There are many variations on the tale of Rumpelstiltskin, but this is the one true and correct version, handed down to me by my grandmother’s, grandmother’s wetnurse, and she never told a lie in her life.
One way you can tell it is authentic is that the characters all have names. And they are real names, mostly, not just titles. Some nicknames, yes, and a few sobriquets, for good measure. So, when I say “the king,” it will only be a shortcut, not an omission, and you will know that I am referring to King Avaricious, third of that name, whose reign was short but notorious, and, well, I am getting ahead of myself.
In those bad old days of feudalism, the king owned all the land, and some of the people. Social mobility was not a thing, Cinderella notwithstanding. And Social Security wouldn’t come along for centuries.
The king of this little kingdom was not poor, exactly, but his father’s coach had been inscribed with “I’m spending the prince’s inheritance” on the boot, and Avaricious II was true to his word. So, the new king was tight with his purse.
Once, when Avaricious III was holding court, a miller, our Goodman Dusty, waited in the long, long queue to speak with him. It was Dusty’s duty, as the king’s tenant, to pay his lord his rents. Like most millers, Dusty was often accused by farmers of taking more than his fair share when grinding the grain. That was true everywhere. Wheat looks a bit smaller when it’s freed from the chaff. How much smaller it actually is seemed a legit subject for dispute. But he was a generally honest man. Most of the time. If he had one fault, it was the sin of pride. He was fond of his only daughter, and saw only the good in her, and he didn’t care who knew it.
Goodman Dusty was tired by the time he was summoned into the throne room, and a little out of sorts. But he knew the king was looking for a wife, and he made the extraordinary leap that his only child’s charms could overcome any disadvantages of birth or fortune. He was a leveler, at heart, but generally went along to get along. So, when the king deigned to make a little small talk with him, he fell to boasting. Dusty waxed on about his lovely daughter, and how good a goodwife she would be, and how her book-keeping and spinning had made him prosperous.
Now, Dusty was smartish, for a commoner, but he made a fateful error here. Do you see what I mean? He was exaggerating his good fortune, to, of all people, the taxman. Not that he begrudged paying his fair share, mind you. But he made himself a target. The king’s curiosity was piqued.
Dusty’s daughter, Mistress Sally Miller, was quite clever, and good with her hands. A kindly vicar saw to it that she could read and do her sums, though only a little. Calculus was right out. But she knew more than most folks in the village, so she got ahead. She had kept her father’s tally books and accounts ever since her mother had died. Mothers often die early, especially in fairy tales, so Sally was almost expecting it, as perhaps were you. She mourned her mamma, but she got on with life.
Sally knew how to keep a cottage, too. She was orderly, and frugal. She could make a cheese round last a fortnight, and darn threadbare stockings. She had done for her father’s household what he could not.
Each harvest, after the grain was threshed, Sally and the other villagers would take the straw to feed the cows, or muck out the stables, or to make corn dollies or hats bedecked with ribbons for the harvest festival. They would enjoy a bit of rest and abundance, if the crop was good.
When Dusty returned home after his visit to the castle, he tried to relate all that transpired at the castle to Sally, but he was flummoxed. He couldn’t quite recount all the details. He told Sally that he might just have used a metaphor about turning everything she touched into gold, like King Midas. Her eyes went wide. Then he said that he might have misspoken a bit, or said something to the effect that “she takes straw, and turns it into gold.” It was a metaphor, like in that song where the candy man takes rainbows, and, you know… But was he in his cups? You tell me. He certainly confused straw with flax. Mistress Sally Miller mainly spun flax into linen.
The next village over, just beyond the woods, was just a day’s ride from another small kingdom, one that had seaports. They were on a trade route, and that led to merchants, and banking, and currency, oh, my! And in that village, there was a certain kind of wizard, an alchemist, who had discovered how to transmute base materials into gold. Seriously. I’ll spare you the details, but it was magical.
Our alchemist was a little person named Rumpelstiltskin. There, I told you. You see, that part about the name being some kind of big secret is all wrong. He came from a long line of Rumpelstiltskins, was proud of it, and didn’t care who knew about it.
Rumors that Rumpelstiltskin was a dwarf or an imp are greatly exaggerated. The term his community preferred was “little person.” And he wasn’t all that small—just a tad shy of four feet, if you must know. He had a kind face and a ready wit. Little people are much like other people. They can fall in love. Most of them can make their own babies. More on that later.
Due to some vagaries in the trade winds, Rumpelstiltskin looked inland, for the first time, for supplies. That’s when he encountered Sally. She was combing her hair at a small mirror, across from her cottage window. He was immediately smitten. She was, well, startled at first, when she saw him reflected in the mirror, but then a little intrigued. She went outside and they fell to talking.
He told her of lands abroad, of ships and sealing wax, and of courts with mighty kings, so unlike the only king she knew. He spoke of a rising merchant class, and trade, and factories, where cottage industries, like spinning, mushroomed in size, until the Luddites started smashing the engines of mischief that ensued. But that’s another story.
For her part, Sally spoke of longing for more freedom and independence. It would be jumping the gun to say anything about her desire to smash the patriarchy, though she would eventually go there. But that’s another story, too.
The two of them met many times over the next few days, and before long, they were in love. But, his business concluded, Rumpelstiltskin needed to return to his hometown, promising to come back again as soon as he could.
Now Sally had not shared any of this with her father. As far as Goodman Dusty was concerned, Sally was single, and could be married for advantage. So, when the miller shared his news about the king’s interest in meeting her, she was taken aback. Things were getting awkward. Without saying anything to her father, Sally and Goodman Miller prepared to meet the king.
When Goodman Dusty returned to court, Sally was at his side. Harold, the herald, announced them to the king. “Show them right in,” the king commanded, gleefully. It would be wrong to say that he was licking his chops, but his eagerness knew few bounds.
The king spared no time on niceties. He led Sally to the first chamber, filled with a nice Ashford wheel and a lot of straw. “Sally, if you would like someday to be my queen, you must prove yourself. Spin away!”
This is where the “true love” part comes in. Sally wished, with all her heart, to let Rumpy know of her predicament. She sang a spell of yearning. She sang it loud, she sang it strong, and she knew it was good enough. She must have had a bit of magic in herself, too, because it worked. Rumpelstiltskin heard the call, consented to the magic, and it brought him to her in an instant. There was a bit of smoke, and a faint reek of sulfur, and there he was. Quick as Mercury, Rumpy took the wheel and began to chant an incantation of transmutation. Sally was a quick study, and soon was adding her voice to the song. The wheel kept time, with the rhythm of the treadle and the whirring of the flywheel and bobbin.
Just before daybreak, they took in their success. There were bobbins and bobbins beyond number, all filled with 24 karat gold. It was magic. It may be said that Mars had some influence on this outcome, too, not just Mercury. I’ll spare you the metaphysical details, though. In anticipation of daybreak, Rumpy hid in a corner, covered by Sally’s great cloak. So, the king never knew the part Rumpelstiltskin played in the great task.
The next part is much like the stories you have already heard. The king was pleased, and ordered another night of spinning, but he wanted to “increase productivity,” and insisted that Sally work even faster the next night. He did the ol’ carrot and stick number, too. “If you work hard, and meet your quota, I will marry you, someday. If you don’t, you’ll be fired.” Tied to a stake and fired, that was. So, ‘round and ‘round Sally and Rumpy went again.
Rather than advancing the story here, let me just ask you to read that previous paragraph, one more time. Bigger room, more straw, tighter deadline. Brutal boss holds out a threat or promise of marriage. Yuck. You get the idea.
But wait, this is where things get interesting again. On the fourth day, the king commanded another night of spinning, unwittingly breaking the sacred “third time's the charm” rule. He kept pressuring Sally to produce more and more golden thread. And with that transgression, all bets were off.
Months went by. The king wasn’t playing by the rules, so Sally and Rumpy weren’t going to, any longer, either. They secretly recruited other helpers, with extra wheels, to keep producing more golden thread. Soon, it was more than a cottage industry. It was a nightmare. And that’s not to mention the potential inflationary impact were the king to start spending any of that hoarded gold. I mean, the serfs and villagers went to the market cross of a day, to buy a cock or a hen, a goose or a duck, if it would very well please them. It wasn’t all barter in those days, even for the common folk.
Can you see where all this was heading? The king became hooked on all that wealth, but instead of spending it on the general welfare, he hoarded it like a dragon. The people became disenchanted with his rule. Sally and Rumpy organized the spinners into a guild, called for a general strike, and began demanding fair pay for their honest labor. And speaking of labor, their demands included something new, something called “maternity leave.” Rumpelstiltskin did get what he’d always wished for, Sally’s first-born child. He got it the honest way, by fatherhood.
The general strike drew support from all kinds, even the king’s household. The king had been so coddled his whole life that he could barely make his own breakfast. He had little choice. He conceded to the worker’s demands. The next day, he went mad. He danced a dance so awkward that some claimed he pulled his own leg off.
Those levelers that Goodman Dusty knew? They came out of the woods and formed a new, representative government, with popular support. And they all lived happily ever after.
Steve "Aelfcyning" Aultman spins yarns in an ever-evolving storybook cottage, and lives with his wife, Lori, and his familiar, Finley, at the end of a trail of breadcrumbs near Berkeley, California. Acknowledgement: My thanks to the community at the Carterhaugh School of Folklore and the Fantastic for its encouragement, and particularly to Carole Wallencheck, for their suggestions and support.
Image: "Rumpelstiltskin and The Miller's Daughter" by Henry J. Ford
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