. It could have any setting and be spun out any number of ways; but here I liked the mutual fondness of this bone-idle pair and the deep contentment they feel in their slovenly ways.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  STRONG HANS

  A man and his wife lived in a remote valley, all alone except for their little son. One day the wife went into the woods to gather some pine branches for the fire, and she took little Hans, who was only two years old. It was springtime, and since the little boy loved the bright colours of the flowers, she wandered with him further and further into the forest.