The historical antecedent for the original fairy tale that spawned all the others.
Having recently plowed through every episode of The Crown, I witnessed several generations of British crowned heads get hitched. This experience led me to contemplate the public fascination with royal weddings. I don’t think it’s simply the massive spectacle of such events. We’ve got James Cameron for that. I rather think it has to do with the fact that we’re watching a real live fairy tale unfold before our eyes. Every child in the English-speaking world was lulled to sleep (or scared out of their wits) by the likes of the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Anderson. As the story goes, a handsome prince hooks up with a beautiful princess, and they live happily ever after. It’s hard to get past our cultural myths, and nobody really wants to do that anyway.
But here’s the curious thing about those fairy tales. Aside from Cinderella, it’s always a resourceful but penniless lad who gets to marry the rich and beautiful princess. Fairy tales usually take pains to include a king whose only offspring is a daughter who will inherit the kingdom. Ergo, the enterprising lad (and every other lad in the realm) wants to get in on that action. To me, it seems like a statistical improbability that every king in ancient Europe was the father of a single child, and that child was always female. Did he eat his other progeny, like Kronos? What’s going on here? Methinks, I detect a mythical archetype that has fascinating roots in old European history. Bear with me, and I’ll explain. (Or leave now before you get bored. Your call.)
Here’s the historical antecedent for the original fairy tale that spawned all the others. Once upon a time, Europe was a peaceful land populated by farmers. (By once upon a time, I mean 3000 BCE before the Mesopotamians, Greeks, and Romans weaponized themselves and started rewriting history to suit their own agendas.) These tribes of farmers traced their family ties through their mother’s line, not their father’s. This seemed like a logical arrangement since Mom could always prove a baby was hers by giving birth to it. The prospective father, on the other hand, could only point to the kid and say, “That one’s mine,” while everybody within earshot said, “Yeah, right, stand in line.” In these cultures, female virginity and chastity weren’t concepts that anybody found remotely appealing. So, as a result, anybody who wanted to be somebody in these farming communities had to be related to a woman with social status and political clout. If kings existed at all, it was only because their mom said it was okay.
Meanwhile, several thousand miles away, life was quite different on the Eurasian steppes. In terms of desirable real estate, the steppes were the neolithic equivalent of Death Valley. Nobody really wanted to live there, but to the local Kurgan nomads, it was home. These Kurgans made their living by pilfering each other’s meager supplies of parsnips and yak milk. To them, pillaging was a respectable occupation. Things proceeded more or less smoothly until around 3000 BCE when the arid steppes turned into a dust bowl. (Hang on, I’m getting to the point. You really have a short attention span, don’t you? Comes from too much time spent on social media.)
With not enough to go around, the Kurgans politely asked the most expendable portion of their population to hit the road. In any culture, the most expendable members of a tribe will always be unattached adolescent males. (Now do you see where this is going? If not, you really should have left when I warned you the first time.) According to time-honored tradition, these boys broke up into small bands, mounted their horses, grabbed their weapons, and rode away to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Since the Kurgans were the only people at the time who had figured out how to domesticate horses, it gave them a certain advantage when they reached the green farmlands of old Europe. They could swoop down on a village, pilfer everything in sight, and take to the hills before anybody knew what hit them.
There was just one problem with this arrangement, as the Kurgan lads soon found out. If you keep on harassing the local villagers, they’re going to pick up their bags of wheat and move to the other side of the river where you can’t get to them. Besides, a permanent life on horseback can lead to saddle sores. Therefore, the boys decided to settle down and become respectable. But how? They hung out together in cliques on hilltops like teenagers at a high school dance while they pondered this dilemma. Clearly, thumping the local villagers wasn’t going to endear them to anybody. It turned out that no matter how many times you whacked the peasants on the head, they weren’t going to name you king. There had to be a better way. (Now, this is the important part. Pay attention.)
One day, an enterprising young Kurgan realizes that the only way to get ahead in these farming communities is to marry into them. So, this lad, let’s call him Charming, tries sidling up to the local princess and gives her his most winning smile. She takes one look at him, screams, and kicks him in the shins. Clearly, this isn’t going well. Somebody takes Charming aside and explains to him that the princess and her people engage in something called bathing. They also comb their hair, trim their beards (if they have any), and don’t sleep with horses. He goes to the nearest cold stream and spiffs up his appearance. On his second try, things go a little better. She doesn’t kick him. She merely scowls but agrees to sit down on the grass and discuss the matter. He then proceeds to pitch woo:
Here’s the deal, princess. This neighborhood isn’t safe anymore. You need protection against those evil Kurgans who keep swooping down and stealing all your cheese. If you agree to marry me, I’ll make sure that nobody bothers your village ever again. And I promise to take a bath at least once a year and stop sleeping outdoors. Okay?
The princess tilts her head to one side to consider his proposal. He isn’t bad-looking now that he’s washed the horse dung off his face. Besides, she’s always been a sucker for a fixer-upper. “Okay, it’s a deal,” she says. And they lived happily ever after. If you find yourself inspired by this fable, do bear in mind that life rarely imitates art, especially where Kurgans are concerned.
