“Rumpelstiltzchen,” which means something like “Crumpled Little-Stilts,” was number 55 in the Grimms’ 1812 edition of Kinder- und Hausmärchen (Children’s and Household Tales). The story is commonly rendered in English as “Rumpelstiltskin,” which nicely preserves the Germanic diminutive suffix -kin. Henriette Dorothea Wild and her sister, Johanna Elisabeth Wild, are said to have been sources for the fairy tale. But the idea of a supernatural being that hides or is reluctant to share its true name — out of fear of that name being used against it — has roots in ancient mythology, and recurs in various guises in many religious traditions of the world.
Rumpelstiltskin’s desire to possess the Queen’s firstborn child (for reasons that are never explained) may hail back to primitive practices of infanticide or child sacrifice, such as those common among the votaries of the Canaanite god Moloch — called “Sceptered King” in Milton’s Paradise Lost, because “Moloch” is the ancient Semitic word for “King.” It is worth noting that the King in “Rumpelstiltskin” is also a homicidal maniac. And the first time the heroine tries to guess Rumpelstiltskin’s name, she proposes he is named after one of the Three Kings (Caspar, Melchior, or Balthazar) whose initials children in some Catholic countries chalk on their neighbors’ doors on Three Kings Day: C+M+B.
Rumpelstiltskin’s legs are “stilt-like” for comic effect, but they may also point to a subtle moral. The wearer of stilts looks taller and more “exalted” than he or she actually is. But the shriveled-up homunculus at the center of this fairy tale, despite being on stilts, remains close to the earth from which he seems to have sprung; and at the end, he stomps his foot and cracks through the ground before being swallowed up by it. Aside from a few embellishments, and a new translation of the poem around which the story revolves, this retelling follows closely the Grimms’ version of the tale.
Rumpelstiltskin
Once upon a time, a poor miller, who liked to put on airs, told the King, “My beautiful daughter can weave straw into gold.”
“Bring her to me,” the King said.
When the miller’s daughter was brought before her sovereign, the King led her to a room in which the floor was strewn with straw. In the center of the room was a spinning wheel.
“Spin this straw into gold by early tomorrow morning,” he said. “If you can’t do it, I’ll strangle you to death with my bare hands.” He giggled and wiggled his fingers, then slammed the door, locked it, and walked away, whistling.
“I don’t even know how to thread a needle,” the girl lamented. “Much less spin straw into gold!”
She tried plaiting the straw into a slender strand, and running this through the wheel. But the strand became untangled; and the straw fluttered onto the floor. The girl wept.
Without warning, the door unlocked, swung open, and a tiny man with spindly legs stomped in. He had a shriveled face, gimlet eyes, and a bristly white beard.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“Because I have to spin all this straw into gold by tomorrow morning, or I’ll die.”
“What would you give me if I did this for you?”
The girl removed her leather necklace. “I would give you this.”
The little man snatched it out of her hand, went to the wheel and set to work. The wheel spun round with a whirr-whirr-whirr; and the bobbin was wound with gold. When he was done, he said, “Goodnight!” and left.
The next day, the King was so pleased that he led her to a larger room, crammed from floor to ceiling with straw. There was a spinning wheel here as well. “If you value your life,” he said, “you’ll spin this into gold by tomorrow morning.”
Alone again, the miller’s daughter paced the room, sighing and groaning. And the funny little man came to her again. “What will you give me if I spin all this straw into gold?”
The girl removed a tin ring from her finger. “This is all I have left.”
“That will do!” he said, grabbing it and running to the spinning wheel.
Again, the same miracle was accomplished. Again, the greedy King was astonished. He said to himself, “Even though she’s a commoner, I’ll never find a wife of noble blood who can do this.”
He took her to a vast warehouse filled with so much straw that it would have taken hundreds of wagons to haul it away. In the middle of the room was a spinning wheel. “If you spin this into gold by tomorrow, I shall marry you.”
When he left, the miller’s daughter sighed in exasperation. “Not even the little man could accomplish this.”
“On the contrary,” said the little man as he crept into the room, “this is an easy task for someone like me. But if I do it, you must give me the first child you bear as Queen.”
The miller’s daughter agreed. And within minutes, all the straw was spun into gold. When the King saw this, he married her; and within a year, the Queen bore him a child.
Two days after the baby was born, the little man walked into the room. “Give me the baby as you promised.”
“Please don’t take my child,” she sobbed, “I’ll give you anything else you want—anything!”
“There is nothing I covet more than the living thing you are holding.”
The Queen said that the child was the only thing that had ever truly loved her.
The little man took pity and said, “I will give you three days to guess my name. If you are unable to do this, the child is mine.”
The next day, the Queen, who rattled off the names of the Three Kings.
“Caspar?”
“No.”
“Melchior?”
“No.”
“Balthazar?”
“No, no, no,” the little man said; and left.
The Queen summoned her messenger and sent him to her neighbors, asking them to share with her all the strange names — even nicknames — of everyone they knew or had ever known. When the little man returned the next morning, she repeated these, which took her an hour to do:
“How about Spindle-legs?”
“No.”
“Chicken face?”
“No.”
“Pickle toes?”
“No!—And that’s enough for today!”
Again he departed.
The Queen sent for her messenger again, begging him to travel deep into the forest and consult with the hermits and wisemen who lived there. When he returned late in the evening, he made his report.
“I searched woods, but saw no one until sundown. I came to the foot of a hill with a tiny cottage on it. In front of the cottage was a bonfire, around which a strange little man was dancing and singing this song:
Today I’ll bake; tomorrow I’ll brew. The babe of Queen I’ll claim. She tried so hard; but she never knew Rumpelstiltskin is my name.
The Queen was so pleased to learn this that she rewarded the messenger handsomely. The next morning, the little man strode into the throne room and confronted the Queen, asking her to guess his name.
“Is it Kunz?”
“No.”
“Heinz?”
“No.”
“Hmm,” she said, pretending to ponder the matter deeply. “Is it Rumpelstiltskin?”
“The Devil told you that!” the hobgoblin said, stomping his right foot so hard that it cracked through the floor and sank up to his right knee. In a rage, he seized his left foot and ripped it in half, which made him explode into a cloud of red smoke.
-“If you can’t do it, I’ll strangle you to death with my bare hands.” Whaaat?
-In the "Fractured Fairy Tales" ("Rocky and Bullwinkle") version, Rumplestiltskin betrays his name via bebop slang ("Oo bop sh'bam"...).
Short and very sweet! Good thing for the young Queen that the goblin was given to bragging when he thought he was alone...best not to brag about knowing top secrets, even if you think no one is listening! I wonder...might there be some contemporary characters who would benefit from hearing this cautionary tale?