Throughout the land, stories circulated about the beautiful little Briar Rose, for that was the name given to the slumbering princess. From time to time a prince would try to force his way through the hedge to get to the castle. But no one ever succeeded, because the briars clasped each other as if they were holding hands, and the young men who tried, got caught in them and couldn’t pry themselves loose. They died an agonizing death.6
The Grimms trim, prune, and truncate, moving quickly to the pricking of the finger on the spindle and eliminating the episode with the cannibalistic mother-in-law. When it comes to awakening Briar Rose herself, the prince is all eyes after traversing the palace, with its immobilized inhabitants, and discovering a woman “so beautiful that he could not take his eyes off her” (see here) Time has stopped in the castle, and the narrative flow is also arrested as our productive imagination is aligned with the prince, and we construct a mental image of the magnetic Sleeping Beauty. Temporality ceases to be and, for a moment, we are in the realm of pure visuality, imagining Briar Rose.
Illustrators have clearly understood how the scene of enraptured vision in “Briar Rose” produces “iconic solidity,” an effect achieved through what W. K. Wimsatt and M. Beardsley call a “sleight of words,” the imitation of something “headlong and impassioned, less ordered, nearer perhaps to the subrational.”7 Through the “solidity of symbol” and “sensory verbal qualities,” poetic abstractions take on the sturdiness of real-life objects and are reified and made into “enduring things.” Poetry may not be able to turn language into matter but it can create a mental image invested with what Paul Ricoeur has referred to as “ontological vehemence.”8 Briar Rose, at the moment when she is discovered fast asleep and frozen in time, hovers before us almost as vividly as she does for the prince. Yet the economy of means is astonishing. Often two words are all it takes—Sleeping Beauty or Briar Rose—to ignite the imagination and to see the woods, the roses, the thorns, the drapery, the hair, and the slumbering, supine body of the princess.
The thrifty use of poetic language in fairy tales can fill us with wonder but also leave us wondering, challenging us to fill in all the descriptive and causal blanks, in short, to use our imaginations. With their witches and woods, roses and thorns, golden balls and slimy suitors, fairy tales create shimmering visuals, verbal icons—sleeping beauties, skulls decorated with flowers, homicidal birds with jewel-encrusted plumage—that oblige us to “think more” and “think harder.” In short we have to interpret and backfill as well as listen and absorb.
Ever since Snow White’s body was placed in a glass coffin on top of a hill for public viewing, feminist critics have suspected that her beautiful corpse, idealized and almost literally placed on a pedestal, elicits a purely aesthetic viewing of the female body, one that replaces the notion of decay and death with permanence and plenitude.9 Seeing is privileged over touching (Perrault’s prince too only gazes at his sleeping beauty), and the prince’s prolonged gaze creates a reassuring moment in which aesthetic pleasure appears to displace anxieties about mortality. The beautiful corpses of Snow White and Sleeping Beauty have inspired art that ensures a double immortality, for the comatose women and the works of art representing them.
It took Angela Carter to demythologize “Sleeping Beauty” and break the magic spell that has taken us all in ever since Basile, Perrault, and the Brothers Grimm codified the fairy tale. “In a faraway land long ago”: Disney’s Sleeping Beauty begins with words that remind us of the drive to preserve the mythical power of tales from times past, to perpetuate the cult of the beautiful corpse that is the fairy tale in the form told in times past. Just as Carter’s Sleeping Beauty in her story “The Lady of the House of Love” repeats “ancestral crimes,” so the fairy tale enables us to lose ourselves in a mindless cycle of repetition compulsion that reproduces and reinforces social norms.10 The house of fairy tale, like the House of Love, degenerates into ruins—“cobwebs, worm-eaten beams, crumbling plaster”—when left to its own devices, visited only by sycophantic suitors driven more by the lure of beauty than the desire to reanimate.11 Without the right suitor, Carter’s somnambulant beauty has become “a cave full of echoes,” “a system of repetitions,” “a closed circuit.” Leading a “baleful posthumous” existence, she feeds on humans to sustain her. It is from this dark tradition that Neil Gaiman constructs his breathtakingly compelling “Snow, Glass, Apples” (see here).
Sleeping Beauty and Briar Rose, with their magnetic beauty and supremely passive status, remain hauntingly seductive figures in our cultural imagination, reminding us of the pleasures of beauty but also of the attractions of morbidity. They may be immobile, but they also migrate with ease into new media as counterparts to mercurial tricksters—all the warrior women who hunt, shoot, and seek revenge in today’s cinematic refashioning of fairy-tale figures. That their stories have been resurrected and are constantly reimagined is a stark reminder that the emergence of a female trickster—feisty and ferocious heroines like Katniss Everdeen in The Hunger Games and Lisbeth Salander in The Millennium Trilogy—does not necessarily signal a seismic shift in our understanding of female agency, even if trickster tales frame new perils and possibilities for postmodern heroines.12 Sleeping Beauty, a true hermeneutic puzzle in her many cultural incarnations, preserves the magical, mythical elements of fairy tales, even as she cries out for disenchantment.
* * *
1. Madonna Kolbenschlag, Kiss Sleeping Beauty Good-Bye: Breaking the Spell of Feminine Myths and Models (New York: Harper Perennial, 1990), and Jane Adams, Wake Up, Sleeping Beauty (Bloomington, IN: iUniverse, 2001).
2. Simone de Beauvoir, The Second Sex, trans. H. M. Parshley (London: Picador, 1988), p. 318.
3. Laura Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” Screen 16 (1975): 6–18.
4. Giambattista Basile, The Tale of Tales, or Entertainment for Little Ones, trans. Nancy Canepa (Detroit: Wayne State UP, 2007).
5. Donald Haase, “Kiss and Tell: Orality, Narrative, and the Power of Words in ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ ” Etudes de Lettres 289.3–4 (2011): 275–92.
6. The Annotated Brothers Grimm: The Bicentennial Edition, ed. Maria Tatar (New York: Norton, 2012), p. 242.
7. W. K. Wimsatt Jr. and Monroe C. Beardsley, The Verbal Icon: Studies in the Meaning of Poetry (Lexington: Kentucky UP, 1967), p. 115.
8. Paul Ricoeur, The Rule of Metaphor: Multi-Disciplinary Studies of the Creation of Meaning in Language (Toronto: Toronto UP, 1981), p. 294.
9. See Elisabeth Bronfen, Over Her Dead Body: Death, Femininity, and the Aesthetic (New York: Routledge, 1992), pp. 99–107.
10. Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories (New York: Penguin, 1990), p. 93.
11. Katherine A. Hagopian explores how Carter’s tale inverts the relationship between Cupid and Psyche, with a monstrous bride residing in a house of love rather than a “winged serpent” residing in the “house of Eros.” See her “Apuleius and Gothic Narrative in Carter’s ‘The Lady of the House of Love,’ ” Explicator 66 (2007): 52–55.
12. Maria Tatar, “Sleeping Beauties vs. Gonzo Girls,” The New Yorker, November 21, 2012, newyorker.com/books/page-turner/sleeping-beauties-vs-gonzo-girls.
CHARLES PERRAULT
The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood†
Once upon a time there lived a king and queen who were deeply distraught because they had no children. They were so troubled that words could not express their feelings of sadness. They tried all the healing waters in the world. They took vows and made pilgrimages. They did everything possible, but nothing worked. Then one day the queen discovered that she was pregnant and gave birth to a daughter. At the christening, all the fairies of the realm (seven in all) were asked to serve as godmother with the hope that each would give the child a gift. According to what was known about fairies in those days, they were able to give gifts that would endow the princess with every advantage imaginable.
The king ordered a place set for her, but he was unable to come up with another massive gold case because they had all been made to order for the seven other fairies. The elderly fairy considered this an insult and muttered some threats under her breath. One of the young fairies who happened to be nearby overheard her words. Worried that the older fairy might be plotting to bring the child bad luck, she hid behind a tapestry as soon as everyone rose from the table. That way she would have the last word and could repair, insofar as possible, any damage the old woman tried to inflict.
Meanwhile, the fairies could be heard presenting their gifts to the princess. The youngest declared, “She will be the most beautiful person in the world.” The next fairy added, “She will have the disposition of an angel.” The third decreed, “Her every movement will be marked by gracefulness.” The fourth, “She will dance beyond compare.” The fifth, “She will sing like a nightingale.” The sixth, “She will play every instrument with consummate skill.”
Finally, it was the turn of the elderly fairy. Her head trembled more with malice than from old age as she decreed, “The princess will die after piercing her finger with a spindle.”
The terrible pronouncement made everyone present quake with fear. No one could hold back their tears. Just then the young fairy stepped out from behind the tapestry and said in a loud voice, “Do not despair, my king and queen, for your daughter will not die. It’s true that I do not have the power to undo what the other fairy has done. The princess will pierce her finger with a spindle, but she will not die. She will fall into a deep sleep that will last a hundred years. When that time is up, a king’s son will appear to wake her up.”
Hoping to avoid the calamity predicted by the elderly fairy, the king issued at once a public edict forbidding his subjects, under pain of death, to use a spindle or to keep any spindles in their homes.
Some fifteen or sixteen years passed. The royal couple traveled with their retinue to one of their country residences, and the princess decided to explore the rooms in it. She walked from one chamber to the next and reached a room at the top of a tower. There she entered a little garret, where an honorable old woman was at work with her distaff and spindle. This good woman had not learned about the king’s prohibition on using spindles for the work of spinning.
“What are you doing there, my good woman?” asked the princess.
“I’m spinning, my lovely child,” replied the old woman, who had no idea who she was.
“Oh, how pretty your work is!” the princess replied. “How do you do what you do? Let me see if I can do it as well as you.”
No sooner had she touched the spindle than she pricked her hand with its point and fainted. After all, she had been reckless and a little thoughtless, but then again it had all been ordained that way. Deeply upset, the good old woman called for help, and it came from all quarters. Some people threw water on the princess’s face. Others unlaced her stays and slapped her hands. Still others rubbed her temples with water from the Queen of Hungary. Nothing could revive her.
The king ran upstairs when he heard the uproar, and he remembered right away what the fairies had predicted. He wisely concluded that everything had proceeded exactly as the fairies had said. He ordered the princess carried up to the finest apartment in the palace and placed on a bed with coverlets embroidered in silver and gold. She was so beautiful that you would have thought her an angel. The swoon had not deprived her of her smooth complexion. Her cheeks were still rosy, and her lips were like coral. Her eyes were shut tight, but you could still hear the gentle sound of her breath and that showed that she was not dead. The king ordered that she be left to sleep in peace until the time came for her to wake up.
The good fairy who had saved the girl’s life by decreeing that she would sleep for one hundred years lived in the Kingdom of Mataquin, twelve thousand leagues away. When the unfortunate events took place in the turret, a dwarf told the good fairy about what had happened. The dwarf owned a pair of seven-league boots—that is, a pair of boots that enabled anyone who put them on to cover seven leagues with a single stride. The fairy set out immediately, and an hour later she was seen arriving in a chariot of fire drawn by dragons. The king advanced and offered his hand to help her out of the chariot. She gave her approval to everything that he had done. But since she was a woman of great foresight, she realized that when the princess finally woke up she would feel somewhat embarrassed about finding herself all alone in that old castle. Here is what she did:
She tapped everyone in the castle with her wand—with the exception of the king and queen. Governesses, maids of honor, ladies-in-waiting, gentlemen, officers, stewards, cooks, scullions, boys, guards, porters, pages, and footmen—all were touched by her wand. She also waved her wand at all the horses in the stables, their grooms, the great mastiffs in the courtyard, and even little Pouffe, the princess’s tiny dog lying on the bed beside her. As soon as she touched them with her wand, they all fell asleep, and they would not wake up again until the time came for the princess to do so. And in this way they would all be ready to wait on her if she needed them. Even the spits that were turning over the fire, with their partridges and pheasants, were enchanted, and the fire went out as well.
Everything happened almost instantly, for fairies never lose much time when they work. The king and queen kissed their precious daughter without waking her and left the castle. They issued a proclamation declaring that no one could enter the castle. Those orders were unnecessary, for in a matter of moments the park was surrounded by trees, large and small, all covered with thorny brambles. Neither man nor beast could get through. All you could see were the very tops of the castle turrets, and that only from a considerable distance. No one had any doubt that the fairy had had a hand in creating that barrier so that the princess would be spared the curiosity of strangers while she was slumbering.
A hundred years passed by, and the princess’s family had been succeeded by a new family of rulers. One day the son of the king went hunting in the neighborhood and asked about the towers that he could make out above the trees in a large and dense forest. Everyone responded to the prince’s inquiries with the various stories they had been told. Some said that the castle was haunted by ghosts. Others reported that all the witches in that region held their Sabbath there. The most common story told was one about an ogre who lived there and captured as many children as he could, then ate them up at his leisure. No one could follow him, for he alone was able to navigate a path through the woods. While the prince was trying to make up his mind about what to believe, an elderly peasant spoke up and said, “My Prince, it has now been over fifty years since I heard my father say that the most beautiful princess ever seen lies in that castle. He told me that she was supposed to sleep for one hundred years and that she was destined to be awakened by a chosen king’s son.”
The prince heard those words and felt as if he were on fire. There was no doubt in his mind that he was the one destined to undertake this wonderful adventure. Driven by love and glory, he decided instantly to find out what would happen if he set off. As soon as he approached the woods, the trees and brambles began to separate and make a path of their own accord. He was able to pass through unharmed by the thorns. He started walking toward the castle, which was at the end of a long avenue that had opened up before him. To his surprise, the trees grew back in place as soon as he passed through, and none of his attendants could follow him. But he continued
to march on, for a young man in love is always courageous.
When he entered a vast courtyard, his blood froze with terror at what he saw. A frightful silence had descended on the place. Death seemed to be everywhere. All you could see were the bodies of humans and animals stretched out on the ground, apparently lifeless. But the prince soon discovered that, judging by the shiny noses and red faces of the porters, everyone was just sleeping. The goblets from which the men had been drinking still contained a few drops of wine and showed that the porters had dozed off while drinking. Passing through a courtyard paved with marble, the prince then went up a staircase. When he entered the guardroom, he saw the guards lined up, their carbines shouldered, and snoring away. He crossed several apartments filled with ladies and gentlemen, every single one asleep, some standing, some seated. Finally he entered a room that was covered entirely with gold leaf and beheld the loveliest sight he had ever looked upon. On a bed with curtains open on each side was a princess who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen years old. Her radiant charms gave her such a luminous, otherworldly appearance that he approached her trembling, so full of admiration that he knelt down beside her. At that very moment, the spell had come to an end. The princess woke up and bestowed on him a look sweeter than a first glance would ordinarily merit.
“Is it you, my prince?” she asked. “You’ve kept me waiting for such a long time.”
Charmed by these words, and even more by the tone in which they were uttered, the prince hardly knew how to express his joy and gratitude to her. He assured her that he loved her more than he loved himself. His words were not entirely comprehensible, but the princess liked him all the more for that. The less eloquence, the more love, as they say. He was much more flustered than she was, and that makes complete sense, for the princess had had plenty of time to think up what she would say to him. There is reason to believe (though history makes no mention of it) that the good fairy had seen to it that the princess’s dreams were all charming and pleasant during her long sleep. The two talked for many hours without expressing half of what they wanted to tell each other.
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