Origins and setting
“The Princess on the Glass Mountain” (also known as “The Princess on the Glass Hill”) is a celebrated Norwegian wonder tale, recorded in the nineteenth century by the folklorists Peter Christen Asbjørnsen and Jørgen Moe. It stands within the international tale type often labelled ATU 530, where a humble youth—typically the scorned youngest brother—wins a princess by passing a seemingly impossible test. Its motifs are unmistakable: the hayfield ruined each Midsummer’s Eve, the three supernatural horses and their copper, silver, and gold trappings, the princess seated atop a hill—or mountain—of glass with three golden apples in her lap, and the hero’s anonymous appearances across three Sundays before he finally claims his bride.
We retell both the Scandinavian and Polish traditions of the story.
Scandinavian Tradition
There was once a farmer who owned a hayfield finer than any for miles. Yet every year, on Midsummer’s Eve, just as the grass stood thickest and sweetest, something came trampling it flat so that not a blade could be saved.
“I’ll keep watch,” said the eldest son, shouldering his stick. But when night deepened, there came a rumbling like distant thunder; the earth shook, and the lad bolted home in a cold sweat. The next year the middle brother vowed he would not flinch—until the same quaking sent him fleeing as well.
At last the youngest spoke up. He was the butt of the family, soot-smudged and patient at the hearth, so they called him Boots (or Cinder-lad).
“Let me keep watch,” he said.
“You?” scoffed his brothers. “Best keep to your ashes, Cinder-lad.”
“Still,” said Boots, “I’ll go.”
The three horses
On Midsummer’s Eve he sat by the meadow’s edge. Near midnight the ground began to tremble, once, twice, thrice, until the air rang. Through the dew came a horse in full copper harness, fire striking from its hooves. Boots sprang up, caught its bridle with both hands, and wrestled it long and hard. When the creature at last grew mild under his touch, it bowed its head. Then—such are the wonders of Midsummer—it let him take not only the horse itself, but a suit of copper armour to match. Boots hid the horse and armour in a cleft of rock.
The next Midsummer he kept watch again. The earth thundered as before, and a silver horse rode out under the moon, with silver trappings and a suit of silver armour. Boots mastered this one too and hid the spoils beside the first.
The third Midsummer, the shaking was so fierce that stones leapt and larks tumbled from the sky. A golden horse came, its mane like sunlight, with gold harness and a suit of gold armour. Boots gentled it as he had the others and hid away horse and gear.
“Strange that the hayfield has mended itself,” his brothers muttered, never guessing whom they should thank.
The glass mountain
Now, in that same kingdom the King had a daughter so fair that men ran out of words before they ran out of wonder. He caused a Glass Mountain to be raised by the church green—smooth as ice and steep as a tower—and set the princess at the top with three golden apples in her lap.
Then he proclaimed: “Whoso can ride up the Glass Mountain and take these three golden apples from my daughter’s lap shall have the princess for his wife and half my kingdom besides.”
Sundays came, and suitors from far and near tried their luck. They spurred and scrambled, but the glass was slicker than a winter pond; each slid back to earth with bruised pride and scuffed boots while the crowd roared.
First Sunday: the rider in copper
On the first Sunday Boots begged leave to go to church.
“You?” laughed his brothers. “In your rags?”
“I can stand at the door,” said Boots, and slipped away. But at the meadow he turned aside, donned the copper armour, and mounted the copper horse. Thus arrayed, he rode like a flame to the Glass Mountain.
The crowd fell silent. A rider all in copper came on at a gallop, and—wonder of wonders—his horse took hold of the glass as if it were turf. He climbed a good third of the way; the princess leaned down and cried, “If you can, take the apple!” Boots stretched, caught the first golden apple, and wheeled his horse. The King’s men rushed to seize him, but the copper rider slipped away like wind. Boots hid horse and harness, washed the soot carefully back upon his face, and went home.
“Well,” said his brothers that evening, all bluster and bandages, “some copper-clad fellow near trampled us by the church.”
“Ah,” said Boots, poking the fire, “I wish I’d been there to see it.”
Second Sunday: the rider in silver
The second Sunday, the same scene. At home Boots feigned shyness; in secret he donned the silver armour and mounted the silver horse. He rode to the mountain and climbed two-thirds of the way. The princess leaned down again: “If you can, take the apple!” He took the second golden apple and fled before any could catch his bridle.
“That silver spark spattered mud all over us,” grumbled his brothers that night.
“Did he now?” said Boots mildly.
Third Sunday: the rider in gold
On the third Sunday, the green was black with people. “Now the princess will be won,” they said, “or never.” Out came Boots in secret, clad from helm to spur in gold, and mounted on the golden horse. The pair shone so brightly that folk shielded their eyes.
He put the horse to the glass; up they went, higher, higher, to the very top. The princess, smiling, said softly, “If you can, take the apple.”
“I can,” said Boots, and he took the third golden apple—and with it, her hand for a heartbeat. Then he turned his horse, saluted the King, and vanished before any man knew where he had come from or where he was gone.
The King was vexed. “Whoever he is,” he cried, “he shall not have my daughter without a name!” So he gave out that all who claimed an apple should bring it to court and tell their tale.
Recognition
Many swaggered forward with pretty stories and empty hands. Boots came last, shabby as ever, and bowed.
“What do you do here?” snapped his brothers. “Mind the ashes.”
But the King said, “Let the lad speak.”
Boots drew from his pouch the first golden apple, then the second, then the third, and laid them on the board so that they rolled together like suns. The hall held its breath.
“Are you the rider who came three Sundays running?” asked the King.
“I am,” said Boots.
“Prove it, and you shall have what was promised.”
Boots only smiled. He stepped outside and whistled. At that whistle came the copper horse and the silver horse and the golden horse, each tossing its proud head, and his three suits of armour glinted like dawn.
Then the princess came down from the dais, took him by the hand, and said the old words that have ended many a trial: “He that has the apples, him will I have.”
The brothers’ faces went as pale as skimmed milk, but there was no help for it. Boots was bathed, gowned, and shown for what he was—straight as a spear, with eyes as clear as river water. The wedding was held that very week, with bells ringing and fiddles merry.
If any ask how a horse could climb a mountain of glass, you may answer what the old folk say: true luck and a steady heart will take hold where iron shoes cannot. And if any wonder whether a scorned hearth-boy may win a princess, remember the king’s proclamation and the princess’s reply.
“Whoso can ride up the Glass Mountain and take these three golden apples…”
“He that has the apples, him will I have.”
And so they lived long and well, with the three golden apples gleaming in a casket to remind them that courage keeps its own counsel and Fortune loves the soot-smudged as much as the silken.
Polish Tradition from the Nineteenth Century
Once—so the old people say—there stood a Glass Mountain smooth as a mirror and steep as a spear. At its very top rose a castle of pure gold, and before the castle’s door grew an apple-tree with golden apples. A single rule governed all this enchantment:
“Whoso plucks one apple gains admittance to the golden castle.”
There, in a silver chamber, sat an enchanted Princess, fair beyond telling, as rich as she was beautiful; her cellars brimmed with jewels, and chests of gold lined her halls. Knights rode from the four quarters of the world to try for her hand. They had their horses shod with sharp nails; they wrapped their hooves with chains; they whispered prayers and spoke boasts. It was useless. No man climbed beyond the middle of the mountain; most slipped, many fell, and not a few broke an arm, a leg, or their neck outright. For seven years the Princess watched, hoping and sorrowing, as the foot of the mountain became a grim churchyard of fallen riders and shattered horses.
On the last three days of the seventh year, a stir ran through the watching crowds. A knight in golden armour rode up astride a spirited horse. He drove his spurs, and horse and rider climbed halfway; then, cool as you please, he turned and descended, sure-footed as if on level earth. The onlookers murmured.
“He will do it,” said some.
“He is measuring the mountain,” said others.
On the second day he came again. Sparks flew from the iron; the glass rang like a bell beneath the hoofs; up he went—two-thirds, three-quarters, almost to the apple-tree—when a huge eagle rose from among the shining leaves, casting a vast shadow with its wings. It struck the horse in the eye. The beast reared, lost purchase; horse and knight slid and tumbled from that glittering height. When they came to rest, there was nothing left of them but bones rattling inside battered gold, “like dry peas in a pod.”
There was one day left.
That morning a schoolboy came to the mountain: merry of face, strong in limb, and stubborn in heart. He had grown up hearing of the Princess in the golden castle; he had saved his pennies to buy a small knife; and he had his own idea of how to climb. He went into the forest, trapped a lynx, cut off its sharp claws, and bound them to his hands and feet.
“If iron slides, let talons bite,” he said, and set himself to the Glass Mountain on foot.
All day he climbed. The sun sank, and with it his strength. His mouth was ash-dry; his hands bled; his feet burned. A black cloud drifted overhead.
“A drop of water!” he begged. But the cloud sailed by without weeping so much as a single tear. Night came; the stars sharpened. Beneath him gaped a yawning abyss strewn with the half-decayed bodies of those who had tried and failed. Seeing no hope, the boy lay as still as he could, his lynx-claws sunk so deep into the glass that they held him fast, and—by that strange grace sometimes given to the desperate—he fell asleep.
Now the eagle that had smitten the golden knight kept nightly watch over the apple-tree. When the moon slid from cloud, the great bird rose, circled, and spied what it took to be fresh carrion clinging to the slope. Down it stooped, talons first. At the last instant the boy woke. He felt the feet drive into his flesh, and—biting back any cry—seized both eagle’s legs in his hands.
The bird, startled, heaved him into the air, beat around the tower of the golden castle, and wheeled past the balcony where the Princess sat in lonely vigil. As they swept near the apple-tree the boy drew his little knife and, with one hard stroke and then another, cut off both the eagle’s feet. The creature screamed, hurled itself upward, and whirled away into cloud. The boy fell into the branches of the golden apple-tree.
Bruised and torn, he did what boldness must: he pulled the talons from his wounds and laid the peel of a golden apple upon them. At once the flesh knit and the pain fled. He plucked several apples and slipped them into his pocket. Then he climbed down and went to the gate of the castle, where a great dragon barred the way. He tossed one apple at the monster; the creature vanished at a touch of gold, and the gate swung wide.
Within lay a court like midsummer, and above, on a balcony, stood the Princess with her ladies. Seeing the youth, she ran to him and cried:
“Welcome, my husband and my master!”
She led him to the silver chamber, gave him the wealth of the golden castle, and they were wed. He did not return to the world below, for only the mighty eagle could have borne those treasures down—and the eagle, having lost its feet, had flown off to die in a wood upon the mountain.
Some while later, walking the garden with his bride, the young king (for so he was) looked over the brink and saw a great multitude gathered at the foot of the Glass Mountain. He took up a silver whistle and called a swallow, the courier of the castle.
“Fly down and ask what the matter is,” he said.
The bird sped like an arrow through air and soon returned, whirring with news:
“The blood of the eagle has restored all the people below to life. All who perished on this mountain awaken to-day as from sleep; they mount their horses, and the whole folk marvel.”
So it was. Bones clothed themselves with flesh; broken men stood; slain horses shook their manes. The seven years of grief were answered in a moment. And high above, the couple lived on in their bright, lonely realm, with summer in the courts and golden apples shining before the door.
Iconic lines remembered in the telling
- “Whoso plucks one apple gains admittance to the golden castle.”
- “He is measuring the mountain.”
- “If iron slides, let talons bite.”
- “Welcome, my husband and my master!”
- “Fly down and ask what the matter is.”
- “The blood of the eagle has restored all the people below to life.”
Leave a Reply