Where have all the young ones gone, long time ago…

"He returned on June 26, Saint John's and Saint Paul's Day, early in the morning at seven o'clock (others say it was at noon), now dressed in a hunter's costume, with a dreadful look on his face and wearing a strange red hat. He sounded his fife in the streets, but this time it wasn't rats and mice that came to him, but rather children: a great number of boys and girls from their fourth year on,"

can be read in The Children of Hameln, a folk tale as recorded by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (1816, Deutsche Sagen).
"In total," recorded the Grimms, "130 were lost."
There is no evidence that the legend of the Rat-catcher (or the Pied Piper) is actually based on any real event. The fact that the event is told to have happened on a specific date rather than once upon a time seems to lend the tale authenticity in the public eye. What is essentially a folk tale has been repeatedly recorded as an actual event. Being that these recordings are themselves centuries old, they lend yet another aura of authenticity to the legend.

"In the year 1284 after the birth of Christ
From Hameln were led away
One hundred thirty children, born at this place,"

is inscribed, centuries long already, on the town hall of Hameln. The town records begin with "the event" – an event that may very well have never happened. The “fact” is kept eerily alive by town regulations that prohibit any music to be heard on the Pied Piper’s (so-called “drumless”) street.
Many explanations have been offered of the actual event in 1284 that might have spawned the legend. Please refer to Wikipedia for these. As for me, I am far more fascinated by the tale itself, its many possibilities and reincarnations in art over time. These I will bring before you in the coming days.
So far, I’ve been quoting Robert Browning’s excellent rendition, The Pied Piper of Hamelin (1905).

Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

Posted above is Ingrid Bergman’s take on Browning’s verse. Bergman's reading is charming and endearing, and all the more deliciously creepy for that.

The little dressmaker

The story is too valuable to be found online, too long to transcribe, too marvelous to miss. 'The Little Dressmaker', a little tale from a collection by Eleanor Farjeon titled 'The Little Bookroom' (1955).
'Seven maids with seven brooms,' wrote Farjeon in the preface, 'sweeping for half-a-hundred years, have never managed to clear my mind of its dust, of vanished tamples and flowers and kings, the curls of ladies, the sighing of poets, the laughter of lads and girls: those golden ones who, like chimney-sweepers, must all come to dust in some little bookroom or other - and sometimes, by luck, come again for a moment to light.'

Little Red

One afternoon a big wolf waited in a dark forest for a little girl to come along carrying a basket of food to her grandmother. Finally a little girl did come along and she was carrying a basket of food. "Are you carrying that basket to your grandmother?" asked the wolf. The little girl said yes, she was. So the wolf asked her where her grandmother lived and the little girl told him and he disappeared into the wood.

When the little girl opened the door of her grandmother's house she saw that there was somebody in bed with a nightcap on. She had approached no nearer than twenty-five feet from the bed when she saw that it was not her grandmother but the wolf, for even in a nightcap a wolf does not look any more like your grandmother than the Metro-Goldwyn lion looks like Calvin Coolidge. So the little girl took an automatic out of her basket and shot the wolf dead.

Moral: It is not so easy to fool little girls nowadays as it used to be.

'The Girl and the Wolf', a story by James Thurber as published in his collection 'Fables for Our Time' (1940). Illustration is by Thurber himself.

Snow White

This is 'Snow White' from the 2005 'Wonderland' series of Yeondoo Jung, a Korean photographer. Jung staged children drawings in real life and then took photographs of the actors and props. For more, press here.

That story

You always read about it:
the plumber with the twelve children
who wins the Irish Sweepstakes.
From toilets to riches.
That story.

Or the nursemaid,
some luscious sweet from Denmark
who captures the oldest son's heart.
From diapers to Dior.
That story.

Or a milkman who serves the wealthy,
eggs, cream, butter, yogurt, milk,
the white truck like an ambulance
who goes into real estate
and makes a pile.
From homogenized to martinis at lunch.

Or the charwoman
who is on the bus when it cracks up
and collects enough from the insurance.
From mops to Bonwit Teller.
That story.

Once
the wife of a rich man was on her deathbed
and she said to her daughter Cinderella:
Be devout. Be good. Then I will smile
down from heaven in the seam of a cloud.
The man took another wife who had
two daughters, pretty enough
but with hearts like blackjacks.
Cinderella was their maid.
She slept on the sooty hearth each night
and walked around looking like Al Jolson.
Her father brought presents home from town,
jewels and gowns for the other women
but the twig of a tree for Cinderella.
She planted that twig on her mother's grave
and it grew to a tree where a white dove sat.
Whenever she wished for anything the dove
would drop it like an egg upon the ground.
The bird is important, my dears, so heed him.

Next came the ball, as you all know.
It was a marriage market.
The prince was looking for a wife.
All but Cinderella were preparing
and gussying up for the event.
Cinderella begged to go too.
Her stepmother threw a dish of lentils
into the cinders and said: Pick them
up in an hour and you shall go.
The white dove brought all his friends;
all the warm wings of the fatherland came,
and picked up the lentils in a jiffy.
No, Cinderella, said the stepmother,
you have no clothes and cannot dance.
That's the way with stepmothers.

Cinderella went to the tree at the grave
and cried forth like a gospel singer:
Mama! Mama! My turtledove,
send me to the prince's ball!
The bird dropped down a golden dress
and delicate little slippers.
Rather a large package for a simple bird.
So she went. Which is no surprise.
Her stepmother and sisters didn't
recognize her without her cinder face
and the prince took her hand on the spot
and danced with no other the whole day.

As nightfall came she thought she'd better
get home. The prince walked her home
and she disappeared into the pigeon house
and although the prince took an axe and broke
it open she was gone. Back to her cinders.
These events repeated themselves for three days.
However on the third day the prince
covered the palace steps with cobbler's wax
and Cinderella's gold shoe stuck upon it.
Now he would find whom the shoe fit
and find his strange dancing girl for keeps.
He went to their house and the two sisters
were delighted because they had lovely feet.
The eldest went into a room to try the slipper on
but her big toe got in the way so she simply
sliced it off and put on the slipper.
The prince rode away with her until the white dove
told him to look at the blood pouring forth.
That is the way with amputations.
They just don't heal up like a wish.
The other sister cut off her heel
but the blood told as blood will.
The prince was getting tired.
He began to feel like a shoe salesman.
But he gave it one last try.
This time Cinderella fit into the shoe
like a love letter into its envelope.

At the wedding ceremony
the two sisters came to curry favor
and the white dove pecked their eyes out.
Two hollow spots were left
like soup spoons.

Cinderella and the prince
lived, they say, happily ever after,
like two dolls in a museum case
never bothered by diapers or dust,
never arguing over the timing of an egg,
never telling the same story twice,
never getting a middle-aged spread,
their darling smiles pasted on for eternity.
Regular Bobbsey Twins.
That story.

Cinderella, from 'Transformations', a poetry collection by Anne Sexton (1971)

Scarapola: Rags to Riches Tales

'Architect's Brother' photo series, by Robert and Shana Parkeharrison

The tales sleuth

It is only fitting that the tales themselves, as a concept, date back to once upon a time age. Or, as Armenian storytellers would open a telling:
There was a time and no time when fairy tales...
There is a persistent claim that fairy tales are 'pure lore', folk tales rather than literary (authored) tales. As such, they must be appropriated carefully in order to remain 'uncontaminated', a 'genuine' and 'pure' soul of a nation.
Indeed, the Grimms laboured with their collection for 'German national unity'. They were after the truly German folk tales. Ironically, they for the most part collected tales that originated elsewhere. The Jew in the Brambles, and a few other anti-Semitic tales in the Grimms' collection, may be the few tales originating from Germany.
France is also not that distant land, hidden behind the thrice nine mountains, from which the archetypical European fairy tales originated.
Instead, the European fairy tale as a genre seem to have originated from medieval Italy of the 16th century. It all began with one Zoan Francesco Scarapola, who collected seventy-three tales in 'Le Piacevoli Notti' ('Peaceful Nights', often translated as 'Facetious Nights'). This collection of two volumes was published in 1551 and 1553 and with it Scarapola introduced his fairy tales through a Boccaccian frame story. Narratives were written as storytellings taking place during an intellectual thirteen days long party. Many of Scarapola's plots came from earlier Italian collections, but some stories were invented by Scarapola (among them, arguably, 'Constantino Fortunato' - the first 'Puss in Boots').
Fairy tales as a genre are not to be confused with 'folk tales'. Folk tales are indeed as old as language. They don’t involve magic: instead they indulge in humour and wit. Rather than focusing on the joys of getting married, they crudely expose the reality of being married. Folk tales also don’t often let their heroes get off with a happy end.
The mysterious and intriguing 'Little Red Riding Hood' – a primal folk tale – must be as old as our imagination, and finding its origin seems senseless.
Fairy tales – a rather small group within the tales of magic – are much younger. Each is someone's literary masterpiece.
In medieval Europe, before Scarapola's time, this was the tale of its day: a fallen nobleman regains his rightful position through magic. Scarapola invented a new formula with the 'tales of social rise' (in the words of Ruth B. Bottigheimer). From rags – to magic – to marriage – to riches. There are two general variations of this formula.
In the first variation, a poor male protagonist rescues a princess from danger (or undergoes dangerous tasks) in order to wed into the royal house.
In the second variation, a poor female protagonist is through magic able to marry the prince, while undergoing trials laid down before her by jealous mothers, stepmothers, sisters, stepsisters, mothers-in-law and (other) witches.
Scarapola's tales are far more magical than its imitations, and well worth your effort.

To end this at the ending... From the sky fell three apples. One to me, one to the author of the tale and one to the person who entertained you.

Lo cunto de li cunti

I wonder. Have you ever heard this (once upon a time notorious) tale? The original tale is here retold by gem.


The tale of tales

This is a tale of all tales. At its heart lies a black slave who wanted to wear a crown on her head. This happened nine times nine centuries ago, in a kingdom that flourished exactly where, ages and ages later, the Roman Empire would come to be.
In this kingdom lived a melancholy princess who was never seen laughing, until one day, when she saw an old woman’s rage and found it funny. And the woman grew angrier yet and she thus proclaimed: "May you never have the least little bit of a husband, unless you take the Prince of Round-Field."
The Prince of Round-Field was Prince Taddeo from a distant land called Round-Field, who was rumored to lie there in enchanted sleep. It was told that the enchantment would be broken by a woman who would fill a whole pitcher, in three days, with her tears. Upon learning this, the princess who laughed once took leave from her father and went on her way. It took her seven laughless years (and a little help from the fairies) to find Round-Field, and once there, she began weeping into the pitcher at once.
For two days, she wept beside the tomb of Taddeo, and all the while a black slave girl was watching her from afar. At the end of the second day of weeping into the pitcher, the princess fell asleep. The pitcher was now almost full. The black slave girl silently took the pitcher, weepie-weeped into it
tap
tap
tap
and the pitcher was filled to the brim. The enchantment was broken, and Taddeo embraced the black slave girl, and he carried her to his palace, and he took her for his wife. The princess who laughed once was in tearless despair. She took up residence opposite the palace, staring at the couple and longing, longing for the prince.
At the palace, life went on. The slave-princess became pregnant with a child. And so it happened that one day she called Taddeo and demanded: “Bid some storytellers come and tell me stories.” The order was immediately carried out and ten storytellers, all women, were brought before the slave-princess and Taddeo. These were: the bandy-legged Cecca, the wen-necked Meneca, the long-nosed Tolla, the humpbacked Popa, the bearded Antonella, the dumpy Ciulla, the blear-eyed Paola, the bald-headed Civonmetella, the square-shouldered Jacova and the bushy-haired princess who laughed once. Cecca told the first story, and the bushy-haired princess told this last story.

Le Petit Chaperon rouge II

The stills were taken by Sarah Moon, and they are featured in Le Petit Chaperon Rouge - Perrault et Sarah Moon (1983).

The Grimmest Fiddler

The tale below, retold and shortened, is a German fairy tale that was recorded by the brothers Grimm in the collection for young readers (1812).
--
There was once a high spirited servant attending to the estate of a rich and unfair man. The first year of his position, the servant was not paid at all in wages. When the second year passed, he was again left with nothing. And at the end of the third year, he asked to be rewarded for his efforts.
The rich man readily paid the servant, a penny for each year. And the servant, who knew but little about money, was happy and went, a free man - a carefree man - on his way.
And along the way he came across an elderly gnome and in feeling sorry for him he gave him all his pennies. The gnome, who was a magical creature (even if one in need of three pennies), rewarded such kindness by way of granting the man three wishes; one for each penny.
The man's first wish was for a bird gun that would never miss. Then he wished for a fiddle that would make everyone dance. Finally, he wished that he could always ask a favour of anyone, and noone would be able to refuse him.
In high spirits, the man went on. The next creature he came accross was not a gnome, but a Jew.
This Jew had stopped to listen to a song of a bird. "What a divine creature," the Jew cried out. "That little bird has such an awfully loud voice! If only it belonged to me! If someone could just catch it for me!"
"If that's all you want," snorted the servant. "I'll bring that bird down in no time."
And so he did, just like that. For his first wish was granted.
"You dirty dog," the man then swore at the Jew, "go get that bird for yourself now."
"If you drop the "dirty"," replied the Jew, "then the dog will go fetch it. You did hit the bird and I'll go retrieve it."
As the Jew went into the brambles, on all fours, the servant took the fiddle and played a tune. The Jew had to dance amidst the brambles. The brambles almost scratched the Jew's coat off his body, and he begged the fiddler to be released.
But the man continued fiddling, until the Jew gave him a sack of money.
From a safe distance, the Jew called the man names and then fled to report the robbery to a local judge. It was not before long that the fiddler was found and brought before the court.
The man pleaded innocent and denied all charges. The Jew, he claimed, gave him money out of free will, so that the man would stop playing the fiddle.
"No Jew would do that," the judge said.
And so the man was sentenced and he was to be hanged. It was then that the servant asked the judge to grant him a favour: to be allowed to play his fiddle one last time.
The Jew pleaded with the judge to refuse this wish. To no avail, as the man's third wish had also been granted. And within moments, the fiddle took over and everyone was dancing. The Jew danced, and the judge danced, and the spectators danced, and the dogs, too. It was not until the judge offered to spare his life, that the man ceased playing.
"You scoundrel!" the servant then swore at the Jew. "Now just admit where you got that money or I'll get my fiddle out and start playing again."
"I stole it! I stole it!" cried the Jew. "And you earned it honestly!"
And so the Jew was sentenced to be hanged, and hanged.
--
This fairy tale is titled The Jew in the Brambles. In order to keep authenticity of the story intact, all dialogues are transcripted verbatim from the original tale as published in The Annotated Brothers Grimm, by Maria Tatar (2004). For the rest, the story is retold and shortened by gem. The full text can also be found here.
The above featured photograph, Grandfather and Granddaughter, was taken a century later in Warsaw (1938). Photographer: Roman Vishniac.

My last

The tale is over; I cannot lie any more.
-- A narrative ending to many Russian tales

Sneewittchen

My story's done. See a mouse run. And whoever catches it can make a great big furry hood from it.
-- Can you guess which is the fairy tale that ends like this?
As for the happy end in yesterday's post, I took it from the Grimms' recording of Snow White. In the last paragraphs, the wicked stepmother - still completely in the dark about Snow White's resurrection - is getting dressed for the splendid wedding taking place in the neighbouring kingdom. Further to her (daily) request for confirmation, the mirror this time reveals that the young queen-to-be from the neighbouring kingdom is "a thousand times more fair". Arrested by fear, yet enviously curious, the wicked stepmother travels to attend the wedding and to see the one, the thousand times more fair one, for the first time. The rest, as they say, is history.
"When she entered, Snow White recognized her right away. The queen was so terrified that she just stood there and couldn't budge an inch. Iron slippers had already been heated up for her over a fire of coals. They were brought in with tongs and set up right in front of her. She had to put on the red-hot iron shoes and dance in them until she dropped to the ground dead."
Someone invited the wicked stepmother and ordered the hot iron slippers to be ready.
And meanwhile, amidst the red and the hot and the dancing, Snow White held court while referring to her mirror.