The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was

A father had two sons. The elder was clever and could do anything; the younger was thought stupid and could learn nothing. When people saw him they said he would give his father trouble. Night errands through the churchyard made the elder shudder and refuse; fireside tales made listeners cry that they shuddered. The younger sat in the corner puzzled. They keep saying it makes them shudder, he thought—it does not make me shudder. That must be an art I do not understand.

One day the father told the corner-fellow he was tall and strong and must learn to earn his bread—look how your brother works; you do not even earn your salt. “Well, father,” said the youth, “I am willing to learn—indeed, if it could be managed, I should like to learn how to shudder; I do not understand that at all yet”. The elder smiled: what a blockhead—he will never be good for anything. The father sighed: you shall soon learn what shuddering is, but you will not earn your bread by that.

The sexton visited; the father complained that when asked how he would earn bread the boy had wanted to learn to shudder. “If that is all,” said the sexton, send him to me—I will polish him. So the boy went to ring the church bell. After a day or two the sexton woke him at midnight to go up the tower. You shall soon learn, thought the sexton, and slipped ahead in a white sheet. At the top, reaching for the rope, the boy saw a white figure by the sounding-hole. Who is there? No answer. Speak, or take yourself off—you have no business here at night. Still the figure stood. A second warning: speak if you are honest, or I will throw you down the steps. The sexton thought he would not dare, and stayed stone-still. The third call went unanswered; the boy ran at him and shoved the “ghost” down ten steps into a corner. Then he rang the bell, went home, and slept without a word.

The sexton’s wife waited, grew uneasy, woke the boy: do you know where my husband is? He climbed up before you. No—but someone stood by the sounding-hole and would neither answer nor go, so I took him for a scoundrel and threw him downstairs; go and see if it was he—I should be sorry if it were. She found her husband moaning with a broken leg, carried him down, and ran screaming to the father: your boy threw my husband down the steps! Take the good-for-nothing out of our house. The father scolded: what wicked tricks—the devil must have put them in your head. “Father,” said the youth, “I am innocent; he stood there by night like one intent on evil; I begged him three times to speak or leave”. Ah, said the father, “I have nothing but unhappiness with you”. Go out of my sight. Yes, willingly—wait till day; then I will go forth and learn how to shudder, and at least understand one art. Learn what you will; here are fifty talers—go into the wide world, and tell no one where you come from or who your father is, for I have reason to be ashamed. Yes, father—if that is all, I can keep it in mind.

At dawn he pocketed the money and took the highway, muttering: if I could but shudder! A man overheard him. When they came in sight of the gallows the stranger said: look—the tree where seven men married the ropemaker’s daughter and are learning to fly. Sit beneath it till night and you will soon learn. “If that is all,” said the youth, it is easily done; if I learn so fast, you shall have my fifty talers—come back early tomorrow. He sat under the gallows, lit a fire against the cold. At midnight the wind knocked the hanged men together. If you shiver by the fire, he thought, how those above must freeze! In pity he raised a ladder, unbound all seven, and set them round the fire. They did not stir; the flames caught their clothes. Take care, or I will hang you up again. They stayed silent while the rags burned. Angry, he said: if you will not take care I cannot help you—I will not burn with you—and hanged each up again, sat by his fire, and slept. Morning brought the man for the talers: well, do you know how to shudder? No—those fellows never opened their mouths, and were so stupid they let their rags burn. The man left empty-handed: such a youth has never come my way.

On the road again—if I could but shudder!—a waggoner heard him. Who are you? I don’t know. From where? I know not. Who is your father? That I may not tell. What are you muttering? I wish I could shudder, but no one can teach me. Enough chatter—come with me; I will find you a place. That evening they reached an inn. At the parlour door the youth said loudly again: if I could but shudder! The host laughed: if that is your desire, there ought to be a good opportunity here. Be silent, said the hostess—so many prying persons have lost their lives; it would be a pity if such eyes never saw daylight again. However hard, said the youth, “I will learn it—for that I journeyed forth”. He gave the host no rest until he heard of a haunted castle nearby: watch three nights and you learn shuddering easily. The king had promised his daughter—the most beautiful maiden the sun shone on—to whoever dared, and great treasures guarded by evil spirits would be freed. Many had gone in; none had come out.

Next morning the youth told the king he would watch three nights if allowed. The king liked him and said he might take three lifeless things into the castle. Then I ask for a fire, a turning lathe, and a cutting-board with a knife. These were carried in by day. At nightfall the youth made a bright fire, set board and knife beside it, and sat by the lathe. Ah, if I could but shudder—but I shall not learn it here either.

Toward midnight, as he blew the fire, something cried from a corner: au, miau! how cold we are! You fools—if you are cold, come warm yourselves. Two great black cats leapt beside him with fiery eyes. After warming they asked: comrade, shall we play cards? Why not—but show your paws. They stretched out claws. What long nails! Wait—I must cut them first. He seized their throats, screwed their feet to the board, said his fancy for cards was gone, struck them dead, and threw them in the water. Then black cats and dogs with red-hot chains poured from every hole until he could scarcely move; they yelled, tore his fire apart, tried to put it out. At last he seized the knife—away, vermin!—cut them down, killed some, drove the rest, and flung them into the fish-pond. He rebuilt the fire. Sleep came; he saw a great bed and got in. It began to move of its own accord through the whole castle. That’s right—but go faster. It rolled as if six horses pulled it, over thresholds and stairs—then hop, turned upside down and lay on him like a mountain. He threw quilts and pillows up, climbed out: now anyone who likes may drive—and slept by his fire till day.

The king found him on the ground and thought him dead: after all it is a pity—for so handsome a man. The youth rose: it has not come to that yet. One night is past; the two others will pass likewise. At the inn the host stared: I never expected you alive! Have you learnt to shudder? No—all in vain; if someone would but tell me!

The second night he sat by the fire again: if I could but shudder! At midnight a tumbling uproar grew, then quiet—then with a scream half a man fell down the chimney. Hullo—another half belongs to this; this is not enough! Roaring and howling brought the other half. Wait—I will stoke the fire a little for you. When he looked again the pieces had joined; a hideous man sat in his place. That is no part of our bargain—the bench is mine. They pushed; the youth thrust him off and sat again. More men fell, brought nine dead men’s legs and two skulls, and played nine-pins. May I join? Yes, if you have money. Money enough—but your balls are not quite round. He turned the skulls on the lathe till they rolled true. Hurrah—now we’ll have fun! He played and lost a little; at twelve everything vanished. He slept quietly. Morning: how has it fared? I have been playing nine-pins and lost a couple of farthings. Have you not shuddered? I have had a wonderful time! If I did but know what it was to shudder!

The third night he sat sadly: if I could but shudder. Late, six tall men brought a coffin. Ha—that is certainly my little cousin, who died only a few days ago—come, little cousin, come. He opened the lid; the dead face was cold as ice. Wait—I will warm you. He warmed his hand at the fire, laid it on the face; still cold. He took the body out, rubbed the arms on his breast by the fire, then carried it to the bed: when two lie together they warm each other. Soon the dead man grew warm and moved. “See, little cousin—have I not warmed you?” said the youth. “Now I will strangle you,” cried the corpse. Is that how you thank me? Back into your coffin!—and he threw him in and shut the lid. The six carried it away. I cannot manage to shudder; I shall never learn it here.

Then entered a man taller than all, terrible, old, with a long white beard. You wretch—you shall soon learn, for you shall die. Not so fast—if I am to die I shall have a say. Softly—do not talk so big; I am as strong as you, perhaps stronger. We shall see—if you are stronger I will let you go. He led the youth by dark passages to a smith’s forge, took an axe, and with one blow struck an anvil into the ground. “I can do better,” said the youth, going to the other anvil. The old man leaned near to watch; his beard hung down. The youth split that anvil with one blow and caught the beard in the cleft. Now I have you—now it is your turn to die. He beat him with an iron bar until the old man moaned and begged him to stop, promising great riches. The youth freed the beard. In a cellar of the castle the old man showed three chests of gold: one part for the poor, one for the king, the third yours. At twelve the spirit vanished; the youth felt his way back to the fire and slept.

Morning: now you must have learnt what shuddering is? No—what can it be? My dead cousin was here, and a bearded man showed me money below, but no one told me what it was to shudder. Then you have saved the castle and shall marry my daughter. That is all very well—but still I do not know what it is to shudder! The gold was brought up and the wedding held. However much he loved his wife, he still said: if I could but shudder. At last that angered her. Her waiting-maid offered a cure. She had a bucket of gudgeons fetched from the garden stream. At night, while he slept, his wife drew off the clothes and emptied the cold water and fish over him so the little fish sprawled on his skin. He woke crying: oh, what makes me shudder so—what makes me shudder so, dear wife? Ah! now I know what it is to shudder!

Where this story comes from

“The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was” appears in the Taylor-and-Edwardes-based English Grimm text at Project Gutenberg (#2591)—a boy who cannot shudder, three nights in a haunted castle, and a bucket of cold fish at last.

Read the original: Grimm’s Fairy Tales (Project Gutenberg)

For older readers: a serious fall, bodies on a gallows, killing of supernatural animals, severed body parts, threats of strangling and a violent confrontation. The tale’s comic voice does not remove these disturbing scenes.

Reading the story closely

The youth treats frightening sights as practical problems: cold bodies need warming, skulls need rounding and an occupied seat needs reclaiming. This literal approach frustrates the people trying to frighten him, but it also leads to injury and violence. He is not without feeling—he shows pity, irritation and pleasure—so lack of fear should not be confused with lack of emotion or with wisdom.

Choose three attempts to teach him and record the intended lesson beside what he actually notices. Then examine the last bucket: it causes a bodily shudder, but the story never demonstrates that he now recognizes danger more wisely. The ending turns on two meanings of the same word, leaving the existing question about shuddering and wisdom deliberately open.

Talk about it

• Why does everyone else shudder when the youth does not?
• Which castle night would frighten you most—and why does none work on him?
• Is learning to shudder the same as learning to be wise?

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• The Golden Goose — a simple youth who wins a princess
• Hans In Luck — a traveller who values freedom from burdens differently from those he meets
• Valiant Vicky — boldness that outruns common sense