Array The Brothers Grimm: Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm : A New English Version

‘I’m a good climber,’ said the third. ‘I’ll go up and get it.’

The fourth one fetched a wagon and horses, and the third one climbed the tree, drilled a hole in the moon, passed a rope through it and hauled it down. When they had the glowing ball safely in the wagon, they covered it with a tarpaulin so no one could see what they’d done, and then they set off homewards.

Back in their own country they hung the moon on a tall oak tree. Everyone was delighted when this new lamp cast its light over all the fields and shone through every window. Even the dwarfs came out of their mountain caves to have a look at it, and the little elves in their red jackets came out to the meadows and danced in the moonlight.

The four friends looked after the moon; they kept it clean, they trimmed the wick and made sure it was always full of oil. They were paid a taler a week by public subscription.

And so it went on till they grew old. One day one of them felt his death was near, so he sent for the lawyer and changed his will, saying that as a quarter of the moon was his, it should go into the grave with him. Accordingly, when he died, the mayor of the town climbed the tree and cut off a quarter of the moon with his secateurs, and it was placed in the coffin. The light from the rest of the moon was a little bit dimmer, but people could still see their way around.

When the second one died, another quarter of the moon was buried with him, and the light grew dimmer still. The same thing happened with the third, and after the fourth died and was buried, there was no light at all, and when people went out without a lantern they bumped into things just as they’d done in the old days.

When the four parts of the moon were together in the underworld, where it had always been dark, the dead became restless and woke up from their sleep. They were astonished at being able to see again; the moonlight was quite bright enough for them, because their eyes had been closed for so long that the sun would have been too bright. They cheered up no end, got out of their graves, and began to have a high old time. They played cards, they danced, they went to the taverns and got drunk, they quarrelled and fought and raised their sticks and walloped one another, and the row they made got louder and louder until it reached all the way to heaven.

St Peter, who guards the gate up there, thought a revolution was breaking out, and he called all the heavenly host together to repel the Devil and his infernal crew. However, when the devils didn’t turn up, he got on his holy horse and rode down to the underworld to see what was going on.

‘Lie down, you brutes!’ he roared. ‘Back in your graves, every one of you! You’re dead, and don’t you forget it.’

Then he saw what the problem was: the moon had reassembled itself, and no one could sleep. So he unhooked it, took it up to heaven, and hung it up where no one could reach. Since then it shines over every country no matter where it is, and St Peter takes a bit away at a time till there’s hardly any left and puts them back again over the course of a month to remind people who’s boss.

He doesn’t take the cut-off bits down to the underworld, though. He’s got a special cupboard to put them in. It’s just as dark down among the dead as it ever was.

Tale type:unclassified

Source:a story in Heinrich Pröhle’s Märchen für die Jugend ( Tales for the Young ; 1854)

Wilhelm Grimm included this in the seventh and last edition of Die Kinder- und Hausmärchen ( Children’s and Household Tales ), of 1857, and it is a little different in kind from most of the other tales, being a kind of creation-myth that soon turns into a tale of the ridiculous. It has an irresistible zest, though it ends rather abruptly, with St Peter just hanging the moon up in the sky. I thought that could do with a little elaboration.

Once upon a time there was a very old woman who lived with her flock of geese in a lonely place among the mountains, where her little house lay surrounded by a deep forest. Every morning she took her crutch and hobbled off into the woods, where she kept herself busy gathering grass for her geese and picking any wild fruit she could reach. She put it all on her back and carried it home. If she met anyone on the path, she would always greet them in a friendly way, saying, ‘Good day, neighbour! Nice weather! Yes, it’s grass I’ve got here, as much as I can carry; we poor people all have to bear our burdens.’

But for some reason people didn’t like meeting her. When they saw her coming, they’d often take a different path, and if a father and his little boy came across her, the father would whisper, ‘Beware of that old woman. She’s a crafty one. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was a witch.’

One morning a good-looking young man happened to be walking through the forest. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, a fresh breeze stirred the leaves, and he was feeling happy and cheerful. He hadn’t seen anyone else that morning, but suddenly he came across the old witch kneeling on the ground cutting grass with a sickle. There was already a big load of grass neatly cut, and beside it two baskets filled with wild apples and pears.

‘Good grief, my dear old woman,’ he said, ‘you can’t be intending to carry all that!’

‘Oh, yes, I must, sir,’ she said. ‘Rich people don’t have to do that sort of thing, but we poor folk have a saying: “Don’t look back, you’ll only see how bent you are.” Would you be able to help me, I wonder, sir? You’ve got a fine straight back and a strong pair of legs. I’m sure you could manage it easily. It’s not far to go, my little house, just out of sight over that way.’

The young man felt sorry for her, and said, ‘Well, I’m one of those rich people, I have to confess — my father’s a nobleman — but I’m happy to show you that farmers aren’t the only people who can carry things. Yes, I’ll take the bundle to your house for you.’

‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ she said. ‘It might take an hour’s walking, but I’m sure you won’t mind that. You could carry the apples and pears for me too.’

The young count began to have second thoughts when she mentioned an hour’s walk, but she was so quick to take up his offer that he couldn’t back out of it. She wrapped the grass up in a cloth and tied it on to his back and then put the baskets into his hands.

‘You see,’ she said, ‘not much really.’

‘But it’s actually quite heavy,’ said the young man. ‘This grass — is it grass? It feels like bricks! And the fruit might as well be blocks of stone. I can hardly breathe!’

He would have liked to put it all down, but he didn’t want to face the old woman’s mockery. She was already teasing him cruelly.

‘Look at the fine young gentleman,’ she said, ‘making such a fuss about what a poor old woman has to carry every day! You’re good with words, aren’t you? “Farmers aren’t the only people who can carry things!” But when it comes to deeds, you fall at the first hurdle. Come on! What are you standing around for? Get a move on! Nobody’s going to do it for you.’

While he walked on level ground he could just about bear the weight, but as soon as the path began to slope upwards his feet rolled on the stones, which slipped out as if they were alive, and he could barely move. Beads of sweat appeared on his face and trickled hot and cold down his back.

‘I can’t go any further,’ he gasped. ‘I’ve got to stop and rest.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ said the old woman. ‘You can stop and rest when we’ve got there, but till then you keep walking. You never know — it might bring you luck.’