Terrible Beauty

Cúchulainn in battle, illustration by Joseph Christian Leyendecker

For the past few weeks, I have been preparing for a workshop I’ll be teaching at the NJ Storytelling Festival this weekend. The workshop will offer advice on how to keep focus through the telling of a long story. It’s a workshop I’ve taught once before and it’s about something that I do all of the time, but for some reason, I’ve been having a hard time putting it together for this event. Today, Friday, practically on the eve of the event, I think I’ve hit upon my problem. It has to do with the story I’m using as the center of the workshop.

Because the workshop is about working with lengthy texts, and because I like to practice what I preach, I’ve been working on a new story to present as a workshop model. The story, The Tain Bo Cuailnge, is the center of the much longer Ulster Saga. These are very old stories about the Red Branch Army of Ulster and its tragic young hero, Cuchulain. Many of the stories in this cycle are stories of war, and the Tain is particularly bloody and violent. This week as I worked on the story and the workshop, I asked myself, “Why are you telling this? Why on earth would you decide to offer the people who are taking your workshop such a terrible story?”

The questions stopped me. The story choice had been automatic. It is a story I love and that I have wanted to tell for a long time. It seemed appropriate for the workshop because it presents the teller just the kinds of problems that make many of us avoid trying to extract a meaningful performance piece from an epic tale. It is intricately connected to the larger story. The cast of characters is large and many of them come with a history that adds context to their actions in the episode of the Tain, but which is hard to include in the story without taking the audience out of the tale. Deciding which parts to keep and what to leave out of the center of the story is an exercise in, literally, picking your battles because, like many stories of heroic deeds, the Tain is, in part, about a series of combats. So why am I, a mother and grandmother and a modestly calm and peaceful person, so drawn to it?

The story begins in the bed of Queen Maeve of Connaught when she and her husband, Aillel, begin to argue about whether she is better as a result of her marriage and association with him. After establishing that they are equal in birth and temperament, they decide to measure their belongings, one against the other, to settle the point. At the end of this accounting, Aillel comes out ahead by one bull, a creature so wonderful and valuable that it has only one rival in all of Ireland, the eponymous Donn Cuailnge, the Brown Bull of Ulster. This discovery sets up a series of events that ends in the deaths of thousands of men, the loss of much property, and the destruction of the land. Woven through this tragedy are the stories of individuals: soldiers, fathers, sons, and daughters who get caught in the merciless rush of war, and these are part of what attracts me to the story.

There is Queen Maeve, herself – manipulative, ruthless and selfish, she is admirable for her courage and for her insistence that a woman can take her place to rule and fight among men. Yet, in spite of her insistence on her own autonomy, she doesn’t hesitate to use her daughter Findabair as bait for any man whose army or battle prowess might serve her purposes. Other compelling characters in the piece include Fergus mac Roich, a wise and powerful king who exiled himself from his kingdom rather than compromise his integrity, and Ferdiad mac Daire, a young soldier of Connaught whom Maeve manipulates into fighting his friend and foster brother, Cuchulain. And, of course, at the center of the story is Cuchulain, himself. He is a hero in the Greek fashion, the child of a god and a mortal, who is somehow able to maintain his courage, strength, and integrity in the midst of impossible physical and moral odds.

In stories like the Tain, as in Homer’s Iliad, I think that war provides the kind of exaggerated picture of human experience that we are used to finding in fairy tales where mothers are either child-devouring witches or exemplars whose goodness transcends even the grave. War allows us to view the virtues and foibles of men and women under a microscope. Nothing is subtle; everything seems either hideously deformed, intricately lovely, or heart-wrenchingly noble.

In the Tain Bo Cuailnge, Cuchulain stands at a ford in the river day after day, tirelessly meeting one enemy combatant after another, and each battle presents its own particular problem. Sometimes the challenge is physical: an enemy with the heads, arms, and legs twenty-eight men. At other times it is mystical or spiritual: the druids and satirists who fight with spells and curses, or the goddess Morrigan who seeks revenge for spurned sexual advances. But harder than any of these are the complexities of facing in battle men whose actions have earned his love and respect. At the end of the story Cuchulain is so covered in wounds that “if birds were in the habit of flying through human bodies, they could fly through his rended flesh.” Yet, he perseveres until he is sure that he has done all he can to defend his homeland from destruction.

When I first called the Tain Bo Cuailnge a terrible story, I meant an unpleasant, uncomfortable story, a sad gift to give at the opening of the Storytelling Festival. And it is that. But it is also terrible in way of W.B. Yeats's "terrible beauty" of April 1916, that is, awe-inspiring and wonderful.  It is a story that changes us by forcing us to think beyond our limited existence, to marvel at the deeds of those who came before us, to wonder about the lives of those who will live after us, and then to try to maintain our humanity in the face of these reflections. A good way to begin a festival day.

A Chance to Think

While reading the novel Mr. Vertigo by Paul Auster this jumped off the page (screen) at me:

...she had a knack for pausing every so often in the middle of a sentence or an idea, and those little breaks in the telling produced rather startling effects.  They gave you a chance to think, to carry on with the story yourself, and by the time she started up again, you discovered that your head was filled with all kinds of vivid pictures that hadn't been there before.

The pauses we take when telling our stories are invitations to discovery.  Cool!

Hidden

by Jack McKeon

 

Yesterday (8/16)  Julie DellaTorre and I attended a performance of a play written and acted by Girls Surviving, the program in Morristown that Paula Davidoff has been a guiding part of for years.  It was my second time to watch these girls perform  in the summer program and both times I have been impressed by the cohesion, cooperation and even acting abilities of the girls, who must, at first, show up with all the baggage of  “girls at risk”, and by the sophistication of the ideas explored in the play itself, written through a process of self-exploration and mutual discussion focused on issues of immediate consequence to the girls.

The play was titled “Hidden”.  The concept paired the girls, one as the socialized persona trying to keep to the right path and the other the hidden shadow urging them on to some sort of self-destructive, if immediately pleasurable, behavior.  A second theme was dreams, what they are like, what they can give us or unleash in us, and how we can try to make them real.  The lovely opening put the girls onstage, the hidden self behind the open one.  They began to speak of dreams while performing slow dance movements, hidden interweaving with open.  If these kids got that concept, as they must have, what a wonderful thing for them to experience.

As the play went on, I was struck by the fairy tale concept in it.  It was, in fact, a good representation of the princess/waiting maid conflict in “The Goose Girl”.   I spend much of my storytelling time with this kind of analysis so I was happy to see it open up on stage and, I would think, in the imaginations of the girls.  At one point, one of the girls becomes her Dad’s “princess” and her mother tells her that she will always be close to her daughter’s heart.  It was an impressive parallel to the Grimms’ tale, even after (Duh!) one of the girls during the post performance Q and A mentioned that Paula had told them a story which had influenced the shape of the play.  Of course this was “The Goose Girl”.  Paula, I now remembered, had introduced her wonderful analysis by saying she was going to use it in a situation involving “alter egos”.

What a vivid example of the power of story.  These girls were able to see the patterns of their own lives revealed in the pattern of the story.  They could take that notion, work with it to make it their own and see in it some hope, some indication of the power they have over their own lives.  At the end of the play, the two halves embraced or, hand in hand, opened the door to the future.  In ”The Goose Girl”, the maid and the princess don’t quite make that accommodation, though I believe that the maid’s self-imposed punishment is carried out, perhaps according to her desire, for the good of the whole.  In the Q and A, it became even more clear how these girls, strangers at the beginning, had been drawn together by the experience into a unified, supportive group, a “troupe” as the playbill has it. Even the youngest, an 8^th grader, felt accepted and protected by the older girls.  They were sharp, articulate and clearly pleased with what they had accomplished.  The success of the program in general was evident by the number of alumnae there were in the audience.

Having taught high school for many years and worked at the juvenile facilities in Morristown for the past year and a half. I am always curious about what effect we have on the kids we work with.  Sometimes we know, usually we don’t.  However, Julie Pasqual (who also worked this summer in the Girls Surviving program), at the Sussex County fair ran into a boy who was at the detention center when I started with the program.  He recognized her (big surprise there!), was delighted to see her, proud to be out, going for a GED and working.  Julie said he looked like just a kid.  It would be nice to think that his joy at seeing her reflects a little of what we all might be accomplishing, of what storytelling can do.  Maybe you all have many reports of a similar nature. 

Anyway, “Hidden” was a wonderful demonstration of how empowering it can be to tell your story – even if your audience is just a stove. 

Not to put you on the spot, JP, but it would be interesting to know about your experience with the girls.  The joy seems apparent.  What were the difficulties, if any?  And, Paula, if I have misrepresented anything, please comment.

Last week’s post spoke to my participation in a marathon storytelling performance of Monkey: Journey to the West and of the workshops, reading and studying with Diane Wolkstein and colleagues in preparation for our production.

This previous experience made the viewing of Monkey: Journey to the West at Lincoln Center even more enjoyable. Because I was so familiar with the story and the characters, I was able to understand and flesh out parts that may have seemed flat or unclear to others. Just a sentence or two, or a setting or a prop, prompted my memory of the whole episode being portrayed. I was also able to watch with a professional storyteller’s eye. What choices were made with regard to story, episodes, characters, music, movement, colors, costumes and expressions? These were some of the same decisions with which Diane and we grappled.

Here are some of my impressions of the Lincoln Center production Monkey: Journey to the West by the creative team of Chen Shi-Zheng (concept, text and director), Damon Albarn (composer) and Jamie Hewlett (animation and costumes).

THE MULTIMEDIA APPROACH

The production included animation, circus performers, martial arts battles as well as acting and singing. I loved this form. A live orchestra played in the pit, using some traditional Chinese instruments. The music composed for this production added much to the Chinese feel, and the live music brought the animation to a higher level. Although a colleague of mine hated the opening animation scene, I liked it. Hundreds of years passed by very clearly and led seamlessly to the live entrance of Monkey. I was taken right away with the live, loud drumbeats booming as the stone egg bounced off the mountain peaks. (In the Lincoln Center trailer cymbals are used- drums are much more effective.)

The other animated scene that worked well for me was Monkey’s trip to the Undersea Palace of the Dragon King. Again I felt to length of the journey and the depth of the sea. When the scrim lifted to the live scene on stage, I found I was holding my breath as if I were underwater.

I don’t know much about martial arts, but it certainly added to the battle scenes. One tended to meld into another for me, but that’s the same with the hundreds of battle scenes in the novel.

The circus pieces were colorful and fun to watch and though they may have added some to the mood on stage, I don’t think they added much to the story. But I don’t get to see the circus much and loved watching the rope-swingers, fire throwers, acrobats and contortionists. Again, it certainly added to the Chinese feel of the story.

CHARACTERS

I was glad to have spent time exploring the characters in depth before attending this production.

Dear Monkey King was delightful, naughty, audacious, irreverent and exciting. Diane would have loved the portrayal and probably would have ‘lifted’ bits of the performance. However, in the novel, Monkey reaches enlightenment only through much internal struggle and many mistakes, as we all d. At the end of this production Dear Monkey King is made Buddha because he was a great protector of the monk. But throughout the journey in the novel, Monkey grows in self-control, understanding and compassion. This aspect of his character was missing in this production.

The Monk, Tripitaka, was beautifully portrayed. The costume was perfect and the monk appeared calm and serene with much bowing and prostrations, but again I was a bit disappointed. I was able to embellish his shock and disbelief that Dear Monkey King would kill for any reason and then banish him, but the anguish is only hinted at and it is unclear how and why Monkey is forgiven and allowed to return as protector. And where was the trembling and crying? The monk is ALWAYS crying in the novel.

PIGSY was wonderful to see. My friend, Rita, will be happy to see Pigsy here. Diane debated for hours with herself and with others about whether to keep this character or gloss over him. She was still wrestling with this choice the last time I spoke with her.

GUAN YIN was the most unsatisfying portrayal of all. Such an ethereal, compassionate and central character in the novel, here she just floats in and out giving directions. I remember workshops where Joy Kelly (fellow storyteller) led us all, Diane included, in the embodiment of Guan Yin. Joy is the most graceful Guan Yin. We all became better Guan Yins because of her.

 

STORY LINE

Here is where choices become even more important. How does one find the essence of an epic novel and craft it into an understandable and entertaining two hour performance?

OPENING

The opening scenes of the novel are the most well-known part of the story. They stand alone as a complete tale and have been retold in many formats including picture books. Maybe this is why the opening was so easy to follow. As mentioned above, I loved the multi-media approach used in these scenes.

THREE EPISODES

How to choose three episodes out of hundreds, that is the question. Diane Wolkstein was always struggling with this. I was present during many of her performances of this tale and watched her try out one episode or another. The choices portray different inner struggles on the path to enlightenment.

Chen Shi-Zheng chose three episodes in which the heroes confront strong, entrapping women:

·        White Skeleton Woman

·         Spider Woman

·         Princess Iron Fan

 All three episodes incorporated acrobats, circus acts and martial arts battles. Each scene was different and effective; though I’m glad I had some familiarity with the story.

 

ENDING: ACHIEVING ENLIGHTENMENT

The ending here was much too abrupt. Nothing in the preceding performance led to the bestowing of gifts from Buddha. The scene was beautiful and the characters looked so little in front of Buddha, but the story and episodes were nothing more than that, a string of episodes. In the end, the ‘journey’ was not felt.

 

FINAL THOUGHTS

I am so glad I saw this production at Lincoln Center. I wish Diane Wolkstein was here so I could discuss everything with her. I think she would have delighted in the playfulness and experimentation. I think she would have taken insights from the choices made. She would have disregarded what didn’t jive with her understanding of Journey.

I have learned much about myself and about storytelling through my work with Dear Monkey King and my work with Diane Wolkstein and fellow storytellers. There are a few episodes I remember friends performing. I’m going to look those up again right now.

Anyone else see the Lincoln Center production? I’d love to hear your reflections.

Julie DT

SAI Blog: August 2013

MONKEYING AROUND: PART 1

On Saturday, after storytelling at the Hans Christian Andersen Statue, I took myself to Lincoln Center to see Monkey: Journey to the West. http://monkeyjourneytothewest.com Next week I will give my impressions of the show, but this week I thought I’d give you some background about my interest in the story,  and why I went to see it in the first place.

Jack (fellow SAI teller) and I had the joy and privilege of working with Diane Wolkstein and 23 other storytellers from North America reading, studying and exploring the epic Chinese novel Journey to the West. (We worked with the 4 volume version by Wu Cheg’En and his one volume version, Monkey.)

Diane had been working for years trying to develop an oral retelling of this story and she wanted to see the whole story played out so she planned a marathon telling of the story with 25 storytellers from the US and Canada. The performance took place from Friday night March 18 to Sunday afternoon March 21 2009. In preparation Diane assigned us each multiple chapters which we were to study and pare down to a 10 minute telling. The absolute hardest part was making  the choices of what to include and what to leave out... so much to leave out!

To help us Diane held workshops in which we explored the characters, the essence of the action, the meanings to be found and the language of the text.  We worked on our own selections as well as parts of the whole story. Though most of the work was done on our own, we learned much from our colleagues in these workshops. This knowledge went into our personal tellings.

Diane’s goal was to develop for herself a two hour performance of this story in a clear, concise and entertaining way. Watching her go through the process of developing this piece taught me much about the storytelling choices we make. Having to craft my own 10 minutes was the learning put into practice!

Some of the ‘marathon tellers’ read all 4 volumes, but, probably like most, I read at least huge chunks of the epic novel. And, of course, we all got to see many of the episodes retold by friends and colleagues. The hours spent discussing and analyzing scenes and characters, motivations and symbols, history and sutras led to a deeper understanding of the story. All of this I took to my afternoon journeying with Dear Monkey King at Lincoln Center.

Deconstructing The Goosegirl

Illustration by Walter Crane

This post contains thoughts I had while planning a lesson for a residency that is exploring the idea of “alter egos.” It’s not a formal post and I hope it will begin a conversation, through comments by readers and posts by other SAI tellers about the stories we are learning, telling, and teaching. I have been telling Goosegirl for many years and, although, with the exception of the notes on symbolism and the description of a knacker’s duties, these thoughts came spontaneously as I reread and wrote, I do not claim that they are original. I’m sure that some have been gleaned from other sources I've read over the years, and that many readers, tellers, and interpreters of folktales have arrived at similar conclusions. I’m also certain that many people smarter than I could set me straight on some of the things I’ve gotten wrong and I welcome such correction.

Characters (in order of appearance)

Old Queen

Princess

Maid

Falada

Handkerchief & Blood

Young King

Old King

Conrad

Geese

the Knacker

Character Connections

The Old Queen is the princess’s mother. She arranges her betrothal to the young king. Not only does the mother shower her daughter with extravagant material goods, she also sheds blood for her. She gives her a charm, a blessing in the form of three drops of her own blood on a white rag. Neither the goods nor the blood can help the princess in her time of need.

The old queen is the maid’s mistress and her sovereign. She puts her only child in the keeping of the maid. Does she have some reason to trust her? The old queen is also Falada’s mistress, in the sense that she rules or owns every sentient being in her realm. Was it her decision that he should be the princess’s mount for the journey? Falada repeats the words spoken by the blood.

The old queen uses the handkerchief to hold the blood she gives her daughter. The rag falls into the river (water is feminine, symbolizes mother -- source of all life), presumably the blood becomes one with the water.

The old queen bestows her daughter on the young king and she sends her daughter to the realm of the old king. She knows nothing of Conrad. Is the river where Conrad takes the geese to graze the same one that carried away the rag and blood?

The old queen and the geese – geese are symbols of mother earth, female sexuality and fertility.

The old queen and the knacker – the queen approaches death; the knacker renders the body, finds uses for the body once the soul has fled.

The Princess / Goosegirl embarks on a journey with the maid. (It’s strange that these two women, the princess and the maid, travel alone. Perhaps one is always alone on the journey.) Like her mother, she is the maid’s mistress and sovereign. She gives orders to the maid. She ends up giving her clothes, her horse, and her voice (her promise) to the maid. The maid takes the princess’s betrothed and her rightful place in the house of the two kings.

The princess rides Falada as she embarks on her journey. She bargains for his head when she hears he is going to die. She speaks to Falada’s head. He is the only one to whom she can speak openly because he saw what happened by the river bank. There is no need to reveal her secret to him; he knows it and is clearly sympathetic.

The princess is betrothed to the young king, yet he doesn’t recognize her when they meet. He doesn’t even seem to see her.

The princess is seen by the old king. He does recognize her, but he doesn’t know who she is. He begins to put things into balance. He is the first man who acts on her behalf. She begins to gain power once he enters the story.

The princess is plagued by Conrad but his antics seem to help her understand her power. She calls the wind to rescue her from his advances.

The princess and the geese – does she also derive power from their influence?

The princess and the knacker – Falada seems to become useful to the princess only after his death. She gives the knacker gold for the head. (gold in the story – golden cup, golden coin, golden hair.)

When The Maid switches places with the princess, she is taking the only chance she will ever have to escape her caste. She also, inadvertently, gives the princess her only chance to discover her own strengths. In a conglomerate character, she may be the princess’s id.

The maid takes Falada from the Princess. She fears him, his power of speech, and is responsible for his death. The maid fools the young king. She tricks him into ordering Falada’s death, then into marriage. The maid doesn’t fool the old king. He watches her and bides his time. I don’t think he knows what he knows, but he paves the way for the princess’s return to power. The king sets up the maid’s self-destruction.

The maid might be Conrad’s feminine counterpart. She is wily where he seems simple, but that fits the pattern. The maid is separate from the geese. She has closed herself in a castle, away from natural forces. The maid brings the knacker into the story when she calls for Falada’s death.

Falada can speak with a human voice, but we hear this voice only after he is dead. Falada bears the princess away from her mother, the old queen. When he speaks, he reminds her of her mother’s love? fate? wisdom?

Falada carries the maid to the castle of the two kings. He dies at the order of the young king.

His head speaks and is heard by the old king. Falada’s head hangs over Conrad as he drives the geese through the gate to the river bank. Falada’s head hangs over the geese as they pass through the gate. Falada and the geese are animal characters, but not the kind we expect to find in folktales. The don’t advise or help the protagonist in any simple way. Falada’s life is taken by the knacker.

Rag and Blood - This talisman contains part of the old queen. The blood speaks to the princess like a conscience, reminding her that things aren’t what they should be. I imagine that it speaks in her mother’s voice. The blood protects the princess from the evil designs of the maid. The maid can’t hurt her until she loses it. Then the princess becomes the maid. With no ego (she can’t take a stand against the maid at the stream) and no super-ego to remind her of how things should be, she becomes all id.

The old king notices the ‘other girl’ and it bothers him. He has picked up the thread that was dropped at the river.

Conrad doesn’t know about the blood, but he feels its long-suppressed effects on the princess as she comes into her own by the river bank.

Do the geese drink from the same river into which the rag feel and the queen’s blood was dispersed?

When the knacker spills Falada’s blood, the horse’s head begins to speak in the voice of the old queen.

The Young King is the princess’s male other. He is also too inexperienced to recognize the maid’s ruse, although he seems disturbed to be aligned with the woman who spitefully demands the death of a horse. He takes no part in the life of the ‘true bride’ when she enters his realm. His father arranges everything. However, when he finally meets the real princess, he recognizes her immediately.

The Old King begins to put the male/female power into balance. He is the old queen’s male other, the princess/young king’s male superego. He has the power to control the impulses of Conrad and the maid. The old king hears Falada’s voice; he sees the princess wrapped in her golden hair among the geese at the river bank. He watches her put Conrad in his place. Finally, through the medium of the stove, he restores her voice.

Conrad is the male other of the maid. He is all id, all desire. He becomes so obsessed with the princess’s gold(en hair -- gold represents virtue, intelligence, superiority, revealed truth, marriage, and fruitfulness (Olderr)) that he tries to take it for himself. He spends his days among the geese beside the river and seems influenced by their feminine power. However, the old king, the male superego can control him and, in the old king’s realm, the princess also learns to control him.

The Geese symbolize feminine traits, both wise and stupid (earth, fertility, motherhood, love, constancy, female sexuality, silliness, innocence). They move between the castle and the river. Until the day the princess arrives at the castle, they have been under the hand of Conrad who drove them back and forth. Do their lives change when goosegirl enters their world?

The Knacker is responsible for doing away with the animals who are no longer useful. Unlike a butcher, he doesn’t kill the beast to turn it into food. He renders the body for other uses – the hooves for glue, the bones for soap, the hide for leather, etc. The butcher, because he kills for the nourishment of life could be said to extend the life of the beast. How does the knacker’s job affect his victim’s afterlife?

Illustration by Arthur Rackham

Summary – putting them all together

The Goosegirl begins in an exclusively feminine environment. The old queen’s husband is “long since dead,” but she has a daughter and a serving maid who become the protagonist and antagonist of the tale. So, in the beginning, we have the complete female: youth and age; superego, id. However, these characters constitute a trinity so the princess, herself, must fit in somewhere. I think she is the kore/maiden in the age/youth cycle. The maid is older, or at least, more worldly. Because she is the central character of the tale, the princess is also what will become the ego, the place where everything converges to balance the character. (I am using Freudian terminology for the convenience of brevity. I don’t have a sophisticated understanding of his work.)

So in the beginning of the tale, the kore/ego kernel leaves the mother/crone to seek her (the princess’s) male counterpart and unite in marriage. She is accompanied by the maid and by the horse, Falada. (Falada is a talking horse who never uses his voice to advise or speak in defense of the princess. I think this is unusual for talking animals in folktales. Falada is male.) When she leaves home, she also takes a part of her mother – the blood on the rag. This she is advised to “keep with her always (so that she) will always be protected by (the mother’s) blessing.” The blood, as it turns out, can also speak. The queen’s advisement is tantamount to telling the reader/listener that the talisman will be lost.

Shortly after the princess passes the threshold of her home, the id/maid begins to assert herself and the princess seems to have no power to stand up to her on her own. She doesn't even know how to use her own golden cup. Only the blood, the mother’s charm, the reminder that “if this your mother knew, her heart would break in two” keeps her from falling completely under the power of the maid. When the blood stained rag falls into the river, the maid’s power becomes complete. She becomes the princess (takes away her clothes, horse, and voice) and the little shell of the maiden ego becomes silent and almost invisible. When the two women arrive at their destination, the realm of two kings, the young king, her betrothed, does not seem to see her at all, and takes the maid to wife.

However, it is here that the masculine influence comes into play and begins to put things back in balance. Although the young king doesn’t notice the true bride, his father, the old king, does. He doesn’t see through the maid’s ruse, but on some level, he recognizes the princess and asks what is to be done with her. The maid, who seems to have forgotten the girl’s existence tells him to “find something for her to do so her hands won’t be idle.” This instruction puts the princess in a position to begin to integrate her soul. The father, so conspicuously missing in the beginning of the story, is replaced in the person of the old king. The male ego counterpart has been introduced, and the little kore is put to doing women’s work, driving and grazing the geese and dealing with the maid’s male counterpart, Conrad the goose boy.

At this point in the story, Falada, who has thus far remained mute, is killed by the knacker. The young king orders the horse’s death at the insistence of the false bride/maid. This is an unnatural act in every sense. For one thing, Falada is by no means a useless beast. He is a mount fit for a princess and, presumably, has many useful years left before he should become fodder for the knacker’s blade. However, because she knows he is capable of speech, and because he witnessed the transformation of the maid into princess, the maid fears he will speak on the princess’s behalf. So it is Falada’s supernatural power that seals his fate.

The princess, we now learn, isn’t completely powerless and is already coming into herself, for she produces a golden (royalty, virtue, intelligence, power) coin which she uses to buy the head of Falada from the knacker. She has this head placed over the gate through which she passes every morning and evening as she drives the geese back and forth to the river. Once the head is in place, the mother’s voice returns. Now it not only reminds the princess that things are out of order, it also mentions her proper role in her present life – “alas, dear queen, how much you bear.”

The picture of the princess tending the geese by the river bank teems with symbols of feminine power: the flowing water, the grazing, gabbling geese, the cloud of golden hair. The mother/crone is present, symbolically in the earth, water, and geese; and actually, in the homeopathic trace of blood that washed from the rag into the flowing river. The maid is also present in the male form of Conrad. Here by the river, the prime-mover power of the wild, animal part of the soul becomes apparent. Without the actions of the maid, our princess would have remained the meek, voiceless girl who couldn’t properly get herself a drink of water, but in her present position, she finds the power to reintegrate with the mother and to protect herself from the desires of the beastly boy. She commands the wind (which must be a masculine force, since we know it inseminated mares in ancient Greece!) and it does her bidding. Her actions force Conrad to interact with the old king who, consequently acts to close the circle, to bring the princess back to her rightful place – giving her back her voice, her clothing, and uniting her with her male counterpart (who, presumably has gained some wisdom from his own interactions with the female id persona).

When the maid is finally rendered passive enough to be reintegrated, it is through her own voice. The old king sets the stage, but she doesn’t recognize (willfully refuses to acknowledge? acquiesces to?) the trap and designs the punishment that results in her painful demise. By the end of the tale, the princess has found both a father and a husband, has synthesized the wisdom and knowledge of her mother, and has gained control of the wilder parts of her soul. 

INTRODUCING

By Storyteller, Julie Della Torre

When I get a new collection of stories, whether from a used book sale, library or bookstore, I immediately go to the story I’m currently working on or one of my favorite tales to see what this new reteller has done to it. Then I always settle down into the introduction. I’m looking for illumination and inspiration. After reading a well written introduction, I can’t wait to dive into the tales themselves.

Why do authors, collectors and retellers spend time writing introductions? As I read many introductions in a short time period it was easy to see why. Each writer has particular themes and concerns. Some want to set the collection in a historical time period. Some want to focus on the tales and still others on the telling of these tales. Some want to explore the importance of these stories in today’s world. Well, I guess all of them want to do that! 

Each introduction in the hands of a great writer is a perfect little essay in and of itself. How could they be otherwise with such authors as Jane Yolen, A.S Byatt, and Philip Pullman? I am only going to touch on a few introductions here, but I would send you to any of the introductions in the volumes published by Pantheon Press. There you will find Padric Colum in The Complete Brothers Grimm, Italo Calvino in Italian Folktales and Richard Erdoes in American Indian Myths and Legends among others.

 

I’d like to begin with my all-time favorite introduction, one I reread any time I need validation for what I do. Jane Yolen is a prolific and eclectic author and folklorist. Her introductory essay in the Pantheon collection Favorite Folktales From Around the World (Pantheon 1986) is the one I go to for inspiration.

 “Tales are meant to be told,” she begins, a point she reiterates in each of the five sections that make up this essay. Throughout the introduction Yolen’s belief in the power of story is evident. She speaks to the orality of the tales and how they change with the teller and with the purpose of the telling. The history of the collecting and writing down of the tales and even the history of storytelling in the United States is examined. Yolen takes us to an old storytelling culture where storytellers were apprenticed. This cultivation of new storytellers is a question we here at Storytelling Arts ask ourselves. Where are our future storytellers? The essay is sprinkled with poems and stories... even stories in the Introduction!!! The piece ends with a poem, ‘Why We Tell Stories’ by Lisel Mueller. How would you answer?

 A.S. Byatt is an author who loosely uses the folk tale form for many of her books. She would agree with Yolen’s interpretation of a William James anecdote: Literature. It’s story upon story upon story. It’s story all the way down. Byatt, in her beautifully written introduction to The Annotated Brothers Grimm by Maria Tatar (Norton 2004) writes her memories of reading the fairy tales and how the old fairy tales have influenced her own writing as well as most literature from the time the form evolved.  Why do I like this introduction so much? Byatt reminds me to take the fairy tales as they are; they make no designs on us. “I am not sure how much good is done by moralizing about fairy tales, “she states. The form itself with the flatness, stock characters and even violence put us all in the stories. “These tales collected by the Grimms are older, simpler and deeper than the individual imagination.” That’s why we tell these stories.

Maria Tatar is a renowned folklorist and author. She has studied and written about fairy tales for many years.  Her collections The Annotated Classic Fairy Tales (Norton, 2002) and The Annotated Brothers Grimm (Norton, 2004) both have outstanding introductions, but I would like to concentrate on the earlier edition. In this introduction Tatar focuses on the oral art of storytelling, that these stories should be told or read out loud. She speaks to the inherent morals in these old tales. Moralizing is not needed, though she gives guidelines on the importance of discussing these stories as they are told. In the introduction she clearly sets up the collection, explaining why she added the annotations, and the points of discussions that might ensue. She also speaks to the importance of illustrations of these old tales and includes many of the most famous illustrations. “...illustrations that provide not only visual pleasure, but also powerful commentaries on the tales, interrupting the flow of the story at critical moments and offering opportunities for further reflection and interpretation.” You can hear an interview with Maria Tatar on the importance of fairy tales in our lives here: http://www.onbeing.org/program/the-great-cauldron-of-story-maria-tatar-on-why-fairy-tales-are-for-adults-again/5073/audio?embed=1

 

One of the newest collections of Grimm’s fairy tales is Philip Pullman’s Fairy Tales From the Brothers Grimm. (Viking 2012) Philip Pullman is a masterful storyteller and author of His Dark Materials. (Knopf) This introduction begins with a James Merill poem which Pullman uses as headings for six different sections of the essay. He gives a fairly detailed history and biography of the two brothers Grimm, of their collecting style and how scholars from many fields have interpreted the tales over time. “But,” states Pullman, “my main interest has always been in how the tales worked as stories.” The qualities and characteristics of the form are explored: flatness, stock characters, lack of imagery and description and swiftness of pace. He then defends the retelling and reworking of the tales. Fairy tales are not a written text, they are “transcriptions made on one or more occasions of the words spoken by one of many people who have told this tale.” “The fairy tale is in a perpetual state of becoming and alteration. To keep to one version or one translation alone is to put a robin redbreast in a cage.” As storytellers we know this to be true. Our ‘stories’ change from one telling to the next and evolve over time.   You can read an interview with Philip Pullman about this book here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/bookreviews/9571067/Interview-Philip-Pullman-on-Grimm-Tales.html

 

These are just some of my favorite introductions. Please let me know your favorites so I can look them up and enjoy them as well.