Member Review

Once Upon a Time: An Introduction
“Every girl pretends she is a princess at one point.” 
Lindy, from Alex Finn’s Beastly

Every little girl? Not quite.
     When I was growing up, I didn’t want to be a princess. I wasn’t a tomboy or anything; I just wasn’t into them. Horses, yes, especially the unicorn or winged or, best of all, winged unicorn kind. But then again, when I was a little girl, the Disney princess wasn’t the glittery pastel-colored
juggernaut it is today. You could be a little girl and not limit your dress-up choices to Belle, Ariel, or Cinderella (or Mulan or Merida, if you’re feeling feisty).
     Nowadays, princess obsession is the default setting for many little girls. In 2000 Disney decided to market the doe-eyed denizens of its feature films by their primary identifying characteristic: their princess titles. And thus was born the princess plague. Princesses are now the biggest industry for the pre-tween set. In 2012 the Disney Princess media franchise was the best-selling of its kind in North America, outselling Star Wars and Sesame Street and earning more than $4.6 billion worldwide. Add to that all the collateral stuff—The Princess and the Popstar Barbies, the Melissa & Doug Decorate Your Own Princess Mirror sets, countless pink-spangled princess T-shirts—and you’ve got what social commentators and worried parents are calling the “Princess Industrial Complex.”
     In her fascinating book Cinderella Ate My Daughter (Harper, 2011), Peggy Orenstein examines the obsession with bundling girls into “pink and pretty” princess costumes. Orenstein, among many others, worries that princess play presents unrealistic expectations of feminine beauty, is overly restrictive (pink ball gown, or purple?), and is turning little girls into budding narcissists. So do I. Though no direct evidence supports claims that the ubiquitous princess culture harms girls’ self-esteem, it seems to me that the phenomenon smacks of an unjustified sense of entitlement, a kind of fake power derived not from good decision-making skills or leadership or intelligence but physical attractiveness, wealth, and relationships with strong male characters. “Princess” is a title that establishes bizarre expectations of how one should be treated, of what has value, and of what women will or should achieve in their lives. 
     Obviously, most little girls don’t grow up believing that life is all dress-up heels, fairy godmothers, and Prince Charmings. But the princess fantasy is one that we don’t ever really give up. Witness the fascination with Kate Middleton, the pretty girl-next-door commoner who married Britain’s dashing Prince William in April 2011. Though she’s technically not a princess—her official title is Duchess of Cambridge—Catherine’s story has all the hallmarks of a fairy tale. The royal wedding even looked like a cartoon—I almost expected to see twittering bluebirds carrying Kate’s train.
     Sweetly two-dimensional “Princess Kate” was the image that tabloids the world over traded on, despite the grim reality of what happened to the last British princess given the fairy-tale treatment. Blonde blue-eyed Diana was Cinderella, a similarity not lost on media then or now. Diana’s real story, however—her marriage of convenience, her husband’s infidelity, rumors of her own unfaithfulness, struggles with fame and eating disorders, her courtship of the British press, and her eventual death after being chased by paparazzi—is distinctly not the happy fairy tale everyone hoped for.
     Perhaps the best way to make sure that the fairy tale doesn’t become the expectation is to talk about real princesses and to stop turning their lives into fairy tales. Some real princesses were women who found themselves in circumstances they couldn’t control. Sophia Dorothea of Celle, for example, was forced to marry a man she called “pig snout,” a man who violently assaulted her, cheated on her, and, after she retaliated by having her own affair, locked her in a castle for more than three decades until her death. Others, like Anna of Saxony, were genuinely mentally unstable—a limited gene pool can be just as corrupting as absolute power. Pretty Grimm.
     But some princesses found ways to shape their own destinies. Empress Wu of China showed that princesses can be just as Machiavellian as any prince. Some, like Sarah Winnemucca, used their titles (both real and imagined) to draw attention to a higher cause. Others were just out for a good time, like the American Clara Ward, a so-called Dollar Princess who left her Prince Not-So-Charming to run off with a gypsy violinist. And more than a few weren’t even princesses at all, like Caraboo or Franziska, the Polish factory worker who claimed to be the lost Romanov princess Anastasia.
     Historical princesses have been capable of great things as well as horrible things; they’ve made stupid decisions and bad mistakes, loved the wrong people or too many people or not enough people. They are women who lied, murdered, used sex as a weapon, or dressed like a man to hold on to power. They weren’t afraid to get a little dirt, or blood, on their hands. These women were human, but the word princess, along with its myriad connotations, often glosses over that humanity.
     For each of the women described in the following pages, I’ve tried to strip away the myth and portray something as close as possible to the real person. But history is only as accurate as those who record it, and that goes double when the subject is a woman. I’ve made every effort to track down stories from the most reliable sources, but, as with any reconstructing of the past, some of the tales must be chalked up to rumor, gossip, and assumption.
     Nevertheless, here are the stories of real princesses and real women. They may begin once upon a time, but they don’t always end happily ever after.

Afhild:  The Princess Who Turned Pirate
Ca. 5th century
The icy waters of the Baltic Sea

Princess Alfhild had a choice to make. On the one hand, a really awesome guy had finally managed to bypass her father’s deadly defenses and call on her without being beheaded or poisoned. She could marry this brave young man and enjoy the life of domestic bliss that women of her era were supposed to aspire to. Or she could give up royal life and become a pirate.
     Guess which path she chose?

Daddy’s Girl
The only daughter of the fiercely protective fifth-century Goth king Siward, little Alfhild was raised to be modest, almost pathologically so. She was supposedly so modest that she kept her face “muffled in a robe” lest the sight of her incredible beauty provoke any nearby men to go mad with lust.
     Alfhild had good reason to be so dedicated to preserving her chastity. Her story appears in the Gesta Danorum (Deeds of the Danes), a twelfth-century multivolume work in Latin by historian Saxo Grammaticus. If Saxo is to be believed, virginity was pretty much the only currency a woman had. But covering her face was just one of the measures taken to keep her untouched by a man. According to Saxo, King Siward did what any father of a pretty teenage daughter would do if he could:

[He] banished her into very close keeping, and gave her a viper and a snake to rear, wishing to defend her chastity by the protection of these reptiles when they came to grow up. For it would have been hard to pry into her chamber when it was barred by so dangerous a bolt. He also enacted that if any man tried to enter it, and failed, he must straightway yield his head to be taken off and impaled on a stake. The terror which was thus attached to wantonness chastened the heated spirits of the young men.

     There was, however, one young man whose “heated spirits” were inflamed by these strictures, who thought “that peril of the attempt only made it nobler.” His name was Alf, and he was the son of the Danish king Sigar. One day Alf burst into Alfhild’s chamber. Clad in a bloody animal hide (to drive the reptiles insane, obviously), he killed the viper by tossing a red-hot piece of steel down its gullet. The snake he dispatched by more traditional means: a spear to the throat.
     Though impressed by how the rash young Dane had destroyed his reptilian defenses, Siward would accept him only if Alfhild “made a free and decided choice” in his favor. Alfhild was definitely charmed by the brave suitor who’d just killed her delightful pets; her mother, however, was not. She told Alfhild to “search her mind” and not to be “captivated by charming looks” or forget to “judge his virtue.”
     Swayed by her mother’s wise counsel, Alfhild decided that Alf was not the man for her. Instead, she decided to trade her modesty for men’s clothing and go to sea as a rampaging pirate, leading a crew of lady buccaneers. As you do.

Hello, Sailor
Why Alfhild decided to become a pirate is unclear. Saxo makes no attempt to explain her reasons, nor does he say why the “many maidens who were of the same mind” and accompanied her were of the same mind. Despite her unconventional decision, Alfhild’s story was typical of historical lore of the period in one important way: the overprotection of chastity, to the exclusion of both fun and safety, speaks to the realities and values of ancient Scandinavia. And it’s certainly of a piece with other
shield-maiden stories, romantic tales of virgin warrior women who put down needlework and took up arms.
     Although he does little to explain her motivation, Saxo took pains to note that Alfhild, though unusual in her adoption of “the life of a warlike rover,” wasn’t entirely unique. Other women, he claimed, “abhorred dainty living” and traded their natural “softness and light-mindedness” for swords and weapons. They “unsexed” themselves, “devoting those hands to the lance which they should rather have applied to the loom. They assailed men with their spears whom they could have melted with their looks, they thought of death and not of dalliance.” Women, according to Saxo, should be off doing lady things and keeping their pretty faces hidden so as not to inflame the passions of unsuspecting men. That men’s unbridled passion was hazardous enough to drive women to take up a weapon doesn’t seem to have crossed his mind.
     In any case, Alfhild was a raging success as a pirate. Given that becoming a pirate wasn’t simply a matter of picking up a cutlass and slapping on an eyepatch, exactly how or why she succeeded is lost to the ages. Saxo is rather stingy with the details. But despite his prudish misgivings on the subject of women warriors, he concedes that Alfhild “did deeds beyond the valor of woman” (harrumph). She led her lady mateys to great riches, eventually becoming captain of yet another crew, this time of male pirates who were entranced by her beauty and devoted to her badassness. In time, Alfhild amassed a fleet of ships that preyed on vessels cruising the waters off Finland.
     But the good times were about to come to an end. Alfhild hadn’t reckoned on one thing: the doggedness of her rejected snake-slaying suitor. Alf had never given up on the beautiful, modest maiden and pursued her on “many toilsome voyages,” over ice-locked seas and through several of his own pirate battles. While sailing the coasts of Finland, one day he and his crew came upon a flotilla of pirate ships. His men were against attacking such a large fleet with their few vessels, but Alf would have none of it, claiming that “it would be shameful if anyone should report to Alfhild that his desire to advance could be checked by a few ships in the path.” Oh, the irony.
     As the sea battle raged on, the Danes, between being massacred, wondered where “their enemies got such grace of bodily beauty and such supple limbs.” Alf, along with his comrade-in-arms Borgar, stormed one of the enemy ships and made for the stern, “slaughtering all that withstood him.” But when Borgar knocked the helmet off the nearest pirate, Alf saw to his astonishment that it was none other than the beautiful Alfhild, “the woman whom he had sought over land and sea in the face of so
many dangers.”
     At that moment, Alf realized “that he must fight with kisses and not with arms; that the cruel spears must be put away, and the enemy handled with gentler dealings.” Those gentler dealings included getting Alfhild out of those sweaty sailor’s clothes and into Alf’s warm bed. And so the plundering days were over—for Alfhild at least.
     The language Saxo uses to describe Alfhild’s return to princess life is particularly telling: he writes that Alf “took hold of her eagerly,” “made her change her man’s apparel,” and “afterwards begot on her a daughter.” What Alfhild wanted, and how she felt about giving up her roving adventures, is unknown, probably because Saxo didn’t really care; the words he chose make it clear that Alfhild did not have a choice. After that, history (or Saxo, at least) has nothing more to say about her.

Once Upon a Princess Pirate
Saxo’s tale of the modest princess-turned-pirate may or may not be true. After all, the Gesta Danorum is a “history” that includes giants, witches, and dragons alongside real-life heroes and rulers. Still, Alfhild’s life as a woman warrior is likely based in a real tradition, and whether true or not, her story (and others in Saxo’s rich tapestry of historical lore) was claimed to be instructive by later scholars and historians in understanding early and middle Scandinavian culture.
     But what exactly did it teach future generations, those children who would have listened to the tale all snuggled up around the fire on one of those endless Scandinavian winter nights? It’s hard to say. To the modern reader, it’s disappointing to see Alfhild’s exploits subdued by man and marriage. Why couldn’t she have been a wife and a mother and a pirate? But before judging the story by a yardstick of twenty-first-century feminist values, let’s remember that Saxo was recording his version of Danish history for a Christian audience living some 700 years after Alfhild’s lifetime. 
    In Saxo’s hands, Alfhild’s saga, itself based on centuries-old pagan oral tradition, reinforces Christian gender norms. Alfhild is modest and chaste but also handy with an axe and a sword, in keeping with shieldmaiden folklore. Alf must somehow overcome her fierceness to be worthy of her. And of course everything works out in the end, because Alfhild gives up the life of a “warlike rover” to settle down to her role of wife and mother. Saxo makes it clear how he feels about such womenin- arms—in fact, he spends more time lamenting them than he does describing Alfhild’s life.
     So, in its way, the story of Alfhild is as much a didactic fairy tale as Cinderella or Snow White. It just has more swashbuckling . . . and snakes.