Origins

The earliest known writing of The Ballad of Hua Mulan was recorded in Guijin yuelu, by Zhi Jiang c. 568 A.D. The earliest extant version of the work, however, comes to us from Guo Maoqian twelfth-century compilation, Yuefu shiji or Collection of Music-Bureau Poems, as the former has been lost to time[Lan, 2003, p.231].

Where did The Ballad of Hua Mulan come from, then? For the most part, it’s believed that the poem originated in the Northern Wei, around the fifth and sixth centuries—“a time,” Lan tells us,

...when the Northern Wei was engaged in a series of wars against foreign invaders. There have been efforts to identify the military event in the poem with a famous battle in which Emperor Taiwu of the Northern Wei defeated the invading Rouran army in 429 A.D. [Lan, 2003, p.231]

Northern Wei

A non-Chinese, i.e. non-Han dynasty, this dynasty was ruled by the Xianbei tribe. At first, this non-Sino aristocracy was resistant to Chinese custom and culture, though later, most notably in the era of Emperor Xiaowen (471-77), said ruling class began to encourage the assimilation of Chinese customs and values. The dynasty was starting to decline at this time; this assimilation was intended to strengthen ties and lessen tension rather than endorse Chinese customs and Confucianism.

Mulan in Disney

The Disney film [1], Mulan is how most many people in the West first became acquainted with this tale (myself included). In the past decade, the story has garnered much attention—its unfamiliarity helping to make it a hit. The main character, Mulan herself, is easily identified with—most young women can relate to feelings of not belonging, of difference, of wanting to prove themselves. But is this a true representation of the Mulan in the tale?

Yes and no. As with many of their adaptations, Disney appears to have used a revisionist telling as source material. Versions—particularly Confucianist versions—of Mulan abound, but it seems likely that the Disney version of the story was most heavily influenced by the anonymously penned Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan, (The Legendary Story of a Girl Who Is Loyal, Filial, Heroic, and Chaste). Though it “completely Siniticizes” [Lan, p.235] the tale, Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan is the most popular prose account. One recognisable feature of both tales is the Emperor—in Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan, the author has changed the Emperor to Taizong of the Tang dynasty, and Disney appears to have kept this change.

Another version of Mulan, however, also appears to have influenced the tale. Interestingly,a 16th century (Ming Dynasty) play by Xu Wei begins with Mulan singing an aria “about her desire to find a place for herself among the heroes and heroines of history”. Although the link is somewhat tenuous, the Disney song, Reflection, is easily brought to mind. Xu Wei’s version of the tale, while not as well known as Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan, is still important—it is here, notes Jeannette Faurot, that the tale’s tone first begins to change. As Susan Mann writes,

Besides duty, Xu Wei’s Mulan is motivated by her excitement at the prospect of going off to war to use skills her father had taught her.

It’s also likely that it was Xu Wei who gave Mulan the “Hua” (Fa, in Cantonese). A well-known critic of Confucianism, his work seeks to make a case for a Chinese tradition of female heroism, going farther than the original, saying that women “can stand upright on their two legs between heaven and earth” [Mann, p.234]. It is the hands of this dramatist that Mulan first takes on her most recognisable colours.

Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan, the afore-mentioned 1732 revision is the most radical revision of the tale, presenting Mulan as a Han woman from a good Confucianist family, in contrast to the earlier, Northern Mulan. Generally speaking, tracing such ethnicities if of little use; attempting to verify a suggested ethnicity may even be an exercise in futility. But the differences between Mulan in the Northern Wei and Mulan as a Confucianist woman (such revisions first appeared in the Tang Dynasty) are vast; as Lan notes, such a character as Mulan could only surface in a time and place in which Confucianism had “lost its sway”.


A Northern Horsewoman?

Let us first look at Mulan as a Northern woman. Consider the following excerpts from The Ballad of Hua Mulan:

“I want to buy a saddle and horse/and serve in the army in Father’s place…
She doesn’t hear the sound of Father and Mother calling
She only hears the Yellow River’s flowing water cry tsien tsien.”

These lines aptly illustrate Mulan’s courage, valour, and loyalty. The business of war is not something to be taken lightly; Mulan’s decision to take her father’s place is both brave and kind. Moreover, even when she is away from home, possibly for the first time, Mulan puts her family behind her and focuses on the moment.

“She goes ten thousand miles on the business of war,
She crosses passes and mountains like flying…
…Stout soldiers return after ten years…”

Ten thousand miles! To travel even one thousand miles “on the business of war” is an achievement. And to spend ten years at war—here, it seems the poem suggests that, to travel so far and remain unharmed, Mulan must have great skill as a fighter and horse woman.

“The Khan asks her what she desires,
‘Mulan has no use for a minister's post.
I wish to ride a swift mount
To take me back to my home.’"

Here, we return to loyalty, but also to duty—Mulan has done what she must, by her father and the emperor. Now, the ever-loyal daughter and sister, she seeks only to return to home in relative obscurity. She is humble.

The above traits show us Mulan as a Northern horsewoman, aligned with images of other Northern horsewomen of the same period [Lan, p.232] [2]. Moreover, there is some evidence that the poem is also aligned with a shared value system of the Northern peoples, including the Xianbei [Lan, p.232].


Or a Confucian ideal?

In The Sage and the Second Sex, Chenyang Li discusses the role of women in a Confucianist society, noting that the ideal woman was “the obedient daughter, the faithful wife, the sacrificing mother [Ching Chung via Li, p.9]. Others have defined the ideal Confucianist woman as gentle and graceful, almost princess-like. She is pious, chaste, and bound by filial duty, always remembering the Confucian three cardinal guides—monarch guides subject, father guides son, husband guides wife.

Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan makes much of Mulan’s Confucianist upbringing and, as such, her understanding that loyalty to the state and family serve the same ends. As a virtuous person, then it is Mulan’s duty to replaces her father, too old to fight [Mann, p.236].

Her exploits continue as before—we are told that Mulan makes war for ten years, then returns home. But while she has been away, her parents have passed on; learning this, she immediately vows to tend their graves for the rest of her life. Soon after the vow, though, the Emperor invites Mulan to serve at the imperial court. The narrative becomes less clear here—some think the Emperor’s invitation to serve at court is simply that, an invitation to serve at court, while others have argued it is a veiled invite to become his concubine.

As a Confucian woman, Mulan is now in trouble. Her duty to the Emperor is first, above all but she has a made a vow to her parents also. Does she refuse the Emperor? Does she break her filial vow? Whichever she chooses, she brings shame upon herself and her family. There is only one option—the Confucian Mulan commits suicide, thereby preserving “her integrity as an obedient daughter, loyal subject, and chaste virgin” [Lan, p.236].

Zhingxiaoyonglie qinu zhuan presents a very different Mulan to the Northern Horsewoman discussed above. And yet, she is still recognisable under the veil of Confucianism—Mulan is kind, loyal, and brave, noted for her integrity. It is unsurprising, then, that Confucian writers sought to rewrite her story and polish her up as a model for the ideal Confucian woman—and yet when shown so, the strong heroine we admire becomes tragic and pathetic in the end[3].

Is Mulan real?

Some say yes; some say no. Many small Chinese towns have claimed to be the home of Hua Mulan and many have shrines dedicated to her.

In Women Warriors and Amazons of the Mid Qing Texts Jinghua Yuan and Honglou Meng, Louise Edwards writes,

Mulan (c. 618) was born to the Wei family in Anhui. During the tumultuous years that led to the fall of the Sui, Mulan’s aged, ailing father was called to the army to defend the nation against northern invaders. Mulan, appreciating that her father was too weak to fulfil his duty, dons male attire and takes his place. She battles as a man, with none suspecting her sex, for twelve years before finally returning home and resuming her female life. On hearing of this remarkable occurrence the Emperor requested that she join his palace, but Mulan refused and committed suicide rather than obey his command.

As with many stories from antiquity, it is hard to determine the truth. But even if Mulan herself was not real, the idea of a woman courageous, loyal, resourceful, intelligent, and kind will continue to be as real as we choose to make it.

Footnotes:

[1] Note: as many films do, Disney took artistic license with the film. This is, for the most part, okay—but many people have taken issue—and rightly so, to this writer—with the representation of the Huns as invaders in the film. To my knowledge, the opposing side in the tale is never named; the Huns were a Disney addition, and are unfairly portrayed as evil and barbaric. When watching the film, please be aware of this.

[2] See also Li Bo xiaomei ge, The Song of Li Bo’s Younger Sister and Ziliu ma, The Black-Tailed Red Horse.

[3] I am not a Confucian scholar; much has been said about the role of women in Confucianism, with many scholars calling the system oppressive. There are also arguments, however, that the Confucian idea of yin and yang, masculine and feminine together in one is liberating. Readers must decide for themselves.

References:

Lan, Feng, The Female Individual and the Empire: A Historicist Approach to Mulan and Kingston’s Woman Warrior, Comparative Literature, Vol. 55, No. 3. (Summer, 2003), pp. 229-245
Text kindly provided by JSTOR at http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0010-4124%28200322%2955%3A3%3C229%3ATFIATE%3E2.0.CO%3B2-C

Mann, Susan, Presidential Address: Myths of Asian Womanhood, The Journal of Asian Studies, Vol. 59, No. 4. (Nov., 2000), pp. 835-862.
Text kindly provided by JSTOR at http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0021-9118%28200011%2959%3A4%3C835%3APAMOAW%3E2.0.CO%3B2-7

Edwards, Louise, Women Warriors and Amazons of the Mid Qing Texts Jinghua Yuan and Honglou Meng, Modern Asian Studies, Vol. 29, No. 2. (May, 1995), pp. 225-255.
Text kindly provided by JSTOR at http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0026-749X%28199505%2929%3A2%3C225%3AWWAAOT%3E2.0.CO%3B2-T

Li, Chenyang, The Sage and the Second Sex, 2000, Open Court Publishing, n.p.

The Princes, the Astrologer, and the Queen

What is the purpose of Dadone’s sons? There are no sons in the Washington Irving story; why has Pushkin added them, rather than have Dadone ride out to seek the danger?

Most fairy tales tell things in threes—three sons, three daughters, three attempts. Such adherence to perceived fairy tale structure is a strong feature of literary tales—consider the three episodes in d’Aulnoy’s The White Cat, or the use of time in Wilde’s The Nightingale. Although such structures are seemingly superficial, they result in a certain fairy tale tone, lending a story credence not only as a part of the fairy tale genre, but as a story that may be aged, and appreciated as such, rather than written off as new, nascent, and nothing.

In the Irving story, the King of Granada does not beat about the bush. The moment his advisors wake him, he is out of bed and dressing; soon after he is astride his horse, riding toward the source of the danger and his rendezvous with the Queen of Shamakhan. The plot is set. We know the danger. We know how it ends.

Seven days go by and more,
But no message from the corps:
Has the march been rough or quiet-
Naught to tell it or deny it.
Cockerel goes off once more!
Tracking down the elder's corps,
Rides the younger with another
To the rescue of his brother.
Presently subsides the bird;
And again no more is heard!
And again the people, troubled,
Wait a week, their fears redoubled.
Yet again the cock is heard…

“What could the matter?” we ask. “Why has the eldest not returned? Where is the youngest?” True, we know that both sons will fail, but the how, the why, and the who are drawn out, building to the climax of Dadone’s own trip.

Then it preys upon each mind:
Not a camp or battleground,
Not a warriors' burial mound,
Is encountered near or far.

The suspense builds—when Dadone finally comes upon the silken tent, the dead princes, and the Queen of Shamakhan, it is easy to fit the pieces together. And yet, “Numb he stands - her sight outstuns/Aye! the death of both his sons”. What can this mean? Is this woman, the Queen of Shamakhan, really so beautiful? Or is there more to her? The lines are a clue, a hint at the character and power of the Queen.

And how did the princes come to die?

Both his noble princes, slain,
Pierced each by the other's charge…

What could bring two brothers to such dangerous blows? Seven days, Pushkin tells us, pass before the younger sons sets out. Seven days pass before Dadone sets out. Seven days pass before Dadone returns home, the Queen of Shamakhan alongside. Might we imagine that the eldest son, like the Tsar, is welcomed by the Queen? And, if so, what of the youngest son? Surely he, too, cannot be immune to

“the prize of maidens,
Queen of Shamakhan, in radiance
Lambent like the morning star…”

After all, we know the Queen’s beauty is magical, for no right father is so easily distracted by the death of his only children. Although her motives remain unclear, the Queen’s character has become apparent in just a few lines; the princes’ death has given her depth.

Succour from a gelding sage,
Planet-reckoner and mage;
Sent a runner to implore him
And the magus, brought before him…

Who is this astrologer on whom the Tsar calls? In his preface to The Golden Cockerel, the librettist V. Belsky remarks upon “the way in which Pushkin has shrouded in mystery the relationship between his two fantastical characters: The Astrologer and the Queen. Did they hatch a plot against Dodon? Did they meet by accident, both intent on the king's downfall?[Abraham, p.53]”

Why, moreover, is he “gelded”? Is this a hint, a comment, that wise men are castrated by autocracy and stupidity? Certainly, Pushkin had experienced much to embitter him toward the Tsar. In a letter, he once wrote,

“I have seen three Tsars in my life. The first ordered me to take off my hat, and as I was too young to be scolded myself, he scolded my nurse instead. The second was hardly an admirer of mine, and although the third has raised me to the exalted rank of gentleman of the bedchamber in my dotage, I have no great desire to change him for a fourth. Let us leave well enough alone.”

Twice, Nicholas I had cuckolded the poet—first in 1826, then in 1834. In the first instance, the Tsar recalled Pushkin from exile—after the failure of the Decembrist revolt-- on the condition that he stop writing “subversive poetry”. The Tsar then continued, saying that from then on, he, and he alone, would edit and annotate Pushkin’s work. It was a great compliment, but a great insult, too: Nicholas I had, in essence, made Pushkin his pet protégé and captive, a bird in a gilded cage.[Massie, p.208]

In the second instance, the Tsar appointed the then 34 year old Pushkin to the post of gentlemen of the bedchamber. It was a clearly inappropriate appointment—gentlemen of the bedchamber were usually boys, aged between 15 and 18—because he wished Pushkin and pretty wife to attend court functions and balls. Early on, Nicholas I had become infatuated with Pushkin’s wife, riding by the house and inviting her often to court; seeing the state of affairs, Pushkin tried to keep away from the Tsar as much as possible. But the Tsar could not be deterred; Pushkin was soon stuffed into a page boy uniform and forced to partake in court duties, while his wife went about town with the Tsar.

Considering these events, it is not particularly surprising that Pushkin has painted the tale’s authority figure, Tsar Dadone, as a careless, thoughtless, and cruel fool. The Astrologer, meanwhile, seems a fair portrait of the poet himself: as we have seen, like the poet, he is gelded; like the poet, he is clever; like the poet, he has been mistreated by the Tsar. But Pushkin has also implied that the Astrologer may have more than simple greed in his mind when he asks for the Queen of Shamakhan. As the Tsar asks the eunuch, “And - what use is she to you?”

What use indeed? Why would the Astrologer ask for a woman when he lacks will and means? Is it possible that the Astrologer has recognised his like in the Queen of Shamakhan? Could he be seeking to rid the Tsardom of an evil influence? Did Pushkin the political, subversive, popular poet see himself in such a light? There is no clear answer, of course, except that which the long-dead poet would give us—none, to be exact. But the idea of a linkage between these two characters is not new. As noted above, the librettist Belsky also wonders about the pair. “Did they hatch a plot against Dodon?” he writes. ”Did they meet by accident, both intent on the king's downfall?[Abraham, p. 53]”

I wonder.

When I first read the story, I was taken with it; every now and then I would pluck the book from the shelf and leaf through it, my eyes lingering upon Zvorykin’s bright, illumination-style illustrations, my mind picking at, playing with, rearranging words upon the page. Posting the story for Fairy Tale Fridays seemed a good thing to do—certainly, if I loved the tale so much, wouldn’t other people? And then came the commentary.

Pushkin, his work, his influences, and, of course, “The Golden Cockerel”, provides a lot of reading material. To be sure, I have ploughed through it eagerly, learning and laughing and almost wishing that I had been alive at a time play tickets were so coveted they were sold on the black market, a time when the ideas of liberty and love were carried upon the breath of every person. Here, I have tried to present what seemed the most pertinent facts, the most interesting scholarship, and a few of my own views and interpretations—but I recommend that any and every reader I am fortunate enough to have engage in some research of their own, for, limited by time and words, I am certain that I have done neither the author nor his time justice.


References:

Fiske, J. C., “The Soviet Controversy over Pushkin and Washington Irving”, Comparative Literature, Vol 7., No. 1 (Winter, 1955), pp. 25-31.
http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0010-4124%28195524%297%3A1%3C25%3ATSCOPA%3E2.0.CO%3B2-M

Abraham, G., “Satire and Symbolism in 'The Golden Cockerel'”, Music & Letters, Vol. 52, No. 1 (Jan., 1971), pp. 46-54.
http://links.jstor.org/sici?sici=0027-4224%28197101%2952%3A1%3C46%3ASASI%27G%3E2.0.CO%3B2-W

Massie, S., 1980, “Land of the Firebird: The Beauty of Old Russia”, Hearttree Press, n.p.

Some time ago, I stumbled upon “The Golden Cockerel and Other Fairy Tales”, written by Aleksandr Pushkin, illustrated by Boris Zvorykin, published by Doubleday. It was a used bookstore find; the golden spine drew my attention; the name drew my interest.

Like most people, I had heard of Pushkin, read criticism of Pushkin, even read some of the writers he was to influence (most notably Tolstoy and Gogol, though Turgenev has a home on my computer also). One day, I had planned to trudge[1] through the English translation of Eugene Onegin; I had never dreamt that my introduction to Russia’s best beloved poet would be a fairy tale.


In the introduction to my copy, Rudolf Nureyev writes that “The Golden Cockerel”, along with others, is “derived from folktales told by peasant from time immemorial, they are the oldest voice of Mother Russia.” Although the origin of “The Golden Cockerel” is somewhat murky, I wholeheartedly agree with Nureyev’s sentiment. The sense of everyday, even in the court of the Tsar, is not only unmistakable—it is unmistakably fairy tale, unmistakably Pushkin.

Sometimes called the “Byron of Russia”, Aleksandr Sergei Pushkin was born to a boyar[2] family in Moscow. As the old story goes, his lineage was noble, but his parents were impoverished, often borrowing serving ware from neighbours on which to serve their guests. Pushkin’s parents, like many of the time, took little interest in their son, leaving him to the care of his grandmother and his nurse, Arina Rodionova A serf woman who had refused the offer of freedom, Rodionova would become an essential component of and advisor to Pushkin’s work.

Analysis

Because it is a literary fairy tale, analysis of the elements within “The Golden Cockerel” is difficult. The story does not conform to standard tropes and paradigms; its origin is a point of some contention. Let’s begin with an overview of the story’s history.

In 1832, the American author Washington Irving published a collection of short stories, essays, and verbal sketches, called “Tales of the Alhambra”. Two chapters of the work tell of “The House of the Weathercock” and “The Arabian Astrologer”, in which the King of Granada, wishing to retire, finds himself oft-besieged and unable to protect his country. Soon, an astrologer visits the King, offering to fashion a weathercock which will alert him to approaching danger. The story continues, detailing the astrologer’s greed and the discovery of a “beautiful Christian princess”, whom the astrologer warns may be an evil sorceress.

Pushkin’s story, “The Golden Cockerel” was written in 1834.

At first, this seems unremarkable--two writers, from two continents, two entirely separate cultural backgrounds-- stumble upon a certain piece of folklore. Irving’s tale is written in a somewhat dense, imitative style, drawing on Arabian histories, folklore, and legends; Pushkin’s is concise and uncluttered, eliminating many plot elements in Irving’s telling, while adding the episode of Dadone’s sons. Irving’s astrologer survives. Pushkin’s does not. But it must be noted that by 1830, Washington Irving was well-known in Russia, and Pushkin is known to have owned a French copy of “Tales of the Alhambra”.

The idea of Pushkin “borrowing” from Irving is a controversial one. The link was first discovered in 1933, by Anna Akhmatova. Though it is now widely accepted within the Western World, several Russian scholars have taken exception to this idea. In a chapter about Irving for the “History of American Literature” A.A. Eilstratova “remarks that ‘The Tale of the Golden Cockerel’ might be shown to have a relationship with ‘The Legend of the Arabian Astrologer’ in Irving’s ‘Alhambra’”[Fiske, p.30]. The scholar’s notes are cautious and not inflammatory but “History of American Literature” still received a scathing attack from A. Tarasenkov, who also listed Elistratova as a groveler before the West[Fiske, p.30]. It is always hard to please everybody; where Pushkin is concerned, it is impossible.

Akhmatova added to the controversy of her discovery by suggesting that Pushkin may have over-simplified Irving’s tale, leaving characters and motivations under-developed, thereby rendering his work in some ways inferior in some ways to Irving’s[Fiske, p.29]. Other scholars, such as B. Tomasevskij, also “acknowledged Irving’s legend as the source of Pushkin’s tale, but [stressed] the extent to which Pushkin had departed from the original[Fiske, p.29].” The merit of each work remains subjective, though many have weighed on the side of Pushkin. Interestingly, Akhmatova’s criticism of Pushkin focuses on fairy tale elements—most notably the lack of motivation and characters playing on the reader’s pre-conceived stereotypes. To me, these elements are part of what makes Pushkin’s work a fairy tale, and Irving’s a short story.

As to the actual origin of the story? It still remains unclear. When Pushkin published “The Golden Cockerel”, it was generally accepted to be a piece of Russian folklore. Other evidence, also brought to light by Akhmatova, suggests that Irving’s story was most likely his own creation, not at all based on earlier legend. Who’s to say which is which and what is what? Not me, that’s for sure.

Elements

As noted above, analysis of the elements within “The Golden Cockerel” is difficult. Certainly, parts of it most likely refer to political tensions, the relationship between Pushkin and the Tsar, and Pushkin’s view of the aristocracy. There is a political element, but what can it be? Surely not the most obvious elements—Pushkin’s other work is far too subtle for that[Abraham, p.47].

But is it? Fairy tales, though complex affairs, are not prized for their subtlety. And Pushkin, who had grown up steeped in the old words, would know this.

Tsar Dadone

Dadone wages war, then is surprised when other rulers wage war in return. Dadone sends his sons, one after another, to fight an unknown enemy. Dadone sees his sons dead, then takes up with the Princess camped by their cooling corpses. Dadone reneges on his promise. Dadone kills the astrologer.

Is Dadone evil? No, not really.

Thoughtless? Yes. Uncaring? Yes. Stupid? Yes. But he’s not evil.

Pushkin’s Russia was an autocratic one. Nicholas I, the Iron Tsar, was a strict conservative and expansionist; said expansionism led to the Crimean War. Coming to power in a post-Decembrist state, Nicholas established a body of police, the Corps de Gendarmie, to put down the spirit of revolution. But political fervour continued to surge through the streets as everyday Russians grew tired of Tsarist rule. Subversive literature, much of it by Pushkin, was spread about St. Petersburg and Moscow (eventually leading to Pushkin’s six year exile). Is Dadone, stupid and uncaring, representative of Nicholas and his unyielding policies and attitudes? Is he “a symbol of stupid autocracy[Abraham, p. 46]”?

Like Nicholas, Dadone is an expansionist; like Nicholas, Dadone bites off more than he can chew; and, like Nicholas[3], Dadone goes back on his promises.

Footnotes

[1] My choice of verb is no reflection on the quality of Pushkin’s work, but rather on the difficulty of translating that which is complex and subtle into a second language, particularly a one such as English to whom it bears little familial feeling.
[2] Old aristocracy, next in rank to a prince.
[3] See Pushkin's biography for more

Tomorrow: Commentary, part II

Like the Maiden of Brakel, Birbal and the Faithful Gardener is more of a legend than a fairy tale. On of the nine jewels of Emperor Akbar’s[1] court, Birbal was a true personage, son of a poor Brahmin, who, through his wit and wisdom, rose to the coveted post of wazir.

Many fictions have grown up around Birbal; today he is one of India’s most popular and well-respected folk heroes. Many stories, such as Crows in Akbar’s Kingdom, revolve around Birbal answering the Emperor’s riddle-like questions, while others, like this one, depict the wise man helping the poor or unjustly accused. It is likely, however, that like many legends, some Birbal stories began in fact.

Although mostly an advisor to Akbar, Birbal was also a poet; his collections of poetry, published under the name Brahma, can still be seen in Bharatpur Museum, Rajasthan, India.

When we consider the story, Birbal and the Faithful Gardner, what comes to mind? Akbar’s inappropriate use of power? The gardener’s misfortune? Ill luck turning to good? Birbal saving the day? Like a fairy tale, Birbal and the Faithful Gardener tells us, nay, shows us “that dragons can be beaten”. It reminds us, behind the veil of “A long time ago,” that yes, there is injustice and yes, it’s awful, and yes, if we are kind and good and true (and lucky, in some cases), we will triumph over it. But why do we need this from Birbal? Why not listen to The Magic Pitcher? Or The Broken Pot, also about a poor Brahmin?

Unlike fairy tales, Birbal stories speak to a certain truth—there is a realness to them, to the settings, that is familiar. Fairy tales may deal with the every man and every woman—insofar as they fit a given set of criteria—but Birbal deals with the every man, the every woman, the every unfair boss/sibling/parent/person of choice, the every house, the every job. For me, Birbal stories bring to mind an old saying of my Nana’s, “There, but for the grace of God, go I”.

A note on this telling: I grew up with Birbal. My father used to tell me Birbal and the Khichiri when I was young. Although this story is not one from my childhood, I have rounded out a few rough edges in the original, sparser version I read. At first, I did not realise I was doing this—Birbal simply seemed to speak to me. Despite this, the major plot points—Akbar’s treatment of the gardener, Birbal’s solution—remain the same.

A short and somewhat simple tale collected by the von Haxthausen family, The Maiden of Brakel gives us a feisty heroine who not only knows what she wants, but is willing to do something to get it. When she is put down, by a voice she thinks is the Virgin Mary no less, the maiden is not afraid to stand up and claim her place.

The patron saint of Brakel, Saint Anne is, in Christian tradition, the mother of the Virgin Mary. Gospel tells us that she and her husband, Joachim, were childless for many years when, one day, an angel appeared and informed the couple that they would soon conceive—and so Mary[1] was born. Unsurprisingly, Saint Anne is also the patron saint of women in labour, pregnant women, housewives, mothers, and childless women[2].

There are several ways to depict Saint Anne, but one of the most recognisable images is of her holding Mary, who in turn holds Christ. The triple depiction, usually reserved for persons of the same gender, is particularly interesting.

Now, let us return to the story: with her knowledge of Christianity, the maiden of Brakel makes a pilgrimage to ask help from Saint Anne, a woman whom she knows has been through the marriage, sex, and childbirth, all of which the maiden clearly wants.

"Oh, holy Saint Anne!
Help me soon to a man.
Thou know'st him right well,
By Suttmer gate does he dwell,
His hair it is golden,
Thou know'st him right well."

The tone is saucy, almost knowing; in describing the man she wants to the Saint, the maiden also describes what she is attracted to; in asking for help to a man, we see the maiden presenting herself as ready to move on to the next stage of her life.

The clerk, however, was standing behind the altar and heard that, so he cried in a very gruff voice, "Thou shalt not have him! Thou shalt not have him!"

I have also read of the clerk’s voice being high-pitched and shrill, which is perhaps more fitting. The gruffness of the voice described here gives it a masculine tone which, although appropriate from the clerk, does not fit with the idea of the cry coming from the child Mary. The maiden of Brakel is no fool—if the voice were recgonisably male, she would know it was not from a supernatural source.

Why is this cry important? Hearing the maiden so clearly state her desire is too much for the clerk, and in shouting out thusly he is deriding her sexuality, her ability to raise herself out of poverty[3], and her self-worth. The maiden, however, is prepared to ---, returning, “Fiddle de dee, conceited thing, hold your tongue, and let your mother speak!"

Sometimes “fiddle de dee” is replaced with “tra la la”, but this is most likely a regional and/or translation issue. But the important thing to note here is the maiden’s response—unlike the more traditional female protagonists, the maiden of Brakel is not afraid of sex, not afraid of change, not afraid of her consciousness. She is no Sleeping Beauty, snoozing through sex and childbirth, only to awake to motherhood and infants’ suckling, missing the change, being thrust into a new life. No, the maiden of Brakel is actively seeking her destiny.

Finally: although the Maiden of Brakel was first published in a fairy tale anthology, it was later published as a legend in the aptly named German Legends. What’s the difference? The OED defines a legend as “a traditional story sometimes popularly regarded as historical but unauthenticated[4]”, while Wikipedia suggests that a legend is “a meme that propagates through a culture[5]”. In contrast, a fairy tale is “a children's story about magical and imaginary beings and lands[6]” while Katharine Briggs has defined fairy tales as “narratives containing or hinging upon supernatural happenings[7]”. Re-reading the Maiden of Brakel, it becomes immediately apparent that the story is a cleaner fit in the first category than the second, and, as Valerie Paradiz points out, we can almost imagine the story—an easily believable story, moreover—eliciting “rebellious peals of laughter from young women of the age who saw the dark humour of it”.

[1]In the mid seventeenth century, the Church rejected the belief that Anne was married three times, and had a daughter, Mary, by each husband.
[2] Paradiz, p. 135
[3] Paradiz, p. 136
[4] Oxford English Dictionary, p. 517
[5] Wikipedia Entry: Legend, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legend
[6] Oxford English Dictionary, p. 321
[7] Briggs, p. 1
[8] Paradiz, p. 136

References:
The Patron Saints Index, http://saints.sqpn.com/sainta03.htm
Paradiz, Valerie, Clever Maids: The Secret History of The Grimm Fairy Tales, Basic Books, 2005.
Wikipedia Entry: Legend, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Legend
Briggs, Katherine. A Dictionary of British Folk-tales in the English Language, Indiana University Press, 1970.

It has been suggested that Yeh-Hsien is set in what is now modern day Nan-ning, approximately 100 miles north of the frontiers of Annam. Much of this comes from anecdotal evidence; Waley points out that many of the elements in the tale, particularly the existence of a cave-master Wu[1] and a great festival around springtime are both historically recorded facts about the region. But here we must be wary of euhemerism, i.e. a method of rationalising interpretation such that accounts (particularly mythological accounts) are seen as a reflection of true historical events shaped through retelling and societal values. So, although Waley provides an interesting argument, I suggest retaining a healthy amount of scepticism with regard to his notes on this story.

Before we continue, I’d like to take a moment to talk about how fairy tales circulated within China during this time. As we know, Tuan Ch’eng Shih collected Yeh-Hsien from a family servant; folk and fairy stories often reached the upper classes in this way, travelling through the tongues of wet nurses, singing girls, and personal valets. If someone in a higher class was taken with such a story, they would then write it down, possibly refining and tweaking it. Eventually, such writings were adapted into plays and performances, many of which were attended by commoners.

Fish

One of the defining elements of a Cinderella story is a magical, wish-granting thing. In many cases, the wish-granter is associated with the heroine’s dead mother[2], and may take a variety of forms, including but not limited to a cow, a set of bones, a fish, and a tree. The cow and tree appear to be the most common, though Yeh-Hsien shares the distinction of using a fish with a Portuguese version of the story [3].

In some versions of the story, it is the spirit of Yeh-Hsien’s dead mother that speaks to her; in some the wizened old man tells her the fish was the spirit of her dead mother; and in others no mention of Yeh-Hsien’s dead mother is made. The story usually makes note of the fish’s luminous golden eyes or golden colour along with its length and fatness. The practice of keeping carp (koi) is not a new one, and it is likely this is the type of fish to which the story refers.

The fish, especially the carp is associated with prosperity (the Chinese character for ‘fish’ may also be translated as ‘abundance’). But the carp is especially known for its strength and bravery also, so perceived because it swims against the current. Together, these traits make the role of the fish and its bones in the story—bringing comfort and solace, encouraging strength and bravery, and supplying Yeh-Hsien with necessary riches and the ever present footwear—particularly fitting.

About Cinderella

Finally, a brief note on Cinderella, arguably the world’s most famous fairy tale. Cinderella stories appeal to almost everyone. But why the ongoing appeal? Why are there literally hundreds of versions of the fairy tale from a plethora of countries? Why has it spawned books, plays, films, and poetry?

Some scholars say that in the modern world, Cinderella has been reduced to something between a rags-to-riches story and a makeover show, with the heroine becoming nothing more than an object, a girl who waits for the prince to show up, then, without thought, rides away into the happily ever after. The 1950s Disney version of the story certainly supports this, as Cinderella’s work is accomplished by birds and mice; her personality is thin and wanting, with the film’s character provided by two mice and the ugly stepsistsers; and her transformation is effected by the fairy godmother. In short, the Disney Cinderella has little to do except wish and look pretty. But real women know this already, and know, moreover, that life is not simply wishing and hoping and singing, yet they still return to the myriad Cinderella stories of the modern world. Why? Is it some form of escapism?

When we strip the fairy tale of its outer elements, with what are we left? An unhappy, sometimes motherless, sometimes orphaned girl. A life of drudgery. Change. A happy ending. Seen this way, the story no longer appears superficial but rather as a real life, a true life to which most people can relate—except that in real life, we’re told, there are no happy endings.

But what if there were? And how do I get one?

These are the questions which Cinderella forces us to ask. She digs deep into our consciousness, reminding us that we, too, are marking time[4], planning and working toward our own happy ending—a raise, a family, a nicer house, a batch of picture-perfect Julia Child style scones. And while she reminds us of this, she shows us that such an ending is possible, despite the ugly stepsisters, the cruel mother/step-mother, despite even the unknown future with its choice between marriage and independence. Cinderella tells us that we are not alone, that others have walked before us and succeeded, and that we, too, will succeed.

Let us consider an earlier point here: there are literally hundreds of Cinderella stories from all over the world. Why? If the earliest recorded version of the story is Yeh-Hsien[5], then how did it travel forth into the world? Was it carried upon the backs of traders? There is no clear answer, but I think not. Tales are spread about by people, true, but Cinderella stories are so far flung that it seems unlikely they can all be traced back to one or two early sources.

Carl Jung described the theory of the collective unconscious, a part of the psyche which does not “owe its existence to personal experience and consequently is not a personal acquisition…[6]”. It is derived from ancestral memory and experience—i.e., experiences all humanity shares. Humans recognise story patterns; tales seem so familiar to us because we remember them as part of this collective unconscious. It is not unreasonable then, to suggest that certain stories and explanations will be ubiquitous amongst humans, and Cinderella is an excellent example of this.

Finally, a note on Bruno Bettleheim and his book, The Uses of Enchantment. A Freudian, Bettelheim described fairy tales as a ‘soul journey’ in which children learn about themselves. Through tales, children are able to identify and talk through certain emotions and fears. According to Maria Tatar, “Fairy tales connect with all kinds of adult secrets…They tell children about death, which is something that adults talk about in hushed tones. They tell them about romance and marriage and in some cases, they'll tell them about sex and violence.[7]" When children are deprived of such a fantasy world, they create their own—massively multiplayer online games are a good example of this.

Returning to Cinderella—it is the original underdog story, the fairy tale that speaks to our fears, hopes, and dreams. We recognise it from variant to variant, we identify with it, and we learn through it.

Notes: Everyone knows the story of little cinder-girl, as Ashenputtel, as Yeh-Hsien, as Cendrillion, as Rhodopsis, as Anne de Fernandez. In the following weeks, I’ll be posting several versions of the story, along with a little history about the authors associated with each. Note that the tale of Rhodopsis is particularly interesting—from around the 6th century B.C. it is the other noted ‘origin story’ of Cinderella.

I have made no notes on Cinderella’s slippers in this commentary. As much of the scholarship regarding the importance of her footwear references Perrault, I will write about it after I have posted Cendrillion.

Footnotes:

[1]Wu was the name of a rebellion leader in the extreme south, around the area of modern day Nan-ning, Kwangsi province.
[2] Heidi Anne Heiner, Tales Similar to Cinderella.
[3]ibid.
[4]See my notes on the princess and the role of the heroine. http://journal.petajinnathandersen.com/2008/01/mother-holle-commentary-part-ii.html
[5]The tale of Rhodopsis, from around the 6th century B.C. is the other noted ‘origin story’ of Cinderella.
[6]Carl G. Jung, excerpted from http://www.timestar.org/collective.htm
[7]Maria Tatar, Harvard Gazette.



References:

Beth Potier, Harvard Gazette, Once Upon A Time: Maria Tatar's 'Annotated Classic Fairy Tales' offers new insights on familiar old tales...http://www.hno.harvard.edu/gazette/2003/04.10/18-tatar.html
Waley, Arthur, 1947, The Chinese Cinderella Story, Folklore, Vol. 58, No. 1, pp. 226-238. Text kindly provided by JSTOR.
Terri Windling, 2007,Ashes, Blood, and the Slipper of Glass, Journal of Mythic Arts, Endicott Studio, pp1-2, http://www.endicott-studio.com/rdrm/forashs.html
Heidi Anne Heiner, Tales Similar to Cinderella, http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/cinderella/other.html
Foley, Louis,1954, A Princess And Her Magic Footwear, The Modern Language Journal, Vol. 38 No. 8., pp.412-415. Text kindly provided by JSTOR.
Dr. Rouhier Willoughby, http://www.uky.edu/~jrouhie/rae370_web4.html
Jung, Carl G., The Archetypes And The Collective Unconscious. Text kindly provided by http://www.timestar.org/collective.htm

History of Yeh-Hsien

Probably the first recorded version (c. 850-960 C.E. [1]) of a Cinderella tale, Yeh-Hsien was first written down by Tuan Ch’eng Shih[2], though the story itself appears to come from aborigines in the extreme south. Surprisingly, the story was largely ignored until 1911, when attention was drawn to it by Japanese folklorist K. Minakata [3].

In contrast to many other early folklorists, Tuan Ch’eng Shih not only made no effort to ‘literise’ tales but also went to great effort to preserve the authenticity of his collections. In the case of Yeh-Hsien, this has provided a clean text, though it must be noted that in other tales he has ‘corrected’ stories, believing that later versions, even those collected from a different region, are bastardisations of earlier, ‘authentic’ tales.

But Ch’eng Shih’s Cinderella is particularly interesting, providing more motivations and explanations etc. than common, more detail about Yeh-hsien (good at making pottery on the wheel) giving her more character (consider today's modern, snappy one-lining protagonists) than our modern cinderellas.

About Yeh-Hsien

Certain details of this tale’s setting are unique. While European Cinderellas usually involve a mother or step-mother, a sometimes orphaned and poor girl, and a wish-granting spirit. Yeh-Hsien, however, contains elements and motivations outside the norm. Interestingly, the story continues past the ‘happily ever after’, detailing the fate of the step family—flying stones, then the tomb of the distressed women, prayed to by bachelors who then succeeded with whomever they sought to court; the king used the bones for a year then, when they stopped answering, buried them royally by the sea; during a mutiny a general opened them up to provide for his army; finally, the bones were washed away by the sea.

Over time, many tellings have lost the detail of the cave, that Yeh-Hsien’s father had two wives , and that the name of the neighbouring island kingdom (T’o’han), and. It’s possible that such details have been omitted in an attempt to refine the story (consider Perrault’s Cendrillion). But each of these details has its own significance in terms of placing the story and learning about its origins. First, we shall deal with the cave.

In the Tuan Ch’eng Shih version, the story begins:

Among the people of the south there is a tradition that before the Ch'in and Han dynasties there was a cave-master called Wu. The aborigines called the place the Wu cave.

On first reading, ‘cave’ is surprising, if not a little disturbing. As we continue to read the story, it becomes clear that Yeh-Hsien’s home is not literally a cave. Why, then, such a beginning?

According to Arthur Waley[4], aborigines in the south of China did live in caves but, when this tale was recorded (c. 9th century), the aborigines had come to live in small villages and ‘cave owner’ had come to mean ‘in the native lands’, i.e. it was used in an ethnic sense rather than a literal one.

With regard to Yeh-Hsien’s father and his two wives:

The aborigines called the place the Wu cave. He married two wives. One wife died...She had a daughter Yeh-hsien...After some years the father died, and she was ill-treated by her step-mother...

Some versions describe Yeh-Hsien’s step-mother as her father’s ‘co-wife’. Historical record shows us that Chinese men took only one wife. Chiefs and high ranking aborigines in the south, however, were sometimes documented as taking more than one wife, and modern aborigines have been shown to have more than one wife also, adding to the idea of the tale’s provenance being from this area.

Tomorrow: Commentary Part II of II; detailed analysis of Yeh-Hsien, plot elements, and comparison; notes on Cinderella.

Footnotes:

[1] Waley, p.1
[2] ibid.
[3] ibid.
[4] ibid.


References:

Waley, Arthur, 1947, The Chinese Cinderella Story, Folklore, Vol. 58, No. 1, pp. 226-238. Text kindly provided by JSTOR.
Windling, Terri, 2007, Ashes, Blood, and the Slipper of Glass, Journal of Mythic Arts, Endicott Studio, pp1-2. http://www.endicott-studio.com/rdrm/forashs.html

Brynhild the Valkyrie, Arthur Rackham

The version of The Glass Mountain posted here was collected by Hermann Kletke, and included in Andrew Lang’s Yellow Fairy Book. Although the popular version of the tale is Polish, there are several other versions from Germany and Austria, and the general middle Europe.

To me, this story is particularly interesting in its sparsity—details and motivations are left to the imagination of the reader. As previously discussed, this is common practice in fairy tales; plot-driven stories, they play to accepted notions of the world and its people, with inevitable endings. The Glass Mountain, however, takes this to extremes, sketching only the necessary and leaving even seemingly important minutiae—such as the reason for the princess’ enchantment and imprisonment—quite out of the story.

Why?

Commentary and analysis of The Glass Mountain is also sparse (though it’s likely there’s at least some scholarship in middle Europe). Personally, I think the terseness of the tale doesn’t really offer much, and several of the ideas in the story are better represented elsewhere.

Let us turn to the details of the tale:

First, the princess. Sitting by her window, the princess follows the misadventures of the knights attempting her rescue. She is presented as an outsider, an object to be won almost, yet the story, so terse, still finds time to tell us that,

The sight of her always gave men fresh courage…

A rather strange addition, isn’t it? Without this line, the princess remains an outsider, and object. With it, the story begins to suggest that the princess is unhappy with her lot. Is this an inkling of the reason behind her imprisonment? Is she a Polish Maid Maleen[1], entrapped for loving a man of whom her father did not approve? The glass mountain on which she resides is certainly as impenetrable as Maid Maleen’s tower. Or perhaps the princess is wishing to be a greater part of the story; she appears to not just be inspired by the knights but identify with them also, casting her in the role of would-be heroine. Interestingly, the princess’ seat by the window suggests that she may be day-dreaming or engaging in some other fantasy play, fitting with either of the ideas just discussed.

Note that, at the end of the story, the princess rushes forward to greet the youth as her husband and master. Although such language is a sign of the time, it is surprising wording given that the youth has gained the castle, riches and princess, but in return lost his own freedom—with the eagle dead, there is no safe way to return to the land below. And so one prisoner has become two, but the couple seem unaware of this, content in a lovers’ world. It seems a peculiar and interesting allegory about love. This dual imprisonment, however, also seems akin to death.

The story is also reminiscent of the rescue of Brunhild. Brunhild, also Brynhildr and Bruühilde, is a shield maiden and valkyrie of Norse mythology. The Völsung cycle tells us that when asked to decide a battle between two kings, she angered Odin by choosing against his will. Odin then condemned her to a life of mortality imprisoned in a castle behind a wall of shields and atop Hindarfjall (Hind Mountain) until a man would rescue and marry her.

The Golden Knight and the Youth

…when a knight in golden armour and mounted on a spirited steed was seen making his way towards the fatal hill.

Sticking his spurs into his horse he made a rush at the mountain, and got up half-way, then he calmly turned his horse's head and came down again without a slip or stumble. The following day he started in the same way…

The golden knight’s failure is inevitable. Like the older siblings in other fairy tales, he sets out, makes it part way, then fails to complete the task at hand. But the older siblings failure is usually the result of some character flaw—they are rude or cruel to the person or animal who can help them (as in the case of The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship), or they fail to follow directions (as in The Dancing Water, The Singing Apple, and the Speaking Bird). The Glass Mountain, however, skips these steps altogether; the only sins of which the golden knight may be guilty are pride and over-confidence.

In her annotations to Beauty and the Beast, Heidi Anne Heiner says:

Fairy tales often contain multiple siblings in which the youngest becomes the protagonist. Traditional folklore is primarily interested in only children or youngest siblings. Either the youngest is the most beautiful and worthy--often female protagonists--or the youngest is stupid and lucky--often male protagonists. In either scenario, the youngest achieves good fortune through an adventure and/or magical helper.[2]

As discussed in the commentary on Mother Holle, beautiful girls are princesses. But what about the youngest male child, stupid and/or lucky? In the words of Maria Tatar:
"It is the modest, the humble, and often the dispossessed who are elevated to noble rank…"[3]

For me, the youngest male child is a fairy tale version of the everyman, the person neither above average nor below, who plods through life until opportunity arises. Is this why fairy tales remain popular amongst adults? Maybe. In his Preface to Works, Hans Christian Andersen wrote that “Every man's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers”.

In the posted version of this fairy tale, the hero is described as “a merry-hearted schooboy” and “the youth”. Although other tellings don’t specifically mention the age of the hero, he is represented as young. The version posted here, in fact, suggests that the boy is somewhere between seven and fifteen, probably marking a transition to adulthood.

Seven may be on the young side, even for a fairy tale, but twelve is tending toward manhood in certain cultures, and certainly in some eras. At twelve, boys were apprenticed and sent out to work. That the story is so specific in terms of time—noting that the boy had always known of the princess, that the princess had been trapped seven years—seems a little unusual, particularly as the time the princess has been imprisoned and enchanted appears to have no bearing on her rescue. This may indicate a sort of predestination; we know the golden knight has failed, despite appearing as a hero, while the youth, lacking in accoutrements, has the determination born of his age and his familiarity with the princess’ story on his side.

The eagle

"The blood of the eagle has restored all the people below to life. All those who have perished on this mountain are awakening up to-day, as it were from a sleep, and are mounting their horses, and the whole population are gazing on this unheard-of wonder with joy and amazement."

Although fairy tales often show the dead being waked by an elixir of sorts, this mass resurrection via the blood of a fellow creature is somewhat biblical. The eagle’s feet, hacked off, are even reminiscent of Christ’s feet upon the crucifix.

Returning to an earlier note—if we consider the youth and the princess atop the mountain as an allegory for love, it is not implausible to consider this resurrection as a sort of fairy tale way of saying “don’t worry, there are other fish in the sea, you’ll get over it”.

The Dragon

Passing a beast or obstacle to gain entry to the castle is a common element in fairy tales; oftentimes the beast is not fought, but rather appeased by a gift. The dragon (sometimes referred to only as ‘beast’), however, is interesting in that a) it isn’t mentioned until the youth stumbles upon it and b) the dragon is neither fierce nor docile. It does nothing when the hero appears; it vanishes when the apple is thrown, as if it has performed its function and there is no more. So, then, what is the dragon’s function?

It seems that the dragon represents something the youth must acknowledge—he is not to pass into the castle unaware and unready. By throwing the apple at the dragon he shows courage, quick-thinking and, most importantly, awareness. What if the youth had ignored the dragon, or simply not seen it? The Glass Mountain does not tell us, but other tales suggest his life would have ended abruptly through enchantment or physical violence.

The Glass Mountain
And finally, we come to the glass mountain itself. In Cinderella: 345 Variants, Marian Roalfe Cox writes:

In Vernaleken's "The Maiden on the Crystal Mountain" (from Lower Austria), the hero who keeps sliding backward when he attempts to climb the glass mountain, changes himself into a bear (by means of the hair given him by a grateful bear), and digs steps with his paws. When the splinters of glass lame him he changes himself into a wolf, and holds fast with his teeth. Finally he changes himself into a raven, and flies to the top. The steep hill is called Anafielas by the Lithuanians, and Szklanna gora (glass mountain) by the Poles.[4]

In some cultures, glass is representative of the hymen and consummation of marriage and mirrors (made of glass) have represented vanity, wisdom, and spirituality. Considering the discussion above, it seems likely that the glass mountain is either a sexual symbol—the transition of the youth into manhood makes this particularly appropriate—or death.

Roalfe Cox continues:

Compare the belief that the soul in its wanderings has to climb a steep hill-side, sometimes supposed to be made of iron, sometimes of glass, on the summit of which is the heavenly Paradise. For this reason the nails of a corpse must never be pared. The Russians still carry about with them parings of an owl's claws, and of their own nails…
The Lithuanians bury or burn with the dead the claws of a lynx or bear, in the belief that the soul has to climb up a steep mountain…

There is the Norse glerhiminn...a paradise to which old heroes ride.[5]

It is important to note, however, that there is no clear linkage between the glass mountain and death, and that much of this is inference and supposition.

The Glass Mountain in popular culture

American author Donald Barthelme prose poem, The Glass Mountain, details a trip to the top. Cast in the voice of the youth, he says:

…Everyone in the city knows about the glass mountain/People who live here tell stories about it/It is pointed out to visitors…

At the top of the mountain there is a castle of pure gold, and in a room in the castle tower sits.../A heap of corpses both of horses and riders ringed the bottom of the mountain, many dying men groaning there.[6]

Throughout, he explores the idea of the arduous journey, detractors, and reaching a prize only to find it is not as valuable as once thought, using the American market-economy as a backdrop.

Footnotes:

[1] Maid Maleen is a fairy tale recorded by the Brothers Grimm. It tells the story of a princess who falls in love with the prince of a neighbouring kingdom; the princess’ father does not approve the match. When the princess refuses to marry another, the king has her and her maid locked in a tower for seven years, but when the kingdom falls at the hand of a conquering king, the women escape early and sets out to find her prince.
[2] http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/beautybeast/notes.html
[3] ibid.
[4] Cox, p. 338, 1893.
[5]ibid.
[6] Barthelme, p. 172, 2005

References:

Cox, Marian Roalfe, Cinderella: Three Hundred and Forty-five Variants of Cinderella, Catskin, and Cap O' Rushes, abstracted and tabulated. London: David Nutt for the Folklore Society, 1893. (courtesy of SurLaLune Fairy Tale Pages, http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/cinderella/marianroalfecox/variants/338.html)
Heiner, Heidi Anne, The Annotated Beauty And The Beast, http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/beautybeast/notes.html
Barthelme, Donald, Sixty Stories, Penguin Classics, 2005.
Leeming, David, The Oxford Companion to World Mythology, Oxford University Press, 2005.

Fairy Tale Fridays: Mother Holle, Mother Holle: Commentary (part I), Mother Holle: Commentary (part II), Mother Holle: Commentary (part III).


Mythology (continued)

Frigg
Frigg, like Hlodyn (Hel) is married to Odin, and is a maternal goddess, ruling over areas such as: fertility, love, and domestic arts. Perhaps most interesting though, is that Frigg is associated with the spinning of wool and is a sky goddess. In fact, Orion’s Belt has been called Frigg’s Distaff, and, as shown above, she spun the clouds. And, like Artemis and Hulda, Frigg takes part in the hunt, (though she is usually accompanied by Odin).

As mentioned earlier, Frigg was a maternal goddess; like Hulda and Mother Holle, she is associated transformation, and credited with helping women birth children.

Although the spindle was discussed in the first part of this commentary, the recurring theme throughout this discussion of goddesses has brought it back to the fore. The idea of spinning and weaving in mythology is an old one—consider the Greek Fates weaving destiny. As such, for goddesses of transformation and change, the spindle is a particularly appropriate symbol—not only can it be tied to weaving a life’s journey, but also to creation. Through the art of spinning we create the threads we need to create fabric, stuff. Without spinning, there is no clothing, no blankets, no rope, no mattresses to stuff, even no toy for a child to cuddle in her sleep. Spinning was also a womanly art, and even the primary function for many German housewives. And so it easy to imagine that as the beautiful girl bled upon the spindle, she may have prayed to Frigg, or Hulda, or even Mother Holle (remember that the girl is fearful of Mother Holle’s appearance, but not surprised by Mother Holle herself).

In his Tetuonic Mythology, Jacob Grimm says:

Then her special care of flax and spinning…leads us directly to the. Frigg, Odin's wife, whose being melts into the notion of an earth-goddess…[1]

Isn’t an earth goddess the ultimate maternal goddess? The ultimate goddess of change and transition? And, as an earth goddess, the astute reader will consider the possible link between Frigg, Demeter, the seasons, Persephone, and the underworld.

Considering the material discussed above, lines of influence are easily drawn between Frigg, Hulda, and Mother Holle. That said, it is important to remember that although these are intriguing lines of study, there are many more facts to be considered, and, at this point, we are more standing at the edge of the precipice enjoying the view, than wading through the depths of jungle below.

The past four days of commentary have been in no way exhaustive, but I hope they have provided some useful insight with regard to certain fairy tale tropes. The symbolism inherent in the elements of the story--including, but not limited to the apples, the spindle, and the bread--is a fascinating study in and of itself, but, coupled with the idea of Mother Holle's origins, this story is an excellent example of the importance and relevance of fairy tales in both the modern world and the human psyche.


Fairy Tale Fridays: Mother Holle, Mother Holle: Commentary (part I), Mother Holle: Commentary (part II), Mother Holle: Commentary (part III).

Footnotes:

[1] Grimm, Jacob, Teutonic Mythology, Chapter 13.

References:

Grimm, Jacob, Teutonic Mythology, Chapter 13, online version provided by Northvegr, http://www.northvegr.org/lore/grimmst/index.php
Gould, Joan, Spinning Straw Into Gold: What Fairy Tales Reveal About The Transformations In A Woman’s Life, Random House Trade Paperbacks, 2006.
Hamilton, Edith, Mythology (New Ed.), Back Bay Books, 1998.
Leeming, David, The Oxford Companion To World Mythology, Oxford University Press USA, 2005.