The Two Kings’ Children (ATU 313) — Fairy Tales II

In the simpler form of ATU 313, as we saw in Blancaflor, the tale ends when the two protagonists escape from the underworld. They elude the malevolent figure who held the magical young woman captive —the soul the young man loses at the beginning and must recover— and return to the «real» world to live together ever after.

In another widespread form of ATU 313, the main narrative is followed by motif D2003, The Forgotten Bride. In the Aarne-Thompson classification, this combination made up the former subtype AaTh 313C. Uther’s revision incorporates it into ATU 313. The motif also appears in Catalan tradition, for example in Es Castell d’Iràs i no tornaràs, collected by Alcover. D2003 can occur in tales belonging to types other than ATU 313. It is common, for instance, in ATU 310, Rapunzel, or The Maiden in the Tower. The Forgotten Bride can also stand as a tale in its own right (Aarne 1930; Alcover 1996, 499–527; Goldberg 1992; Thompson 1955–1958, D2003; Uther 2004).

One well-known example of the former subtype AaTh 313C is The Two Kings’ Children (KHM 113). The Brothers Grimm published it in 1815 in the second volume of the first edition of their Children’s and Household Tales, following the first volume of 1812 (Artese 2019; Brothers Grimm 2003, 374–380; Uther 2013; Zipes 2014). You can read it below.

The Two Kings’ Children

Once there was a king who had a son. From the positions of the stars at his birth, it was foretold that a stag would kill him when he turned sixteen.

When that birthday came, the prince went hunting in the forest but became separated from the other hunters. Suddenly he saw an enormous stag and tried to shoot it, without success. The stag fled, and he chased it out of the forest. Where he expected to find the animal, he came upon a tall, lanky man instead. The man said:

‘At last I’ve caught you! I’ve worn out six pairs of glass skates chasing you, and until now you’ve always escaped me.’

The man seized the prince with inhuman strength and dragged him across a great lake. At its centre stood a magnificent royal castle. Once there, the prince had to sit down and eat with him. When they had finished, the mysterious king said:

‘I have three daughters. Tonight you must watch over the eldest from nine in the evening until six in the morning. Whenever the clock strikes the hour, I will come and call out to you. If you fail to answer, you will be executed at dawn. If you answer me, you shall have my daughter’s hand in marriage.’

The king’s daughter asks the statue of Saint Christopher to answer in the prince’s place.
Otto Ubbelohde, illustration for The Two Kings’ Children, 1909. Public domain. Source, Wikimedia Commons.

When the young people went up to the bedroom, they found a stone statue of Saint Christopher. The king’s daughter said to it:

‘My father will come at nine and return every hour until six. If he asks a question, I want you to answer in the prince’s place.’

The stone Saint Christopher nodded, quickly at first and then more and more slowly, until it stopped altogether.

The next morning, the king told the prince:

‘You have done well, but I cannot give you my daughter’s hand yet. Tonight you will watch over my second daughter. Then I may consider giving you the eldest. I will come every hour and call to you. You must answer. If you do not, your blood will be spilled.’

The prince accompanied the second daughter to her bedroom. There stood another stone statue of Saint Christopher, much larger than the first. She said to it:

‘If my father asks a question, I want you to answer.’

The great stone Saint Christopher nodded, quickly at first and then more and more slowly, until it fell still. The prince lay down on the threshold, put a hand beneath his head and fell asleep.

The next morning, the king said:

‘You have done very well indeed, but I still cannot give you my daughter. Tonight you will watch over the youngest. Then I may consider giving you the second. I will come every hour, and when I call, you must answer me. If you do not, your blood will be spilled.’

Once again, the prince went with the youngest daughter to her bedroom. A third Saint Christopher stood there, taller and larger than the other two. She said to it:

‘If my father asks a question, I want you to answer.’

The towering statue nodded for almost half an hour before it stopped. The prince lay on the threshold and went to sleep.

The next morning, the king said:

‘You have certainly watched well, but I cannot give you my youngest daughter yet. I have a vast forest. Fell every tree between six this morning and six this evening, and I may consider letting you marry her.’

The king gave him a glass axe, a glass wedge and a glass pickaxe. As soon as the prince reached the forest and struck the first blow, the axe broke in two. He took the wedge and tried to drive it in with the pickaxe, but it crumbled into fragments no bigger than grains of sand. Certain that he would now be killed, the prince sat down and wept.

At midday, the king said:

‘One of you girls must take him something to eat.’

‘We won’t go,’ said the eldest. ‘Send the last one he watched over.’

So the youngest daughter took him some food. When she reached the forest, she asked how he was getting on.

‘Badly,’ he said.

She asked him to come closer and eat.

‘I can’t,’ he replied. ‘I’m going to die, and I don’t want any food.’

She spoke kindly and urged him to try. At last he came over and ate. Afterwards she said:

‘Let me pick the lice out of your hair. You’ll feel much better.’

As she picked the lice from his hair, he relaxed and fell asleep. She took out her handkerchief, tied a knot in it and struck the ground three times.

‘Workers, come out!’ she cried. At once a host of gnomes emerged from beneath the earth and asked the princess what she wanted.

‘Within three hours,’ she said, ‘this entire forest must be felled and the timber stacked.’

The gnomes called all their relatives to help. Three hours later, the work was done and they reported back to the king’s daughter. She drew out her white handkerchief again and said:

‘Workers, go home!’

And they vanished at once.

When the prince woke, he was delighted. She told him:

‘Go home when the clock strikes six.’

He did as she said, and the king asked him:

‘Have you felled the whole forest?’

‘Yes,’ said the prince.

As they sat at the table, the king said:

‘I still cannot give you my daughter in marriage. There is something else you must do first.’

The prince asked what it was.

‘I have a very large pond,’ said the king. ‘Tomorrow morning you must clean it until it shines like a mirror, then fill it with every kind of fish.’

The next morning, the king handed him a glass spade and said:

‘The pond must be finished by six.’

The prince went to the pond and plunged the spade into the mud. Its tip snapped off. He tried a pickaxe, but that broke too, and he lost heart. At midday, the youngest daughter brought him food and asked how he was getting on. He said things were going very badly and he would surely lose his head.

‘All the tools have broken again.’

‘Come and eat something first,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel much better.’

‘I can’t,’ he replied. ‘I’m too miserable to eat.’

But she spoke so gently that he finally came over and ate. Once again, she picked the lice out of his hair and he fell asleep. She took her handkerchief, tied a knot in it and struck the ground three times.

‘Workers, come out!’ she called. Many gnomes appeared at once and asked what she wanted.

‘In three hours, the pond must be clean enough to see your face in it. Then fill it with every kind of fish.’

The gnomes summoned all their relatives to help. They finished the work in two hours, returned to the king’s daughter and said:

‘We’ve done as you commanded.’

Once again, she took out her handkerchief and struck the ground three times.

‘Workers, go home!’

And they vanished at once.

When the prince woke, the pond was finished. As she was leaving, the king’s daughter reminded him to return home at six. When he arrived, the king asked:

‘Have you finished the pond?’

‘Yes,’ said the prince. ‘Everything is in order.’

When they sat down to eat again, the king said:

‘You have finished the pond, but I still cannot give you my daughter. First you must do one more thing.’

‘What is it?’ asked the prince.

‘I have a mountain covered in brambles. Cut them all down and build the finest castle imaginable there, complete with everything it needs inside.’

The next morning, the king gave the prince a glass axe and a glass drill and told him he had until six. The prince struck at the first bramble, but the axe shattered and the drill was no use either. Despondent, he waited to see whether his beloved would come to help. At midday she arrived with food. He went to meet her and told her what had happened. After eating, he let her pick the lice from his hair and fell asleep. Once again, she took her handkerchief and struck the ground three times.

‘Workers, come out!’ she called. Many gnomes appeared again and asked what she wanted.

‘In three hours,’ she told them, ‘you must have cleared every bramble and built the finest castle imaginable on the mountain, fully furnished.’

The prince sleeps while the magical young woman has the castle built, completing his final impossible task.
Otto Ubbelohde, illustration for The Two Kings’ Children, 1909. Public domain. Source, Wikimedia Commons.

The gnomes went off to fetch their relatives, and everything was finished before the time was up. They reported back to the king’s daughter, who took her handkerchief and struck the ground three times.

‘Workers, go home!’ she said, and they vanished at once.

When the prince awoke and saw the castle, he was as happy as a bird in flight. The clock had just struck six, so they returned home together. The king asked:

‘Is the castle finished?’

‘Yes,’ said the prince.

As they sat at the table, the king said:

‘I cannot give you my youngest daughter until the older two are married.’

The prince and the king’s daughter were heartbroken. He did not know what to do until, one night, he went to her and they fled together. After they had travelled a short distance, she looked back and saw her father in pursuit.

‘What shall we do? My father is chasing us. He’ll catch us soon. Wait, I’ll turn you into a rosebush and myself into a rose. I can hide among your branches.’

When her father arrived, he found only a rosebush with a rose. He tried to pick the flower, but the thorns pricked his fingers and he had to go home. His wife asked why he had not brought the couple back. He told her he had nearly caught them, but had lost sight of them and found nothing in that place but a rosebush and a rose.

‘If you had picked the rose,’ said the queen, ‘the rosebush would have followed.’

So the king set off again to look for the rose.

By then the young couple had crossed many fields, and the king had to run after them. The girl looked back again and saw him approaching.

‘What shall we do now? Wait, I’ll turn you into a church and myself into a preacher. I’ll stand in the pulpit and deliver a sermon.’

When the king arrived, he found a church with a preacher in its pulpit. He stopped to listen to the sermon and then returned home. The queen asked why he had failed to catch the fugitives, and he replied:

‘I chased them for a long time. Just when I thought I had caught them, I came upon a church with a preacher in the pulpit.’

‘You should have seized the preacher,’ said his wife. ‘The church would have followed. There’s no point sending you again. I’ll go myself.’

The queen travelled a long way before she spotted the couple in the distance. The girl looked back and saw that this time her mother was coming.

‘Now we really are in trouble,’ she said. ‘My mother is coming herself! Wait, I’ll turn you into a pond and myself into a fish.’

The queen found a great pond with a fish leaping in its centre. The fish poked its head above the water, looked around and seemed full of joy. She tried everything she could to catch it, but could not draw it out of the water. In a fury she drank up the entire pond to get at the fish. She became so ill, however, that she had to spit out the water and bring the whole pond back up.

‘I can see there’s nothing I can do against you.’

At last she made peace with them and asked them to return with her. They agreed. Then the queen gave her daughter three walnuts and said:

‘These will help you when you need them most.’

The couple set out once more. After ten hours on the road, they were nearing the prince’s castle when they came to a village nearby. There the prince said:

‘Wait here, my love. I’ll go up to the castle first, then come back for you with a carriage and servants.’

Everyone was delighted to see him return. He told them his betrothed was waiting in the village and he wanted to fetch her in a carriage. They prepared it at once, and several servants climbed onto the back. Just as the prince was about to get in, his mother kissed him. In that instant he forgot everything he had been through and everything he meant to do. The queen ordered the carriage unhitched, and they all went back inside.

Meanwhile, the king’s daughter waited in the village. She waited and waited, certain the prince would come for her, but no one arrived. At last she found work as a maid at the castle’s mill. Every afternoon she had to sit beside the river and wash the pots and cauldrons. One morning the queen went walking along the riverbank. On seeing the lovely girl, she exclaimed:

‘What a charming girl! How beautiful she is!’

Everyone looked at her, but no one recognised her. The king’s daughter served the miller faithfully and honestly for a long time. Meanwhile, the queen had chosen a wife for her son, a young woman from a distant country. As soon as the new bride arrived, arrangements were made for the wedding, and a crowd came to watch.

The maid asked the miller whether she could attend.

‘Of course you can. Go on,’ he said.

Before leaving, she cracked one of the three walnuts and found a beautiful dress inside. She put it on, went to the church and stood near the altar. Soon the bride and groom arrived and took their places before it.

The minister was about to bless them when the bride turned and saw the maid standing there, dressed like a fine lady. She got up and declared that she would not marry until she had a dress as beautiful as the stranger’s. So they went home and sent servants to ask whether she would sell it. No, she said, the dress was not for sale, though they might earn it. Asked what they had to do, she said they could have it if she was allowed to spend the night outside the prince’s door. They agreed, but the servants were ordered to give the prince a sleeping draught.

The king’s daughter lay on the threshold and wept all night. For his sake she had had the forest felled, the pond cleaned and the castle built. She had also transformed them both, first into a rosebush and a rose, then into a church and a preacher, and finally into a pond and a fish. Yet he had forgotten her in an instant. The prince heard nothing, though her cries woke the servants, who did not know what to make of them.

The next morning, the bride put on the dress and went to the church with the prince. Meanwhile, the lovely maid opened the second walnut and found an even finer dress. She put it on, went to the church and stood beside the altar again. Everything happened as it had the day before.

The maid spent another night outside the prince’s door. This time, however, the servants gave him a draught to keep him awake instead of one to send him to sleep. She wept again and reminded him of all she had done for him. The prince heard every word. His memory returned, and he was overcome with sorrow. He wanted to go to her at once, but his mother had locked the door. In the morning he went straight to his beloved, explained what had happened and begged her to forgive him for forgetting her for so long.

Then the king’s daughter opened the third walnut and found a dress more beautiful still. She put it on and went to the church with her betrothed. A group of children gathered around them, gave them flowers and tied bright ribbons to their feet. The couple were blessed and celebrated a joyful wedding. The false mother and the false bride were banished.

And the lips of the last person to tell this story are still warm.

Portrait of the brothers Jacob Grimm (right, in profile) and Wilhelm Grimm (left, facing the viewer) in their later years. Wilhelm died in 1859, four years after the portrait was painted, aged 73, and Jacob died in 1863. They are buried side by side in the Old St Matthew’s Cemetery in Berlin’s Schöneberg district. Painted by Elisabeth Jerichau-Baumann in 1855. Alte Nationalgalerie, Berlin. Public domain.

A little history of the Brothers Grimm

Ludowine von Haxthausen, from whom the Grimms obtained The Two Kings’ Children, was one of their informants and a remarkable figure for her time. She was probably sixteen or seventeen when she shared her stories with them. She belonged to the Haxthausen family of Paderborn, members of the lesser nobility. Later she became the last canoness of the religious foundation at Geseke, which housed unmarried women from noble families. She was also part of the Romantic circle at Bökendorf and ran a hospital, an orphanage and a free school (Uther 2013; Zipes 2014).

The Haxthausen family was one of the Grimms’ principal sources. As linguists, the brothers were interested in recording the family’s Low German dialect. Over the years, they heard stories from people of different social backgrounds, ages and genders, including men and women, middle-class people and wanderers, servants and nobles. In keeping with their Romantic outlook, the Grimms believed that ordinary people preserved a more authentic form of speech and the roots of the German national spirit. They thought industrialisation and modernity threatened a supposed spiritual essence of the German people, which they idealised and associated with marginalised people, forest dwellers, the poor and the elderly, with trades such as shepherding and fishing, and with remote villages and mountain regions (Bottigheimer 1987; Zipes 2002).

Encouraged by friends and mentors such as the poets Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano, they began collecting folk narratives, initially out of a strong linguistic and philological interest. The first edition reached few readers and was not an immediate success. Deeply disappointed, they considered devoting themselves entirely to their regular work. Their large family had faced serious financial hardship since their father’s death, and as the eldest sons the brothers had to support it. Thanks to their friends’ encouragement, however, they continued their work despite those pressures (Uther 2013; Zipes 2002).

The extensively enlarged and revised second edition reached a growing readership and became a model for folklorists across Europe. Seven editions of the Grosse Ausgabe, the ‘Large Edition’, appeared between 1812 and 1857, each different from the last. Tales were added, others removed, and the texts rewritten until the collection comprised two hundred tales and ten children’s legends. This makes the first edition particularly valuable. Its stories are not unaltered records of oral storytelling, but they show the texts before many of the later stylistic, moral and religious revisions (Bottigheimer 1987; Bottigheimer 2009; Tatar 2003; Uther 2013; Zipes 2002; Zipes 2014).

The collection’s popularity with families took hold with the Kleine Ausgabe, the ‘Small Edition’, published in 1825. It contained fifty tales, omitted the scholarly apparatus of the larger edition and featured illustrations by the younger brother, the artist and engraver Ludwig Emil Grimm. Often overlooked, this third Grimm helped establish a highly influential model for nineteenth-century fairy-tale illustration. The selection and revision of the stories were intended to make them more suitable for family reading, and Wilhelm played an especially important editorial role in that process. Edgar Taylor’s English adaptations, beginning in 1823, and later French translations also did much to spread the collection internationally (Duggan 2014; Tatar 2003; Uther 2013; Zipes 2002).

Through this European circulation, the Grimm tales reached collectors such as Maspons, who took them as one model for Lo rondallayre. Their influence can also be seen in the work of major nineteenth-century folklorists, including the Russian Afanasyev, the Norwegians Asbjørnsen and Moe, the Breton Sébillot, and the Sicilian Pitrè, a friend of Maspons with whom he maintained a long correspondence. These collections gave the wonder tale a particularly prominent place, though they also contained animal tales, religious narratives, humorous stories and other genres. The international reach of tales of magic has been so great that many readers still mistake this one group for the whole of folk narrative, when it is only one part of a much wider tradition (Duggan 2014; Maspons i Labrós 2010; Oriol 2012; Zipes 2015). For these reasons, I regard the Brothers Grimm as the first and most important folklorists in Europe, for the legacy they left and the path they opened for those who came after them.

A brief analysis of motif D2003, The Forgotten Bride

Returning to motif D2003 and the latter part of the former AaTh 313C, the fairy warns the young man, once they have escaped the underworld, not to embrace or kiss anyone [C120, D2004.2]. If he does, he will forget both her and his journey to the other world. Magical forgetfulness following a rebirth or a return from another world appears in many stories. One example is the myth of Er in Book X of Plato’s Republic, where souls drink on the Plain of Forgetfulness before being reborn (Plato 1992, Book X; Eliade 1963, 333–335). In these tales, it is usually the young man’s mother, the queen of his homeland, who embraces him. That his mother’s kiss or embrace brings about his forgetfulness strengthens the suggestion of rebirth. At this point a new story begins, almost as if another tale had been joined to the first. The magical young woman takes centre stage, if indeed she did not already occupy it in the underworld episode, as we saw in Blancaflor.

Having broken the fairy’s taboo —and, in this reading, been reborn— the young man forgets his descent into the underworld, the impossible tasks, the ordeal at the abyss and the magical young woman he loves. In some versions, he has spent years in the underworld [D2011], though he believes only days have passed. His family are deeply worried and, in one version, have even given him up for dead (Goldberg 1992; Uther 2004). When he comes home, his parents hurry to find him a wife. The boy who left has grown into a man and, by the standards of the time, ought to be found a suitable match without delay. But he is already married to the fairy.

This brings us to the false-bride motif, K1911, and specifically K1911.1.1, in which an impostor takes the real bride’s place on the way to the wedding. In AaTh 313C, however, the second bride’s role is substantially different and generally more passive. In most variants she does not plot to steal the protagonist’s husband, though some versions do portray her as malicious. This contrasts with versions of ATU 403, The White Bride and the Black Bride (Uther 2004). Because she is usually not a villain, the second bride often receives a small gift or reward at the end, whereas the usurper in ATU 403 is severely punished. In The Two Kings’ Children, both the mother and the false bride are banished, but the mother is unmistakably the principal antagonist.

Before the young man can marry the queen’s chosen bride, the fairy undertakes a new series of tasks that forms a complete narrative arc. The details vary, but she commonly finds work as a servant at his palace and uses magic to restore his memory [D2006.1] (Goldberg 1992). She may, for example, make magical animals dance and sing before him, often talking birds or snakes [D2006.1.3]. In various ancient traditions, such creatures are associated with the underworld and with the genius or agathos daimon, the protective spirit she herself embodies. Perhaps the sight of them prompts him to remember who she is.

In other versions, the magical young woman shows him the ring she retrieved from the abyss and the piece of finger she lost there. This recalls an idea I explored in Blancaflor. The episode at the abyss and the ring may point to a hierogamy, or sacred marriage. In any event, the young man regains his memory [D2006] and marries her (Goldberg 1992).

Motif D1971 and ATU 425, The Search for the Lost Husband

Instead of the magical animals, the tale may use D1971, though less often. This motif is commonly associated with K1911. The heroine possesses wondrous objects or enchanted dresses that make her more beautiful each time she uses them. The other woman’s envy reveals, within the story, that she is not the right partner for the young man. The false bride is not the woman meant for him. The heroine may trade each of her three objects or dresses for a night in her beloved’s room —and, presumably, a chance to sleep with him, though the tale leaves that unstated—. The false bride, however, gives him a sleeping draught, preventing their encounter. On the third and final night, a servant or a friend warns him. He refuses the draught and stays awake. When he meets the heroine in bed and, presumably, consummates their marriage, his memory returns [D1978.4].

In The Two Kings’ Children, this episode is shorter and more restrained. The young woman spends two nights outside his door, saving the third and most beautiful dress for their wedding. There is a certain narrative inconsistency here. The servants hear her cries on the first night and, moved by pity, give the prince a draught to keep him awake on the second. It is possible, though impossible to prove, that this near deus ex machina was introduced at some stage to soften the tale’s sexual implications.

The Grimm version has other distinctive details. For instance, the antagonist appears first as a stag and then as a huge man, rather like an ogre. His ability to change shape suggests that he is a sorcerer. The episode of the ring and the dismemberment is absent. Perhaps it was omitted because it was too violent, or perhaps this is simply a different variant.

The scenes involving Saint Christopher are the detail I want to examine here. Christopher is a martyr portrayed as a kindly giant, a very tall, powerful man carrying a flowering tree, an image associated with his life and miracles. He wishes to serve the mightiest king on earth. When he discovers that the king fears the Devil, he decides to serve the Devil instead. Later he lives among a band of criminals and joins them in doing harm, but learns that the Devil fears the Christ Child and resolves to serve Jesus. A wise hermit advises him to use his great size to help pilgrims cross a fast-flowing river. In a scene familiar throughout Europe, he carries the Christ Child across the river on his back. The following day, the dead wood he carries comes to life and becomes a leafy tree. It is then that he is baptised and his name changes from Reprobus to Christopher, ‘the bearer of God’ (Voragine 2012, 396–400).

In the tale, Saint Christopher acts as a guardian of the threshold, watching over the entrance to the sisters’ beds. This recalls his role in the legend, helping pilgrims cross the river. Here too he helps the young man across a dangerous passage, echoing the sisters’ associations with water, which I discussed in the earlier instalment on Blancaflor. We are not told why the sisters help him by enchanting the statue of Saint Christopher. The sorcerer’s challenge requires the young man to stay awake or alert throughout the night and be able to answer when summoned. The sisters simply help him through the night so that he need not answer their father and can sleep peacefully or spend time with them. The scene in which their magic brings the statue to life faintly recalls practices attributed to pagans and strongly condemned by the Church in the early centuries of Christianity, in the belief that they imbued statues of the gods or other objects, such as stones, and even living things, such as certain trees, with consciousness (Asclepius 1992, §24, and Augustine 1998, VIII, 23–24). This practice is criticised in many saints’ lives, including an early life of Saint George set in Cappadocia, in which he is a miracle worker, not yet a knight, and there is no dragon.

Whatever the case, this scene mirrors the ending and gives the tale a circular structure. First the young man spends two nights outside the sisters’ doors. At the end she spends her nights outside his. The symmetry offers a beautiful way of showing the bond between them and their shared destiny. After all, as I have suggested, the fairy recalls triple goddesses of fate, which is why they appear in threes. The three sisters are at once three and one.

D1971 is more common in tale types such as ATU 403 and ATU 425, The Search for the Lost Husband. The overlap in their themes and episodes, with the magical young woman seeking to restore her husband’s memory, may have encouraged motifs to move between these tale types. This narrative family includes such familiar subtypes as ATU 425A, The Animal Bridegroom, and ATU 425C, Beauty and the Beast.

The story of Cupid and Psyche —love and soul— appears in Apuleius’s second-century Metamorphoses, also known as The Golden Ass, and is one of the oldest literary parallels. An old woman tells it to Charite, a wealthy young woman who has been abducted, and to Lucius, the protagonist transformed into a donkey, while robbers hold them captive in their cave. In the second part of the story, Psyche must complete a series of impossible tasks and descend to the underworld to recover Cupid’s love after breaking his prohibition against looking directly at him. The motif also recalls the story of the fairy Melusine and its rural counterpart, the legend of the water woman and the farmer (Apuleius 1929, Books IV–V; Apuleius 1931, Book VI). This interweaving of motifs and tale types brings us back to the encounter with the soul, which I discussed in Blancaflor and which has recurred throughout this article.