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.
All that night the Queen lay wide awake, a glimmering light beside her bed.
“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 ca
me 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 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.
The Sleeping Beauty
There lived long ago a King and a Queen, who, even though they loved one another, could not be wholly happy, for they had no children. But at last, one night in April—and a thin wisp of moon was shining in the light of the evening sky—a daughter was born to them. She was a tiny baby, so small that she could have been cradled in a leaf of one of the water-lilies in the moat of the castle. But there were no bounds to the joy of the King and Queen.
In due time they sent out horsemen all over the country, to invite the Fairy Women to her christening. Alas, that one of them should have been forgotten! There were wild hills and deep forests in that country, and it was some days before everything was ready. But then there was great rejoicing in the castle, and all day long came the clattering of horses’ hoofs across the drawbridge over the moat; and not only horses, but much stranger beasts óf burden, for some of the Fairy Women had journeyed from very far away. And each of them brought a gift—fine, rare, and precious—for the infant Princess.
When the merriment was nearly over, and most of the guests were gone, and the torches were burning low in the great hall, a bent-up old Fairy Woman—the oldest and most potent of them all—came riding in towards the castle on a white ass, with jangling bells upon its harness and bridle.
Without pausing or drawing rein, she rode on, over the drawbridge, and into the hall, nor stayed her ass until it stood beside the great chair where sat the chief nurse of the Princess, the infant asleep on a velvet cushion on her lap. The ass lifted its head and snuffed at the golden tassel of the cushion, as if it might be hay. Long and steadfastly this old Fairy Woman gazed down on the harmless child, lying asleep there, and her rage knew no bounds. At last she raised her eyes, and glaring round on the King and Queen from under the peak of her black mantle, she uttered these words:
“Plan as you may, the day will come.
When in spinning with spindle, she’ll prick her thumb.
Then in dreamless sleep she shall slumber on
Till years a hundred have come and gone.”
Then, mantling herself up again, she clutched at her bridle-rein, wheeled her jangling ass about in the hall, rode off, and was gone.
Now, if the King and Queen had remembered to invite this revengeful Fairy Woman to the Christening Feast, all might have been well. But to grieve at their folly was in vain. The one thing left to them was to keep unceasing watch over the child, and to do all in their power to prevent what the old Fairy Woman had foretold from coming true. The King sent messengers throughout his kingdom far and near, proclaiming that every spindle in his realm should be destroyed or brought at once to the castle. There they were burnt. Anyone after that who was found to be hiding a spindle away at once lost his head.
Many years went by, until the King and Queen seldom recalled what the evil-wishing Fairy Woman had said. The Princess, as she grew up, first into a child, then into a maid, became ever more beautiful; and she was of a gentle nature, loving and lovable. Indeed, because they feared to sadden her heart with the thought that anyone had ever boded ill of her, she was never told of what had happened after her christening, or of the Fairy Woman on the white ass.
Now, nothing more delighted the young Princess than to wander over the great castle and to look out of its many windows, and to peep out through the slits in its thick walls. But there was one turret into which for a long time she never succeeded in finding her way. She would look up at it from the green turf beneath and long to see into it. Everywhere else she had been, but not there.
However, one evening in April she came by chance to a secret door that she had never till then noticed. There was a key in its iron lock. Glancing over her shoulder, she turned the key, opened the door, and ran as fast as she could up the winding stone steps beyond it.
Every now and then appeared a window-slit, and at one she saw the bright, young, new moon in the sky, like a sickle of silver; and at another the first stars beginning to prickle into the East. But at the top of the staircase she came to another door.
Here she stopped to peep through the latch-hole, and in the gloom beyond she saw an old, grey, stooping woman hunched up in a hood of lamb’s-wool. She was squatting on a stool, and now she leant a little this way and now she leant a little that way, for with her skinny fingers she was spinning flax with a spindle.
The Princess watched her intently, and at last, though she was unaware of it, breathed a deep sigh at the latch-hole, for the sight of the twirling spindle had so charmed her mind that her body had almost forgotten to breathe.
Glancing over her shoulder, she turned the key.
At sound of this sigh the old woman at once stayed in her spinning, and, without moving, apart from tremulous head and hand, called softly:
“If
thou wouldst see an old woman spin.
Lift up the latch and enter in!”
The Princess, knowing of no harm, lifted the latch and went in.
It was cold and dark in the thick-walled room, and when she drew near, the old woman began again to croon over her work; and these were the words she said:
“Finger and thumb you twirl and you twine.
Twisting it smooth and sleek and fine.”
She span with such skill and ease, her right hand drawing the strands from the cleft stick or distaff, while her left twisted and stayed, twisted and stayed, that the Princess longed to try too.
Then the old woman, laying her bony fingers (that were cold as a bird’s claws) on the Princess’s hand, showed her how to hold the spindle, and at last bade her take it away and practise with it, and to come again on the morrow. But never once did she raise her old head from beneath her hood or look into the Princess’s face.
For some reason which she could not tell, the Princess hid the spindle in a fold of her gown as she hastened back to her room. But she had been gone longer than she knew, and already the King and Queen were anxiously looking for her and were now come for the second time to her room seeking her. When they saw her, safely returned, first they sighed with relief, and then they began to scold her for having been away so long without reason.
And the Princess said: “But surely, mother, what is there to be frightened of? Am I not old enough yet to take care of myself?”
She laughed uneasily as (with the spindle hidden in the folds of her gown) she sat on her bedside, her fair hair dangling down on to its dark-blue quilted coverlet.
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