Russian Folktales E-Book

A. N. Afanas'ev

• Herausgeber: PubMe
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Any editor of Slav folktales starts with great advantages. Russia is a country where artistic development began very late; where popular lore was conserved with little alteration owing to the immensities of the country, the primitiveness of the people, and the punctiliousness of the compilers. The principal source for Russian Folktales is the great collection of Afanáśev, a coeval of Rybnikov, Kirěyevski, Sakharov, Bezsonov, and others who all from about 1850 to 1870 laboriously took down from the lips of the peasants of all parts of Russia what they could of the endless store of traditional song, ballad, and folk-tale. These great collectors were actuated only by the desire for accuracy; they appended laboriously erudite notes; but they were not literary men and did not sophisticate, or improve on their material.

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Table of contents

INTRODUCTION

THE DUN COW

A TALE OF THE DEAD

A TALE OF THE DEAD

A TALE OF THE DEAD

THE BEAR, THE DOG, AND THE CAT

EGÓRI THE BRAVE AND THE GIPSY

DANÍLO THE UNFORTUNATE

THE SORRY DRUNKARD

THE WOLF AND THE TAILOR

THE TALE OF THE SILVER SAUCER AND THE CRYSTAL APPLE

THE FOUNDLING PRINCE

THE SUN AND HOW IT WAS MADE BY DIVINE WILL

THE LANGUAGE OF THE BIRDS

BÁBA YAGÁ AND ZAMORÝSHEK

THE MIRACULOUS HEN

MARK THE RICH

BY COMMAND OF THE PRINCE DANIEL

THE THOUGHTLESS WORD

THE TSARÍTSA HARPIST

THE TALE OF IVÁN TSARÉVICH, THE BIRD OF LIGHT, AND THE GREY WOLF

THE PRIEST WITH THE ENVIOUS EYES

THE SOLDIER AND DEATH

THE MIDNIGHT DANCE

VASILÍSA THE FAIR

THE ANIMALS IN THE PIT

THE POOR WIDOW

ILYÁ MÚROMETS[20] AND SVYATOGÓR THE KNIGHT

THE SMITH AND THE DEVIL

THE PRINCESS WHO WOULD NOT SMILE

THE TSARÉVICH AND DYÁD’KA[21]

PRINCE EVSTÁFI

VASILÍSA POPÓVNA

THE DREAM

THE SOLDIER AND THE TSAR IN THE FOREST

THE TALE OF ALEXANDER OF MACEDON

THE BROTHER OF CHRIST

ALYÓSHA POPÓVICH[25]

GOD’S BLESSING COMPASSES ALL THINGS

SHEMYÁK THE JUDGE

A STORY OF SAINT NICHOLAS

THE POTTER

THE WITCH AND THE SISTER OF THE SUN

MÁRYA MORYÉVNA

THE REALM OF STONE

THE STORY OF TSAR ANGÉY AND HOW HE SUFFERED FOR PRIDE

THE FEAST OF THE DEAD

THE QUARRELSOME WIFE

ELIJAH THE PROPHET AND ST. NICHOLAS

THE PRINCESS TO BE KISSED AT A CHARGE

THE WOOD SPRITE

THE REALMS OF COPPER, SILVER AND GOLD

CHUFÍL-FÍLYUSHKA

DONOTKNOW

THE SEA TSAR AND VASILÍSA THE WISE

THE ANIMALS’ WINTER QUARTERS

THE STORY OF THE BRAVE AND DOUGHTY KNIGHT ILYÁ MÚROMETS AND THE NIGHTINGALE ROBBER

NIKÍTA THE TANNER

THE SINGING-TREE AND THE SPEAKING-BIRD

AT THE BEHEST OF THE PIKE

THE JOURNEY TO JERUSALEM

VAZÚZA AND VÓLGA

THE ENCHANTED TSARÉVICH

THE SNAKE PRINCESS

BEER AND BREAD

SORROW

IVÁSHKO AND THE WISE WOMAN

NEVER-WASH

CHRIST AND THE GEESE

CHRIST AND FOLK-SONGS

THE DEVIL IN THE DOUGH-PAN

THE SUN, THE MOON, AND CROW CROWSON

THE LEGLESS KNIGHT AND THE BLIND KNIGHT

A CURE FOR STORY-TELLING

NOTES

GLOSSARY

INTRODUCTION

Any editor of Slav folktales starts with great advantages. Russia is a country where artistic development began very late; where popular lore was conserved with little alteration owing to the immensities of the country, the primitiveness of the people, and the punctiliousness of the compilers.The principal source for Russian folktales is the great collection of Afanáśev, a coeval of Rybnikov, Kirěyevski, Sakharov, Bezsonov, and others who all from about 1850 to 1870 laboriously took down from the lips of the peasants of all parts of Russia what they could of the endless store of traditional song, ballad, and folk-tale. These great collectors were actuated only by the desire for accuracy; they appended laboriously erudite notes; but they were not literary men and did not sophisticate, or improve on their material.But, before venturing on a brief account of the tales, something must be premised as to the position occupied by folk-tales in the cultural development of a people. In Pagan times, there always existed a double religion, the ceremonial worship of the gods of nature and the tribal deities,—a realm of thought in which all current philosophy and idealism entered into a set form that symbolized the State,—and also local cults and superstitions, the adoration of the spirits of streams, wells, hills, etc. To all Aryan peoples, Nature has always been alive, but never universalized, or romanticized, as in modern days; wherever you were, the brook, the wind, the knoll, the stream were all inhabited by agencies, which could be propitiated, cajoled, threatened, but, under all conditions, were personal forces, who could not be disregarded.When Christianity transformed the face of the world, it necessarily left much below the surface unaffected. The great national divinities were proscribed and submerged; some of their features reappearing in the legendary feats of the saints. The local cults continued, with this difference, that they were now condemned by the Church and became clandestine magic; or else they were adopted by the Church, and the rites and sanctuaries transferred. The memory of them subsisted; the fear of these local gods degenerated into superstition; the magic of the folk-tales becomes half-fantastic, half-conventional, belief in which is surreptitious, usual, and optional. At this stage of disorganization of local custom, folk-tales arise, and into them, transmitted as they are orally and under the ban of the Church, contaminations of all sorts creep, such as mistaken etymologies, faint memories of real history, reminiscences of lost folk-songs, Christian legend and morals, etc.The Russian people have handed down three categories of records. First of all, the Chronicles, which are very full, very accurate, and, within the limits of the temporary concepts of possibility and science, absolutely true. Secondly, the ballads or bylíny; epic songs in an ancient metre, narrating historical episodes as they occur; and also comprising a cycle of heroic romance, comparable with the chansons de geste of Charlemagne, the cycles of Finn and Cuchúlain of the Irish, and possibly with the little minor epics out of which it is supposed that some supreme Greek genius built up the artistic epics of the Iliad and the Odyssey. These bylíny may be ranked as fiction: i.e. as facts of real life (as then understood), applied to non-existent, unvouched, or legendary individuals. They are not bare records of fact, like the Chronicles; imagination enters into their scope; non-human, miraculous incidents are allowable; their content is not a matter for faith or factual record; they may be called historical fiction, which, broadly taken, corresponded to actual events, and typified the national strivings and ideals. The traditional ceremonial songs, magical incantations and popular melodies are of the same date and in the same style.Thirdly, the folk-tales. In their matter, these differ little, if at all, from the common Aryan stock. In their treatment, there are well-marked divergencies. They are, in the first place, characterized by the so-called realism that tinges all Russian literature; a better word would be factualism, as realism is associated with the anti-romanticism that accentuates material facts and seeks to obliterate moral factors.This attitude of mind is rather like that of a careful observer, who has become callous, because he is helpless—an attitude of those who serve and stand and wait.From the earliest Chronicles to the most modern fiction, this factualism characterizes Russian work. It has reacted on the Folk-tales in several ways; all the more observable as we have them fresh and ungarnished, as the tellers told them.The stories are not, like the German Märchen, neatly rounded off into consequential and purposive stories. The incidents follow almost haphazard; and at the end, the persons mentioned at the beginning may be forgotten; the stories are often almost as casual as real life.The stories relate experiences in succession, attempt no judgment, do not even affirm their own credibility. Things simply happen; our exertions may sometimes be some good; we can only be quietly resigned. But, unlike the Arabian Nights, there is no positive fatalism; for that would imply a judgment; a warping of facts to suit a theory.Equally, there is none of the artistic grace of Greek legend, nor the exuberance of Celtic fantasy; both of these are departures from the crude, unilluded, unexpectant observation.This unconsciously involves a perfect art with regard to detail; so much is told as a man would remember of an experience; there is no striving after impressionism, nor meticulous detail.The prevailing tone is sadness; but there is no absence of humour; yet fun merely happens, and is inherent; there is no broad, boisterous fun.In them, unlike other Aryan folk-tales, there are no fairies, nor giants, nor gnomes, nor personifications of nature. As in his Pagan myths, the Slav never advanced beyond inchoate conceptions of Nature, he neither philosophized like the Hindu, nor created types of pure grace like the Greek, nor beautiful fancies, like the Celt. Where the river-gods [vodyanóy], or the wood-sprites [lěši], have human form, it is to a certain extent because they have been contaminated with the Christian Devil.To sum up, these undiluted products of the Russian people are a faithful mirroring of life, as it appeared, casual; for the most part unfortunate, and inscrutable.There are some very frequent supernatural beings. The Witch who lives in the forest, rides the winds in a mortar, devours human flesh, lives in a hut on cocks’ legs, is one of the commonest. The great baleful magician is Koshchéy the Deathless, whose soul, in some stories, is contained in an egg far away, fearsomely guarded. Historically, his ancestry is the dread Tatar, in which figure all the previous Turanian tribes that overran medieval Russia have been confounded.Notes will be found dealing with all such specific persons and places.The folk-tales are very various; some classes of them can be distinguished.The bestiary, or animal story, is common, and the parts which the beasts enact are similar to the Teutonic fairy-tales.The semi-sacred legends of the days when Christ and his Apostles walked the earth, superficially may be compared with Grimm’s stories. But the spirit is very different. To a very slight extent they are based on the Gospel. But the Russian Christ of the folk-tales is a good, just, honest peasant, with democratic sympathies, and plenty of humour. His justice is unwavering, but tempered with sound common sense. He is kind, charitable and thoroughly human.The Saints also walk the earth. Saint George [Egóri] has taken over many Pagan legends; in one of the semi-sacred bylíny [v. Bezsónov, Kalěki Perekhózhie], he turns round the oaks and the mountains, like Vertodúb and Vertogór, and in other bylíny of the same class the miraculous incidents of the birth of Ilyá Múromets are attributed to him. Saint Nicholas is the worker of miracles; and Saint Elias has had some of the powers of the thundergod transferred to him.Other stories are prose adaptations of the ballads, and must be considered as such.There are two personifications, which call for special attention, those of Death and of Sorrow. Both are borrowed from ballad cycles. Both figures appear as ghostly spirits, who persecute man, but yet can be very efficaciously and roughly handled.There are some few satires; but the large majority cannot be readily classified. They contain the usual incidents of transformations, magic, witches, the valorous youngest son, the beautiful princess wronged by the evil stepmother,—in fact, the common Aryan stock, all tinged with the characteristic Slav temperament.Artless as these stories are, there are a few peculiar conventions in the narration. Such are the little forewords, with their sardonic musings; the conclusion of almost every happy tale that the narrator was at the feast, but never might taste the viands; the references to the distances the hero must go, which the narrator has not the knowledge to estimate accurately; the reference to the land of these wonderful happenings, “the thrice-ninth land, the thrice-tenth kingdom”; and many other traditional stylisms.In conclusion, it should be stated that the store of primitive folk-lore of the Slavs has scarcely been touched. The Slav peoples conserved primitive Aryan customs almost up to the middle of the nineteenth century; and then these were industriously and conscientiously compiled. Taking Russia alone, there are collections of magic formulas, ceremonial songs of Pagan origin, volumes of traditional ballads; and the ancient munic has also been recorded. But Bulgaria, Little-Russia, Serbia, Bohemia, and all the Slav countries have similar compilations; and every one of these nationalities is as strongly individualized, as are, say, the Danes, the Dutch, and the Germans.These stories have been translated direct from the Russian of Afanášev; the selection is intended to represent, as completely as possible, the varieties of Russian folk-tale. As far as an analytic language, like modern English, can render so highly inflected a tongue as Russian, the translator has tried to keep strictly to the style and diction of the originals, which are the undoctored traditional stories.

THE DUN COW

You know that there are all sorts in this world, good and bad, people who do not fear God, and feel no shame before their own brother.

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there once lived a Tsar and Tsarítsa, who had one only daughter, Márya Tsarévna. But the old Tsarítsa died and the Tsar took to him a second wife, who was a witch. And the witch had three daughters, one of whom had one eye, the next two eyes, and the third had three. The stepmother could not abide Márya Tsarévna, and sent the girl with a dun cow on to the heath, and gave her a dry crust as her only food.

Márya Tsarévna went on to the heath, bowed down to the right foot of the cow, and all at once was splendidly dressed, and had as much to eat and drink as she liked. So she guarded the dun cow the whole day, and looked as gay as any lady in the land. And at night she bowed down again in front of the right foot, and again became shabby and went home. And the bit of bread she took with her and offered it to her stepmother.

“ Whatever is she living on?” the witch thought, and she gave her the same piece of bread next day, and told her eldest daughter to watch what Márya Tsarévna did.

When they reached the heath Márya Tsarévna said: “Come, little sister, I will find a cushion for your head.” So she went to look, but whispered to herself:

“ Sleep, my sister, sleep,

Sleep, O sister mine;

One eye go to sleep,

Close that eye of thine.”

The sister went to sleep, and Márya Tsarévna stood up, went to her dear dun cow, bowed down to the right foot, and ate, and drank, and went about all day long like a princess.

In the evening she woke up her sister and said: “Get up, sister; get up, dearest; and we will go home.”

“ Oh! oh! oh!” her sister whimpered, “I have been asleep all day long and have not seen anything, and mother will be so angry!”

When they got home, the stepmother asked: “What was it Márya Tsarévna ate and drank?”

“ I did not see anything.”

So the witch scolded her, and next day sent the two-eyed sister with Márya. “Go,” she said, “and see what she eats and drinks.”

And the girls came to the heath, and Márya Tsarévna said, “Come, little sister, I will find a cushion for your head.” So she went to search, and whispered to herself:

“ Sleep, my sister, sleep,

Sleep, O sister mine;

Two-eyes go to sleep,

Close both eyes of thine.”

Two-eyes went to sleep, and Márya Tsarévna bowed down as before, to the right foot of the cow, and looked like a princess all day long. In the evening she roused Two-eyes; and if the stepmother was angry before, she was much angrier this time.

So next day she sent Three-eyes, and Márya Tsarévna sent her to sleep in the same way; only she forgot the third eye, and that went on looking and looking at what Márya Tsarévna did. For she ran to her dun cow’s right foot, bowed down, and ate, and drank, and went about all day long splendidly attired.

And when she got home she laid the dry crust on the table. And the mother asked the daughter what Márya Tsarévna had eaten and drunk. Three-eyes told her everything; and the witch ordered the dun cow to be slain.

“ You must be mad, woman,” said the Tsar, “it’s quite a young heifer and so beautiful!”

“ I tell you,” said the stepmother, “it must be done”; and the old Tsar consented.

But Márya Tsarévna asked him: “Father, do at least give me a little tiny bit out of the cow!”

The old man gave her the piece, and she planted it; and a bush with sweet berries grew up, with little birds singing on it, singing songs fit for kings and peasants.

Now Iván Tsarévich had heard of Márya Tsarévna, went to her stepmother, laid a bowl on the table, and said: “Whichever of the maidens brings me the bowl full of berries, I will marry.”

So the mother sent One-eye to get the berries. But the birds drove her away from the bush and almost pecked out her one eye; and so with Two-eyes and Three-eyes. At last Márya Tsarévna had to go. Márya Tsarévna took the bowl and gathered the berries, and the little birds helped her in the task. When she got home she put the bowl on the table and bowed down to Iván Tsarévich. So Iván Tsarévich took Márya Tsarévna to be his wife, and they celebrated a merry wedding and lived a happy life.

But, after a while, Márya Tsarévna bore a son. She wanted to show him to her father, and, together with her husband, went to visit him. Then the stepmother turned her into a goose, and decked her eldest daughter as though she were the wife of Iván Tsarévich. And Iván Tsarévich returned home.

The old man, who tended the children, got up early in the morning, washed himself clean, took the child on his arm and went out to the field, to the bush in the field. Grey geese were flying over it.

“ Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”

“ In the next flock!”

Then the next flock came by.

“ Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”

Then the baby’s mother came to them, threw off her feathers, and gave her little child the breast, and began weeping:

“ For this one day I may come, and to-morrow, but the next day I must fly away over the woods and over the hills.”

The old man went back home, and the boy slept all day long, until next morning, and did not wake up. The false wife was angry with him for taking the child into the fields where it must be much too cold.

But next morning the old man again got up very early, washed himself clean, and took the child into the field. Iván Tsarévich followed him secretly and hid in the bush. Then the grey geese began soaring by.

“ Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”

“ In the next flock!”

Then the next flock came by.

“ Geese, ye grey ones, where is the baby’s mother?”

Then the baby’s mother came to them, threw off her feathers, and gave her little child the breast, and began weeping: “For this one day I may come, but to-morrow I must fly away over the woods and over the hills.”

Then she asked: “What do I smell there?” and wanted to put on her feathers again, but could not find them anywhere.

Iván Tsarévich had burnt them. He seized hold of Márya Tsarévna, but she turned first into a frog, then into a lizard, and into all sorts of insects, and last of all into a spindle. Iván Tsarévich took the spindle and broke it in halves, threw the dull end behind him and the sharp one in front; and his beautiful young wife stood in front of him, and they went home.

Then the daughter of the witch cried out: “The destroyer and the wicked woman have come.”

But Iván Tsarévich assembled all the Princes and the boyárs, and he asked them: “With which wife shall I live?”

They said: “With the first.”

But he answered, “My lords, whichever wife leaps quickest to the door shall remain with me.”

So the witch’s daughter climbed up at once, but Márya Tsarévna clung on. Then Iván Tsarévich took his gun and shot the substitute wife, and lived happy ever after with Márya Tsarévna.

A TALE OF THE DEAD

One day a peasant was going by night with pots on his head. He journeyed on and on, and his horse became tired and came to a spot in front of God’s acre. The peasant ungirded the horse, set it to graze, but he could not get any sleep. He lay down and lay down, suddenly the grave began opening under him, and he felt it and leaped to his feet. Then the grave opened and the corpse with the coffin lid got out, with his white shroud on; got out and ran up to the church door, laid the coffin lid at the gate and himself went into the village.

Now this peasant was a bold fellow: so he took the coffin lid and set it by his teléga, and went to see what would come of it. Very soon the corpse came back, looked about him and could not find the coffin lid anywhere, and began to hunt for it. And at last he came up to the peasant, and said, “Give me my coffin lid, or else I will smash you to atoms.”

“ What are you bragging for?” answered the peasant, “I will break you up into little bits.”

“ Do, please, give it me, dear good man,” asked the corpse.

“ Well, I will give it you if you will tell me where you have been and what you have done.”

“ Oh, I have been in the village, and I there slew two young lads!”

“ Well, tell me how to revive them.”

The corpse had no choice, so he answered, “Cut off the left lappet from my shroud and take it with you. When you come to the house where the lads have died, scatter hot sparks into a pot and put the piece of my shirt there, then close the door and at the breath of it they will revive at once.”

So the peasant cut off the left lappet from the shroud and gave him back the coffin lid. Then the dead man went back into the grave and laid himself down in it. Then the cocks crowed and he could not lock it down properly: one corner of the coffin lid would perk upwards. The peasant noticed all this. Day was breaking, so he yoked his horse and went into the village.

In a certain house he could hear the sound of lamentation and cries of grief: he went in there, and two youths lay dead. “Do not weep: I can revive them.”

“ Do revive them, kinsman: half of our goods we will give you,” said the relations.

So the peasant did as the corpse had told him, and the lads revived. The parents were delighted, and they seized hold of the peasant, and they pinioned him with ropes. “Now, doctor, we are going to take you up to the authorities: if you can revive them it must be you who killed them!”

“ What, good Christians! Have some fear for God!” the peasant shrieked: and he told what he had seen at night.

Soon the news spread through the village, and the people assembled and rushed up to the cemetery, looked at the grave out of which the corpse had come, tore it up and dug into the dead man’s heart an oaken stake, so that he should never rise up and kill folks. And they rewarded the peasant greatly and led him home with honour.

A TALE OF THE DEAD

Once a carpenter was going home late at night from a strange village: he had been at a jolly feast at a friend’s house. As he came back an old friend met him who had died some ten years before.

“ How do you do?”

“ How do you do?” said the walker, and he forgot that his friend had long ago taken the long road.

“ Come along with me: let us have a cup together once more.”

“ Let us go.”

“ I am so glad to have met you again, let us toast the occasion.”

So they went into an izbá,[1] and they had a drink and a talk. “Well, good-bye; time I went home!”

“ Stay, where are you going? Come and stay the night with me.”

“ No, brother, do not ask me: it is no good. I have business at home to-morrow and must be there early.”

“ Well, good-bye.”

“ But why should you go on foot? Better come on my horse, and he will gallop along gaily.”

“ Thank you very much.”

So he sat on the horse, and the horse galloped away like a whirlwind.

Suddenly the cock crowed: it was a very terrible sight! Graves all around, and under the wayfarer a gravestone!

A TALE OF THE DEAD

They had discharged the soldier home, and he was going on his road, it may be far, it may be a short way, and he at last was nearing his village. Not far from his village there lived a miller in his mill: in past times the soldier had been great friends with him.

Why should he not go and see his friend? So he went.

And the miller met him, greeted him kindly, brought a glass of wine, and they began speaking of all they had lived through and seen. This was towards the evening, and whilst the soldier was the miller’s guest it had become dark. So the soldier got ready to go into the village.

But the miller said to him, “Soldier, stay the night with me: it is late and you might come by some mishap.”

“ What?”

“ A terrible sorcerer has died, and at night he rises out of the grave, ranges about the village and terrifies the boldest: why, he might give you trouble.”

What was the use of it? Why, the soldier was a State servant, and a soldier cannot be drowned in the sea, nor be burned in the fire! So he answered, “I will go, for I should like to see my relatives as soon as I can.”

So he set out; and the road crossed a grave-yard. As he looked he saw a glow on one grave. “What is it?” he said; “I must look at this.” So he went up, and beside a fire there sat the sorcerer, sewing shoes. “Hail, brother!” said the soldier.

So the wizard looked, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“ I only wanted to see what you are up to.”

So the wizard threw down his work, and he invited the soldier to a wedding. “Let us go, brother, let us have a walk: there is a wedding now going on in the village.”

“ Very well,” said the soldier.

So they went to the wedding, and were royally feasted and given to eat and drink.

The wizard drank and drank, walked about and walked about, and grew angry, drove all the guests and the family out of the izbá,[2] scattered all the wedding guests, took out two bladders and an awl, pricked the hands of the bride and bridegroom and drew their blood, filling the bladders with the blood. He did this and said to the soldier, “Now we will leave the house.”

On the road the soldier asked him, “Tell me, why did you fill the bladders with the blood?”

“ So that the bride and bridegroom might die. To-morrow nobody will be able to wake them up: I only know one means of reviving them.”

“ What is that?”

“ You must pierce the heels of the bride and bridegroom and pour the blood again into the wounds, their own blood into each. In my right pocket I have the bridegroom’s blood hidden, and in my left, the bride’s.”

So the soldier listened and never said a single word.

But the wizard went on boasting. “I, you know, carry out whatever I desire.”

“ Can you be overcome?”

“ Yes, certainly: if any one were to make a pile of aspen wood, one hundred cartloads in all, and to burn me on the pile, it can be done; then I should be overcome. Only you must burn me in a cunning way. Out of my belly snakes, worms and all sorts of reptiles will creep; jackdaws, magpies and crows will fly: you must catch them and throw them on the pile. If a single worm escapes, it will be no good, for I shall creep out into that worm.”

So the soldier listened and remembered. So they had a long talk, and at last they came to the grave.

“ Now, my brother,” said the wizard, “I am going to tear you to bits! Otherwise you will tell the tale!”

“ Now! Let’s argue this out! How are you going to tear me to bits; I am a servant of God and the Tsar!”

So the wizard gnashed his teeth, howled, and threw himself on the soldier. But he drew out his sabre and dealt a backstroke. They tussled and struggled, and the soldier was almost exhausted. Ho, but this is a sorry ending! Then the cocks crowed and the wizard fell down breathless.

The soldier got the bladders out of the wizard’s pockets, and went to his relations. He went in and he greeted them. And they asked him, “Have you ever seen such a fearful stir?”

“ No, I never have!”

“ Why, have you not heard? There is a curse on our village: a wizard haunts it.”

So they lay down and went to sleep.

In the morning the soldier rose and began asking: “Is it true that there was a wedding celebrated here?”

So his kin answered him, “There was a wedding at the rich peasant’s house, only the bride and bridegroom died that same night. No, we don’t know at all of what they died.”

“ Where is the house?”

So they showed him, and he said never a word, and went there, got there, and found the whole family in tears.

“ What are you wailing for?”

So they told him the reason.

“ I can revive the bridal couple: what will you give me?”

“ Oh, you may take half of our possessions.”

So the soldier did as the wizard had bidden him, and he revived the bride and bridegroom, and grief was turned to joy and merriment.

They feasted the soldier and rewarded him.

So he then turned sharp to the left and marched up to the stárosta[3] and bade him assemble all the peasants and prepare one hundred cartloads of aspen boughs. Then they brought the boughs into the cemetery, put them into a pile and raised the wizard out of the grave, put him on the faggots and burned him. And then all the people stood around, some with brushes, shovels and pokers. The pile lit up gaily and the wizard began to burn. His belly burst, and out of it crept snakes, worms and vermin of all sorts, and there flew jackdaws and magpies. But the peasants beat them all into the fire as they came out, and did not let a single worm escape. So the wizard was burned, and the soldier collected his dust and scattered it to the four winds. Henceforth there was peace in the village.

And the peasants thanked the soldier.

He stayed in his country, stayed there until he was satisfied, and then with his money returned to the imperial service: he served his term, went on the retired list, and then lived out his life, living happily, loving the good things and shunning the ill.

THE BEAR, THE DOG, AND THE CAT

Once there lived a peasant who had a good dog, and as the dog grew old it left off barking and guarding the yard and the storehouses: its master would no longer nourish it, so the dog went into the wood and lay under a tree to die.

Then a bear came up and asked him, “Hello, Dog, why are you lying here?”

“ I have come to die of hunger. You see how unjust people are. As long as you have any strength, they feed you and give you drink; but when your strength dies away and you become old they drive you from the courtyard.”

“ Well, Dog, would you like something to eat?”

“ I certainly should.”

“ Well, come with me; I will feed you.”

So they went on.

On the way a foal met them.

“ Look at me,” said the bear, and he began to claw the ground with his paws. “Dog, O dog!”

“ What do you want?”

“ Look, are my eyes beautiful?”

“ Yes, Bear, they are beautiful.”

So the bear began clawing at the ground more savagely still. “Dog, O dog, is my hair dishevelled?”

“ It is dishevelled, Bear.”

“ Dog, O dog, is my tail raised?”

“ Yes, it is raised.”

Then the bear laid hold of the foal by the tail, and the foal fell to the ground. The bear tore her to pieces and said, “Well, Dog, eat as much as you will, and when everything is in order, come and see me.”

So the dog lived by himself and had no cares, and when he had eaten all and was again hungry, he ran up to the bear.

“ Well, my brother, have you done?”

“ Yes, I have done, and again I am hungry.”

“ What! Are you hungry again? Do you know where your old mistress lives?”

“ I do.”

“ Well, then, come; I will steal your mistress’s child out of the cradle, and do you chase me away and take the child back. Then you may go back; she will go on feeding you, as she formerly did, with bread.”

So they agreed, and the bear ran up to the hut himself and stole the child out of the cradle: the child cried, and the woman burst out, hunted him, hunted him, but could not catch him; so they came back, and the mother wept, and the other women were afflicted; from somewhere or other the dog appeared, and he drove the bear away, took the child and brought it back.

“ Look,” said the woman, “here is your old dog restoring your child!” So they ran to meet him, and the mother was very glad and joyous. “Now,” she said, “I shall never discharge this old dog any more.” So they took him in, fed him with milk, gave him bread, and asked him only to taste the things. And they told the peasant, “Now you must keep and feed the dog, for he saved my child from the bear; and you were saying he had no strength!”

This all suited the dog very well, and he ate his fill, and he said, “May God grant health to the bear who did not let me die of hunger!” and he became the bear’s best friend.

Once there was an evening party given at the peasant’s house. At that time the bear came in as the dog’s guest. “Hail, Dog, with what luck are you meeting? Is it bread you are eating?”

“ Praise be to God,” answered the dog, “it is no mere living, it is butter week. And what are you doing? Let us go into the izbá.[4] The masters have gone out for a walk and will not see what you are doing. You come into the izbá and go and hide under the stove as fast as you can. I will await you there and will recall you.”

“ Very well.”

And so they went into the izbá. The dog saw that his master’s guests had drunk too much, and made ready to receive his friend. The bear drank up one glass, then another, and broke it. The guests began singing songs, and the bear wanted to chime in. But the dog persuaded him: “Do not sing, it would only do harm.” But it was no good, for he could not keep the bear silent, and he began singing his song. Then the guests heard the noise, laid hold of a stick and began to beat him. He burst out and ran away, and just got away with his life.

Now the peasant also had a cat, which had ceased catching mice, and even playing tricks. Wherever it might crawl it would break something or spill something. The peasant chased the cat out of the house. But the dog saw that it was going to a miserable life without any food, and secretly began bringing it bread and butter and feeding it. Then the mistress looked on, and as soon as she saw this she began beating the dog, beat it hard, very hard, and saying all the time, “Give the cat no beef, nor bread.”

Then, three days later, the dog went to the courtyard and saw that the cat was dying of starvation. “What is the matter?” he said.

“ I am dying of starvation: I was able to have enough whilst you were feeding me.”

“ Come with me.”

So they went away. The dog went on, until he saw a drove of horses, and he began to scratch the earth with his paws and asked the cat, “Cat, O cat, are my eyes beautiful?”

“ No, they are not beautiful.”

“ Say that they are beautiful!”

So the cat said, “They are beautiful.”

“ Cat, O cat, is my fur dishevelled?”

“ No it is not dishevelled.”

“ Say, you idiot, that it is dishevelled.”

“ Well, it is dishevelled.”

“ Cat, O cat, is my tail raised?”

“ No, it is not raised.”

“ Say, you fool, that it is raised.” Then the dog made a dash at a mare, but the mare kicked him back, and the dog died.

So the cat said, “Now I can see that his eyes are very red, and his fur is dishevelled, and his tail is raised. Good-bye, brother Dog, I will go home to die.”

EGÓRI THE BRAVE AND THE GIPSY

In a certain kingdom, in a certain land, there was a gipsy who had a wife and seven children, and he lived so poorly that at last there was nothing in the house to eat or to drink—not even a crust of bread. He was too idle to work, and too much of a coward to thieve. So what could he do?

Well, the peasant went on the road and stood pondering. At this time Egóri the Brave was passing by.

“ Hail!” said the peasant. “Whither are you faring?”

“ To God.”

“ Why?”

“ With a message from men wherewith each man should live, and wherewith each man should busy himself.”

“ Will you, then, send in a report about me to the Lord?” the peasant said, “what He wishes me to engage in?”

“ Very well—I will hand in a report,” Egóri said, and he went on his road.

So there the peasant stood, waiting for him—waiting. And when at last he saw Egóri on his way back, he asked him at once: “Did you hand in a report about me?”

“ No,” said Egóri; “I forgot.”

So the peasant set out on his road a second time, and he again met Egóri, who was going to God on an errand. So the gipsy asked him once more: “Do please hand in a request on my behalf.”

“ All right,” said Egóri. And he forgot again.

And so once more the peasant set out on the road, and once more met Egóri. And he asked him for the third time: “Do please speak on my behalf to God!”

“ Yes—all right!”

“ Will you forget again?”

“ No, I shall not forget this time.”

Only the gipsy did not believe him. “Give me,” he said, “your golden stirrup. I will keep it until you come back; otherwise, you may once more forget.”

Egóri untied his golden stirrup, gave it to the gipsy, and rode on farther with a single stirrup. Then he reached God, and he began to ask wherewith each man should live, and wherewith each man should busy himself. In each case he received the right order, and he was starting back. But as soon as ever he mounted, he glanced down at the stirrup and recollected the gipsy. So he ran back to see God and said: “Oh, I forgot. Whilst I was coming here I met a gipsy on the way, and he asked me what he should do.” “Oh, tell the gipsy,” the Lord said, “that his trade is from whomsoever he take and steal, he, then, shall cheat and perjure himself.”

So Egóri went and mounted his horse, came up to the gipsy, and told him: “I shall now tell you the truth. If you had not taken the stirrup, I should have forgotten all about it.”

“ I thought as much,” said the gipsy. “Now, for all eternity, you cannot forget me if you only look down at your stirrup, and I shall be always in your mind. Well, what did the Lord say to you?”

“ Oh, He told me from whomsoever you take or steal you will cheat and perjure yourself; that will be your trade.”

“ Thank you very much,” said the gipsy, and he bowed down to the ground, and went home.

“ Where are you going?” said Egóri. “Give me my golden stirrup!”

“ What stirrup?”

“ Didn’t you take one from me?”

“ How in the world could I take one from you? This is the first time I have seen you, and I have not even had a stirrup. Before God!—I never have!” And so the gipsy perjured himself.

What could he do? He could struggle and fight it out, Egóri could, and so he did; but it was all no good. It is perfectly true, and the gipsy spoke the truth: “If I had not given him the stirrup!—if I had not only known him! Now I shall forget him no more.”

So the gipsy took the golden stirrup and began hawking it. And as he went on his way, a fine lord came and met him. “Hullo, gipsy!” he said. “Will you sell the stirrup?”

“ Yes—all right!”

“ What will you take?”

“ Fifteen hundred roubles.”

“ Much too dear, isn’t that?”

“ Well, you see, it is all gold.”

“ Very well!” said his lordship; and he put his hand into his pocket, and he only had a thousand. “You just take this thousand, gipsy, and then give me the stirrup: I will send you on the odd five hundred.”

“ Oh, no, my lord! One thousand roubles I will certainly take, but I shall not give up the stirrup. When you carry out your part of the bargain, then you shall receive the stirrup.” So the lord gave him the thousand, and he went home.

The very instant he got there he took out five hundred roubles, and sent his man up to the gipsy, telling him to give the money to him and to take the golden stirrup.

When his lordship’s groom came to the gipsy’s izbá,[5] “Hail, gipsy!” he said. “How fare you, good man? I have brought you the money from his lordship.”

“ Well, give it me if you have brought it.” So the gipsy took the five hundred roubles, and gave the man a glass of wine, and then another, until the man had his fill.

And when he had had his fill the groom began to make his way home, and said to the peasant: “Now give me the golden stirrup.”

“ What?”

“ Yes—the stirrup which you sold my master.”

“ What, I sold it! I never had a golden stirrup!”

“ Well, then, give me the money back.”

“ What money?”

“ But I just gave you five hundred roubles!”

“ I have not even seen a grívennik[6]—never in my life! I looked after you kindly, simply for the sake of our Lord, and not in the least in order to get any money out of you.” And in this manner the gipsy had disavowed everything.

When the master had heard of this, he instantly started out to see the gipsy. “What on earth do you mean, you vile thief, by taking money and not giving up the golden stirrup?”

“ What golden stirrup? Now do, my lord, think a little. How is it possible for a grey, hoary old peasant like me to possess a golden stirrup?”

Then the master became angrier and angrier, but he could not find it. “Well, we will come to court!” he said.

“ Oh, please,” the gipsy answered, “please think! How in the world can I come in your company? You are a lord, and I am only a blockhead—I am only a dolt and a mere hind. At least you might dress me in a fine costume if we are to go together.” So the master dressed him in his own dress, and they journeyed together to the town for the case to be tried.

When they came into the town, the master said: “I bought of this peasant a golden stirrup. He took the money for it and will not deliver the chattel.”

And the peasant answered: “My Lords Justices, do you think it out for yourselves, however could one get a golden stirrup out of a grey-haired peasant? Why, I have not a single loaf at home. And I really cannot imagine what this fine gentleman wants of me. Why, he will even be saying next that I am wearing his clothes.”

“ But the dress is mine!” the master shrieked out.

“ There you are, my Lords Justices!”

After this the case came to an end, and the master went back home without getting anything, and the peasant went on living merrily—living on and gaining nothing but good.

DANÍLO THE UNFORTUNATE

Good Prince Vladímir had many henchmen and serfs in the city of Kíev, and amongst them there was Danílo the Unfortunate, the noble. And on Sundays Prince Vladímir used to give all his servants goblets filled with wine, but Danílo good hard blows; and on great feast days every one was sated, but Danílo had nothing.

On the eve of Easter Sunday Prince Vladímir summoned Danílo the Unfortunate, and he gave him eighty score of sable skins, and he bade him sew a shúba[7] for the feast: the sable skins were not prepared, and the buttons had not been moulded, and the buttonholes had not been made. In the buttons he was bidden mould the wild beasts of the wood and to sew into the buttonholes all the seabirds.

Danílo the Unfortunate loathed the task, so he hurled it away, and he went outside. He went out on his road and way, and shed tears. An old woman came to meet him. “Look, Danílo,” she said, “do not rend yourself asunder: why are you crying, Danílo the Unfortunate?”

“ Oh, you old fatty!” he exclaimed, “shivers and shakes, quivers and quakes! Be off! this has nothing to do with you!” Then he went on a little way and thought, “Why did I bid her remove?” So he approached her again and said, “Bábushka,[8] little dove, forgive me: this is my trouble. Prince Vladímir has given me eighty score of sable skins, of which I am to make a shúba in the morning. If only the buttons had been moulded and the silken buttonholes sewn! But there are to be lions moulded on to the buttons, and there are to be shepherds embroidered on to the buttonholes that should have sung and warbled. How am I to set about it? It would be better for me to drink vódka behind the counter.”

Then the old woman, with her patched skirt, said, “Oh, I am now ‘Bábushka’ and your ‘little dove’! Do you go to the border of the blue sea, and stand in front of the grey oak: at the hour of midnight the blue sea will boil over and Chúdo-Yúda, the Old Man of the Sea, will come out to you: he has no hands, no feet, and he has a grey beard. Take hold of him by his beard and beat him until he asks you, ‘Why do you beat me, Danílo the Unfortunate?’ Then you are to answer, ‘I am beating you for this reason: let me see the Swan,[9] the fair maiden; let her body glint through her wings, and through her body let her bones appear, and from bone to bone let the marrow run like a flowing string of pearls.’”

Then Danílo the Unfortunate went to the blue sea, and he stood in front of the dusky oak: and at midnight the blue sea was disturbed and Chúdo-Yúda, the Old Man of the Sea, appeared before him. He had no hands, he had no feet, and his beard was grey. Danílo seized him by his beard and began to beat him on to the grey earth. Then at last Chúdo-Yúda asked him: “Why do you beat me, Danílo the Unfortunate?” “For this reason: let me see the Swan, the fair maiden; let her body glint through her wings, and through her body let her bones appear, and from bone to bone let the marrow run like a flowing string of pearls.”

Very soon the Swan, the fair maiden, swam up to the shore, and she spoke in this wise:

“ Is it work on your way,

Or for sloth do you stay?”

“ Oh, Swan, fair maiden, I have a double task: Prince Vladímir has bidden me sew a shúba, and the sables are not prepared, the buttons are not moulded, and the buttonholes are not sewn.”

“ You take me with you, and it will all be done in time.”

Then he began to think in his thoughts, “How shall I take her with me?”

“ Now, Danílo, what are you thinking?”

“ I must do as you say: I will take you with me.”

So she flapped her wings, and she moved her little head, and said, “Turn to me with your white face; we will build for ourselves a princely house. Shake your locks, that our house may have rooms.” Then twelve youths appeared, all of them carpenters, sawyers, stone-hewers; and they set to work, and the house was soon ready.

Then Danílo took her by her right hand, and he kissed her on her sweet lips, and he led her into the princely home. They sat down at a table, ate and drank. They refreshed themselves, and their hands met at one table. “Now, Danílo, go to rest and to bed; think of nothing else; it will all be done.” So she laid him to sleep and herself went out to the crystal flight of steps. And she waved her pinions and she shook her little head: “My father,” she cried, “send me your craftsmen!”