Origins
“The Boy Who Went to Learn Fear” (German: Märchen von einem, der auszog, das Fürchten zu lernen) is one of the Brothers Grimm’s best-known wonder tales, catalogued as ATU 326 (“The Youth Who Wanted to Learn What Fear Is”). It likely draws on older Germanic and Central-European motifs about haunted inns, gallows hills, and trial-by-night vigils in cursed castles. Its twist is comic: the hero lacks the very sensation—fear—that most tales cultivate. Instead of slaying monsters through courage, he blunders through terrors with perfect, baffled calm, forever wishing he could “shudder,” and succeeds precisely because he cannot.
The Tale
There was once a miller who had two sons. The elder was sensible and steady; the younger was a simple soul who, for all his good nature, could do nothing right. When the father sent the elder boy to market, he brought back profit and news. When he sent the younger, he forgot the price and the path, and came home with a head full of questions.
“What shall become of you?” sighed the miller.
“If only I could learn to shudder,” said the lad, bright-eyed and earnest. “People talk of it always, and I cannot make it out.”
His father frowned. “You will learn it soon enough if you keep on walking into trouble.”
But the boy only repeated, almost prayerfully, “If only I could shudder!”
The elder brother tried to instruct him. He told him of churchyards at midnight, of will-o’-the-wisps on the moor, of coffins with loose lids and hands that scratch inside. The younger listened carefully and nodded. “Yes, yes, that would make other people shudder. I wish it would make me.”
At last the father, wearied by the boy’s folly, sent him to the sexton to learn a trade. “Teach him to ring the bells,” said the miller, “and perhaps he’ll pick up a little sense with the ropes.”
The sexton eyed the lad and thought, “We shall see if he can shudder.” One midnight he led the boy up the belfry stairs. The wind hissed through the slats; the bells loomed like black moons. “Do you see that figure in white by the rope?” whispered the sexton, who had thrown a sheet over himself and stood as stiff as a ghost. “He is a spirit; he comes for the bell at the witching hour.”
“Oh?” said the boy, peering. “Is that all?” He went straight to the figure and called, “Speak, or begone! It is cold up here.” The figure said nothing. “If you are here for mischief,” the boy added, “down you go.” And down went the “ghost,” tumbling from stair to stair with a cry that was decidedly earthly. The boy climbed after and found the sexton groaning with a twisted leg.
“Why did you not speak?” the lad asked, puzzled. “People ought to say who they are.” The sexton, in no humour for lessons, boxed his ears as best he could and sent him away before dawn.
Back to the mill the boy trudged. “Well?” demanded the father.
“I learned to ring the bells,” said the lad, “but I did not learn to shudder. The sexton tried, but he spoke too little and fell too much.”
The father despaired, and the village laughed. Yet word of the strange youth’s fearlessness travelled, and in that same realm there stood a king whose castle was so haunted that none could pass a single night within it and come out whole. The king proclaimed, “Whoever spends three nights in the cursed castle and lives shall have my daughter to wife and the treasure within besides.”
The boy heard and brightened. “Three nights in a haunted place? That should teach me to shudder!” He went to the king and said, “Your Majesty, may I try?”
The courtiers snickered, but the king, struck by the lad’s open face, agreed. “Take with you three things,” he said. “What will you choose?”
“Fire,” the boy replied, “a turning-lathe, and a cutting-board. If there are skulls to be mended or logs to be planed, I’ll not be idle.”
So, as the sun set, he entered the castle’s great hall, laid kindling, struck sparks, and warmed his hands at the blaze. “Ah,” he sighed, “if only I could shudder.”
Near midnight, a chorus of mews sounded in the rafters, and down the stair padded two cats, black as chimney soot, with eyes like lanterns. Behind them came others—half a dozen, a dozen—each carrying small knives in their paws.
“Pussies, what do you want?” asked the boy.
“We want to play at cards by your fire,” they purred, “and cut a caper or two.”
“Show me your paws first,” said the boy. They held them out—knives indeed—and he laughed. “Long nails for gentle play! Away with you.” He seized a billet and drove them snarling back into the shadows. Then the bed in the corner lurched and began to trundle about the room, first slowly, then with a gallop.
“Ha!” cried the boy, jumping in. “Faster if you please!” The bed bucked like a boat in a storm, tipped, and flung him against the flags. “A poor mount,” he said, righting it and returning to the fire. “If only I could shudder.” He slept soundly till dawn.
On the second night he made his fire anew. At the stroke of twelve there came a groaning and a dragging of chains. Down the stair crept two men, then four, then six—pale as tallow candles, carrying a coffin between them. They set it on the hearth and sat around in silence.
“What have we here?” asked the boy.
“Our comrade,” said one, his voice dry as old wood. “He is cold.”
“Then we must warm him,” said the lad cheerfully. He lifted the lid; inside lay a corpse, blue with chill. “Up you come.” He propped the dead man against the hearth. “A little nearer.” The corpse did not stir. “Ho, you’re hard to wake,” he said, and, thinking warmth the cure for cold, he took the corpse into his bed and lay it by his side. When even this would not serve, he rose in vexation, set the body upon the turning-lathe, and spun it briskly to bring back the blood.
At this the corpse’s teeth chattered; it clacked its jaws and seemed to grin. “There,” said the boy, satisfied. “A good turn will do for anyone.” The pale bearers melted into the stones; the coffin slid away like a shadow; and once more he slept.
On the third night came a rattle and a crash, and down from the chimney tumbled—plump upon the hearth—half a man: head, arms, and trunk, grinning horribly. “Ho!” cried the boy. “The other half, please, or you’ll go short.” There was another clatter, and the legs fell beside the fire. The boy joined the halves neatly. The creature stood, bowed mockingly, and fetched ninepins and a skull.
“Shall we bowl?” it croaked.
“Willingly,” said the lad. They set up bones for skittles and rolled the skull for a ball. The boy played stoutly, and when the skull split he mended it with pitch from the fire. Then a great man, beard sweeping the floor like a brown river, strode into the hall and glared.
“Here is the master of the castle,” breathed a voice in the draught.
The bearded one leaned over the boy’s fire. “Why dost thou rage and burn in my house?” he thundered. “Who gave thee leave?”
“I grew cold,” the boy answered, “and there was wood enough.” He placed another log.
The giant ground his teeth. “Wilt thou fight me?”
“If you like,” said the boy, “but I am small. Let us be fair.” He spied an anvil in the corner. “We’ll try our strength there.” The bearded one lifted the hammer and cleft the anvil, sparks flying. Quick as thought, the boy slipped a rope through the split, caught the giant’s beard fast in the crack, and clamped it tight.
“Softly now,” said the lad, picking up the rod he used for stirring the fire. “I have you.” And he beat him soundly till the great man bellowed for mercy and promised treasure if only he were loosed. The boy made him swear and set him free. The giant vanished; the hall grew still; and with the grey of morning three chests stood by the hearth—one of gold, one of silver, one of shining copper.
When the king arrived with his court, he found the boy breakfasting by the fire and the castle quiet as an empty church. “You have done what a hundred could not,” said the king. “The treasure is yours as promised, and with it the hand of my daughter.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” said the boy, “but—” His brow puckered. “I have not yet learned to shudder.”
He married the princess and was kind to her, and the king gave him a fine house in which to keep the three chests. He parted the wealth in three shares: one for the poor, one for the king, and one to live upon. He was a good husband, diligent and merry—but he went about sighing, “If only I could shudder.”
The princess grew sorry for him. “Must you have this lesson?” she teased.
“I must,” he said. “Else I shall always feel something is missing.”
So she spoke to her chamber-maid, who was handy with a joke and a pail. One night, when the boy slept, the maid fetched a bucket of cold water from the well and filled it with little gudgeons and minnows, their slick sides flashing in the moonlight. Then, all at once, she flung the lot upon him.
The water bit like ice; the fish wriggled and slid across his skin like live silver.
“Brrrr!” cried the lad, jerking upright as the cold clutched his marrow. “Ah! Ah—now I know what it is to shudder!”
The princess laughed till the tears ran down. “Then may you be content at last!”
And so he was: a brave man who had at last learned to tremble, though not at ghosts or giants, but in the honest shock of cold water and wriggling fish.
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