Rumplestiltskin
Once upon a time there was a poor miller who had a beautiful daughter. He loved her dearly, and was so proud of her he could never keep from boasting of her beauty. One morning—and it was all showers and sunshine and high, bright, coasting clouds—a stranger came to the mill with a sack of corn to be ground, and he saw the miller’s daughter standing by the clattering mill-wheel in the sunshine. He looked at her, and said he wished he had a daughter as beautiful as she. The miller rubbed his mealy hands together, and looked at her too; and, seeing the sunbeams glinting in her hair, answered almost without thinking:
“Ay! She’s a lass in a thousand. She can spin straw into gold.”
Now this saying was quickly spread abroad, and at last reached the ears of the King, who, in astonishment at such a wonder, at once sent for the miller, and bade him bring his daughter with him.
“It has been told me,” said the King, “this maid here can spin straw into gold. So she shall. But if she fails, then look to it! You shall hang from your own mill.”
The miller was so shaken with fear of the King that his tongue stuck in his throat, and he could make no answer.
Then the King went in secret and led the miller’s daughter into a byre, where his cows were housed, and in which lay two or three bundles of straw. He looked at the miller’s daughter and smiled. “There,” said he, “you have straw enough. Spin that into gold before morning.” Having said this, with his own hand he locked the door, and left her to herself.
She looked at the spinning-wheel, and she looked at the straw; and at thought of what would happen on the morrow, she cried, “O Father! Father!” and burst into tears. And as she sat there weeping, there was a rustling, and again a rustling, and out from under the straw there came and appeared a little midget of a man, with a peaked hat on his head, long lean shanks, a red nose, and a rusty-coloured beard that swept down even below his belt.
“What’s all this crying about?” he asked angrily. “I can’t get a minute’s peace for it.”
She was so surprised at sight of him that she stopped crying and told him all.
He jeered at her. “Spin straw, forsooth! That’s no matter. But what will you give me if I spin for you?”
The miller’s daughter gazed at the dwarf through her tears. She had never before seen so odd and ugly a little man. But he looked back at her out of his needle-sharp eyes with such cunning that she half believed he could do what he said. She promised to give him her coral necklace. With that, he flicked his fingers in the air, took off his hat, sat down on the three-legged milking-stool in front of the wheel, put his foot on the treadle and began to spin.
Whrr, whrr, whrrr! The straw seemed to fly through the air, as if caught up in a wind. And in a moment, behold! one reel was filled. Round and round buzzed the wheel again—whrr, whrr, whrrr, whrrrr—and another reel was filled. Then a third and then a fourth. Soon all the straw was gold; the reels were heaped neatly together; the byre was swept empty.
The little man got down from his stool as fresh as a daisy, poked the coral necklace into the little pouch he carried, and off he went.
When next morning the King saw the reels of thread, and all of pure gold, he was mightily pleased, and he marvelled. But his greed for more grew with every glance at them. “Well and fair,” said he, “well and fair. But little’s but little. You shall try again.”
Then once more in secret he shut up the miller’s daughter in a stable, at least half of which was filled with straw. “Spin that into gold,” he said, “and you shall have praise indeed. Fail me—then . . . but why speak of that!”
But as the King looked at the miller’s daughter he saw how simple and beautiful she was, and in his heart of hearts he pitied her a little, though he said nothing. He turned on his heel, went out of the stable, barred the door, and left her to herself.
The miller’s daughter was in despair. Yesterday’s straw was but as a handful compared with a basketful. She looked at the wheel, she looked at the straw, and cried to herself: “Oh, but, if only that little, long-nosed man were here again!”
None the less, she sat down at the wheel and tried to spin. But spin she couldn’t, for the straw in her fingers only straw remained. “No hope! no hope! no hope!” she thought; but while these words were still in her mind, the dwarf came and appeared again out of the straw.
“Ah-ha!” says he. “What’s amiss now?” She told him.
“And what will you give me this time, if I spin for you?” he said. She promised him the silver ring on her finger.
Down he sat, flung his beard over his shoulder, and with a flick of his fingers began to spin. Whrr, whrr, whrrr, went the wheel. The straw seemed to slide like melted metal through the air. The reels multiplied. The great heap steadily grew smaller; and long before dawn the straw was all gold, the reels were piled together, and the King’s stable, with its mangers and stone water-trough, was as neat as a pin.
The King could hardly believe his eyes; but even yet his greedy mind was not satisfied. Still, he openly smiled at the miller’s daughter, and said: “Well and fair! Well and fair, indeed. Only one-more night’s work, my dear, and your trial is over.”
Then he took her again in secret into a barn which was heaped up almost to its thatched roof-beams with bundles of wheat-straw.
“Spin that into gold for me,” he said, “and tomorrow you shall be Queen!” With a glance over his shoulder, he went out, barred and bolted the door, and left her to herself.
The miller’s daughter sat down. She looked at the spinning-wheel. She looked at the vast heap of straw.
“Ah,” she said to herself, “to spin that into gold would take a hundred little long-nosed men.”
“What, what, what!” cried a voice at the latch-hole, and in an instant little Master Long-Nose appeared once more, his eyes like green beads and his cheeks like crab-apples. But this night the miller’s daughter had nothing left to offer him for wages. The dwarf looked at her, like a thrush looking at a snail. Then he said:
“In the seed is the leaf and the bud and the rose,
But what’s in the future, why, nobody knows.
“See here, pretty maid: promise me your first child if you ever have one, and Queen you shall be tomorrow.”
The miller’s daughter could only smile at this, having no belief at all that such a thing could ever be; and she promised him. Whereupon the dwarf snapped his fingers in triumph in the air, span round nine times on his toe, and at once sat down to the wheel, foot on treadle. Whrr, whrrr, whrrrr went the wheel like a droning of bees in midsummer. Whrr—whrrr—whrrrr—whrrrrr—whrrrrrr—and a few minutes before the sun rose next morning the barn was swept clean as a whistle and the straw all gold. Then off he went.
The King kept his word. He never even asked the miller’s daughter the secret of her skill—for that, too, he had promised her. And though his Queen was of birth so lowly, few Queens have been as beautiful; and fewer still have brought their husbands such a vast quantity of gold.
Some time afterwards, the Queen sat playing with her baby one May morning in the orchard of the King’s palace. And as she played, sometimes she laughed, sometimes she danced, and sometimes she sang, for she was happy. But all in a moment her happiness was changed to fear and dread, for—as if he had sprung clean out of the trunk or bole of a crooked old apple-tree nearby—there stood the dwarf.
The dwarf looked at the Queen, and looked at her baby. “Ah-ha! A pretty thing!” he said. “And mine!”
Now the Queen had been so long happy and at peace that she had almost forgotten the promise she had made in her trouble. She gazed at the dwarf and pleaded with him. She vowed she would give him anything else in the world he wished, if only he would release her from her promise.
“Nay, nay!” said he at last, “a Princess is a Princess, and a promise is a promise. Still, dame, as you haven’t tried to cheat me, I’ll make another bargain with you. You shall have three days, and nine guesses. If at the end of the third and at the ninth you cannot tell me my name, then the child shall be mine.”
And off he went.
The Queen thought and thought. She thought all night long, without a single wink of sleep. Hundreds of names came into her mind. At morning she went out in despair alone into the orchard, and at the very height of noon the dwarf popped out again from behind the old apple-tree.
“Ah-ha!” said he. “And what’s my name, ma’am?”
The Queen guessed. First she said, “Abracadabra.” The dwarf shook his head. Next she said, “Catalawampus.” The dwarf shook his head. Her third guess was just as the word came into her head, “Nickerruckerubblegrubb!” For she was at her wits’ end.
The dwarf broke into a wild hoot of laughter, clapped his hands, looked down his nose, squeaked, “Try again!” and off he went.
All that night the Queen lay wide awake, a glimmering light beside her bed. Thrice she crept out and stooped over the ivory cradle where her baby lay asleep. It lay so placid and still it might have been of wax. But each time she returned to her bed she lay staring up into the blue silk canopy that tented it in, and thought of all the names she had ever heard of when she lived with her father at the mill. And at noon next morning once more the dwarf appeared.
“Ah-ha!” says he. “Three and three makes six, ma’am!”
First the Queen guessed, “Sheepshanks.” Next she guessed, “Littlebody.” And last she guessed, “Long-Nose.”
The dwarf danced in derision, clapped his hands, looked down his nose, yelped in triumph, “Try again!” and off he went.
The Queen hastened back at once to the palace and sent for a messenger or courier who was swift of foot, sharp of hearing, and as keen of eye as hawk or raven. She sat in secret and told him what the little dwarf looked like, with his lean shanks, his red nose, his long rusty beard, and the hump on his back; and she bade the courier ride like the wind all the next night long in search of him, and to bring back only his name.
“Tell me his name,” she said, “and seven bags of money shall be yours. Fail me, then never return again!”
The messenger lost not a moment. All night he rode hither and thither, and this way and that. He pressed on into the very back-most parts of the kingdom, and came galloping out on the other side. At last, a little before daybreak, when dark was deepest and the moon had long since set in the west, he found himself at the parting of the ways where there is a mountain. Now it is there the Fox and the Hare greet each other as they pass at dawn.
And not far beyond these cross-roads the courier came to a little house. It was round as a molehill, with a roof of reed-thatch, while out of it there came the sound of singing. The courier dismounted from his horse, crept near, and peeping cautiously through the window, spied into the room within. There he saw a little, hunched-up man, with lean shanks, a long nose, and a rusty red beard that spread down even to his belt. He was dancing and singing before a fire that burnt merrily in the hearth; and as he danced, these were the words he sang:
“This morn I baked, this night I brew—
A wizard I, of mighty fame;
But nobody never nowhere knew
That Rumple—is my name.”
But listen as closely as he dared, the courtier could not be certain of the sound of the last two syllables after that Rumple, though he knew well this must be the little dwarf the Queen had sent him out to find. Rumple, Rumple—he was certain of that. But what then? Stinzli? Stimpsky? Stitchken?—he tried in vain.
He brooded within himself a moment, and then began mimicking softly with his mouth the call of a little owl at the window. Sure enough, when the dwarf within heard the owl calling he began to sing and dance again. And as he danced these were the words he said:
“Some live lone as fox and bird,
But who’s to aid my Royal Dame,
For nobody never nowhere heard
That Rumplestiltskin is my name.”
At this, the messenger (rejoicing beyond measure) got down from the window, took some bread and meat out of his saddlebag, and sat down by the wayside. There, leaving his horse to browse on the crisp mountain grasses under the last stars, he ate his supper (and breakfast), and while he did so repeated the name he had heard over and over to himself, until he was as sure of it as of his own. Then he mounted his horse and galloped back to the palace.
The next day, the Queen attired herself in a green mantle and put a garland of flowers in her hair; and she sat down in the orchard alone to await the coming of the dwarf. At the very stroke of noon he popped out as usual from behind the mossy old apple-tree, and this time he wore a peacock’s feather stuck in his hat.
“Ah-ha!” says he. “Three more guesses, ma’am, and the Princess is mine.” Because of his old kindness to her, the Queen pleaded with him, promising him any treasure he might desire except this one only. But he grew angry and even uglier:—
“A bargain’s a bargain; a vow’s a vow
To the very last doit of it. Answer me now.”
The Queen smiled, and first she guessed, “Wheat-Straw.”
He laughed.
Next she guessed, “Reels of Gold.”
He laughed louder. Then for her last and ninth guess the Queen lifted her chin, laughed too, and whispered: “Now how about Rumplestiltskin, then?”
The dwarf stared at her as if in a wink he had been turned to stone. Then he trembled all over, head to foot, with rage, and stamped on the ground with such force that his lean shank pierced into it up to his very thigh. In fury, he caught at his other leg, trying in vain to wrench himself free. But his leg, among the apple-roots, was clamped so fast, and he tugged so furiously, that he tore himself clean into two pieces. And that was the end of Rumplestiltskin.
